A House of Gentlefolk | Page 7

did not see fit to
grant him this last and first happiness: at fifty, broken-down in health
and prematurely aged, he drifted to the town of O----, and remained
there for good, having now lost once for all every hope of leaving
Russia, which he detested. He gained his poor livelihood somehow by
lessons. Lemm's exterior was not prepossessing. He was short and bent,
with crooked shoulders, and contracted chest, with large flat feet, and
bluish white nails on the gnarled bony fingers of his sinewy red hands.
He had a wrinkled face, sunken cheeks, and compressed lips, which he
was for ever twitching and biting; and this, together with his habitual
taciturnity, produced an impression almost sinister. His grey hair hung
in tufts on his low brow; like smouldering embers, his little set eyes
glowed with dull fire. He moved painfully, at every step swinging his

ungainly body forward. Some of his movements recalled the clumsy
actions of an owl in a cage when it feels that it is being looked at, but
itself can hardly see out of its great yellow eyes timorously and
drowsily blinking. Pitiless, prolonged sorrow had laid its indelible
stamp on the poor musician; it had disfigured and deformed his person,
by no means attractive to begin with. But any one who was able to get
over the first impression would have discerned something good, and
honest, and out of the common in this half-shattered creature. A
devoted admirer of Bach and Handel, a master of his art, gifted with a
lively imagination and that boldness of conception which is only
vouchsafed to the German race, Lemm might, in time--who
knows?--have taken rank with the great composers of his fatherland,
had his life been different; but he was born under an unlucky star! He
had written much in his life, and it had not been granted to him to see
one of his compositions produced; he did not know how to set about
things in the right way, to gain favour in the right place, and to make a
push at the right moment. A long, long time ago, his one friend and
admirer, also a German and also poor, had published two of Lemm's
sonatas at his own expense--the whole edition remained on the shelves
of the music-shops; they disappeared without a trace, as though they
had been thrown into a river by night. At last Lemm had renounced
everything; the years too did their work; his mind had grown hard and
stiff, as his fingers had stiffened. He lived alone in a little cottage not
far from the Kalitin's house, with an old cook he had taken out of the
poorhouse (he had never married). He took long walks, and read the
Bible and the Protestant version of the Psalms, and Shakespeare in
Schlegel's translation. He had composed nothing for a long time; but
apparently, Lisa, his best pupil, had been able to inspire him; he had
written 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