for her the cantata to which Panshin had! made allusion.  The words of this cantata he had borrowed from his collection of hymns.  He had added a few verses of his own.  It was sung by two choruses—­a chorus of the happy and a chorus of the unhappy.  The two were brought into harmony at the end, and sang together, “Merciful God, have pity on us sinners, and deliver us from all evil thoughts and earthly hopes.”  On the title-page was the inscription, most carefully written and even illuminated, “Only the righteous are justified.  A religious cantata.  Composed and dedicated to Miss Elisaveta Kalitin, his dear pupil, by her teacher, C. T. G. Lemm.”  The words, “Only the righteous are justified” and “Elisaveta Kalitin,” were encircled by rays.  Below was written:  “For you alone, fur Sie allein.”  This was why Lemm had grown red, and looked reproachfully at Lisa; he was deeply wounded when Panshin spoke of his cantata before him.

Chapter VI

Panshin, who was playing bass, struck the first chords of the sonata loudly and decisively, but Lisa did not begin her part.  He stopped and looked at her.  Lisa’s eyes were fixed directly on him, and expressed displeasure.  There was no smile on her lips, her whole face looked stern and even mournful.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Why did you not keep your word?” she said.  “I showed you Christopher Fedoritch’s cantata on the express condition that you said nothing about it to him?”

“I beg your pardon, Lisaveta Mihalovna, the words slipped out unawares.”

“You have hurt his feelings and mine too.  Now he will not trust even me.”

“How could I help it, Lisaveta Mihalovna?  Ever since I was a little boy I could never see a German without wanting to teaze him.”

“How can you say that, Vladimir Nikolaitch?  This German is poor, lonely, and broken-down—­have you no pity for him?  Can you wish to teaze him?”

Panshin was a little taken aback.

“You are right, Lisaveta Mihalovna,” he declared.  “It’s my everlasting thoughtlessness that’s to blame.  No, don’t contradict me; I know myself.  So much harm has come to me from my want of thought.  It’s owing to that failing that I am thought to be an egoist.”

Panshin paused.  With whatever subject he began a conversation, he generally ended by talking of himself, and the subject was changed by him so easily, so smoothly and genially, that it seemed unconscious.

“In your own household, for instance,” he went on, “your mother certainly wishes me well, she is so kind; you—­well, I don’t know your opinion of me; but on the other hand your aunt simply can’t bear me.  I must have offended her too by some thoughtless, stupid speech.  You know I’m not a favourite of hers, am I?”

“No,” Lisa admitted with some reluctance, “she doesn’t like you.”

Panshin ran his fingers quickly over the keys, and a scarcely perceptible smile glided over his lips.