“In drawing, just as in life generally,”
observed Panshin, holding his head to right and to
left, “lightness and boldness—are
the great things.”
At that instant Lemm came into the room, and with
a stiff bow was about to leave it; but Panshin, throwing
aside album and pencils, placed himself in his way.
“Where are you doing, dear Christopher Fedoritch?
Aren’t you going to stay and have tea with
us?”
“I go home,” answered Lemm in a surly
voice; “my head aches.”
“Oh, what nonsense!—do stop.
We’ll have an argument about Shakespeare.”
“My head aches,” repeated the old man.
“We set to work on the sonata of Beethoven without
you,” continued Panshin, taking hold of him
affectionately and smiling brightly, “but we
couldn’t get on at all. Fancy, I couldn’t
play two notes together correctly.”
“You’d better have sung your song again,”
replied Lemm, removing Panshin’s hands, and
he walked away.
Lisa ran after him. She overtook him on the
stairs.
“Christopher Fedoritch, I want to tell you,”
she said to him in German, accompanying him over the
short green grass of the yard to the gate, “I
did wrong—forgive me.”
Lemm made no answer.
“I showed Vladimir Nikolaitch your cantata;
I felt sure he would appreciate it,—and
he did like it very much really.”
Lemm stopped.
“It’s no matter,” he said in Russian,
and then added in his own language, “but he
cannot understand anything; how is it you don’t
see that? He’s a dilettante—and
that’s all!”
“You are unjust to him,” replied Lisa,
“he understands everything, and he can do almost
everything himself.”
“Yes, everything second-rate, cheap, scamped
work. That pleases, and he pleases, and he is
glad it is so—and so much the better.
I’m not angry; the cantata and I—we
are a pair of old fools; I’m a little ashamed,
but it’s no matter.”
“Forgive me, Christopher Fedoritch,” Lisa
said again.
“It’s no matter,” he repeated in
Russian, “you’re a good girl . . . but
here is some one coming to see you. Goodbye.
You are a very good girl.”
And Lemm moved with hastened steps towards the gate,
through which had entered some gentleman unknown to
him in a grey coat and a wide straw hat. Bowing
politely to him (he always saluted all new faces in
the town of O-----; from acquaintances he always turned
aside in the street--that was the rule he had laid
down for himself), Lemm passed by and disappeared
behind the fence. The stranger looked after him
in amazement, and after gazing attentively at Lisa,
went straight up to her.
“You don’t recognise me,” he said,
taking off his hat, “but I recognise you in
spite of its being seven years since I saw you last.
You were a child then. I am Lavretsky. Is
your mother at home? Can I see her?”
