A House of Gentlefolk | Page 8

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.
"Well, and you?" he said, "do you too think me an egoist?"
"I know you very little," replied Lisa, "but I don't consider you an
egoist; on the contrary, I can't help feeling grateful to you."
"I know, I know what you mean to say," Panshin interrupted, and again
he ran his fingers over the keys: "for the music and the books I bring
you, for the wretched sketches with which I adorn your album, and so
forth. I might do all that--and be an egoist all the same. I venture to
think that you don't find me a bore, and don't think me a bad fellow, but
still you suppose that I--what's the saying?--would sacrifice friend or
father for the sake of a witticism."

"You are careless and forgetful, like all men of the world," observed
Lisa, "that is all."
Panshin frowned a little.
"Come," he said, "don't let us discuss me any more; let us play our
sonata. There's only one thing I must beg of you," he added, smoothing
out the leaves of the book on the music stand, "think what you like of
me, call me an egoist even--so be it! but don't call me a man of the
world; that name's insufferable to me.... Anch 'io sono pittore. I too am
an artist, though a poor one--and that--I mean that I'm a poor artist, I
shall show directly. Let us begin."
"Very well, let us begin," said Lisa.
The first adagio went fairly successfully though Panshin made more
than one false note. His own compositions and what he had practised
thoroughly he played very nicely, but he played at sight badly. So the
second part of the sonata--a rather quick allegro--broke down
completely; at the twentieth bar, Panshin, who was two bars behind,
gave in, and pushed his chair back with a laugh.
"No!" he cried, "I can't play to-day; it's a good thing Lemm did not hear
us; he would have had a fit."
Lisa got up, shut the piano, and turned round to Panshin.
"What are we going to do?" she asked.
"That's just like you, that question! You can never sit with your hands
idle. Well, if you like let us sketch, since it's not quite dark. Perhaps the
other muse, the muse of painting--what was her name? I have
forgotten... will be more propitious to me. Where's your album? I
remember, my landscape there is not finished."
Lisa went into the other room to fetch the album, and Panshin, left
alone, drew a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket, and rubbed his
nails and looked as it were critically at his hands. He had beautiful

white hands; on the second finger of his left hand he wore a spiral gold
ring. Lisa came back; Panshin sat down at the window, and opened the
album.
"Ah!" he exclaimed: "I see that you have begun to copy my
landscape--and capitally too. Excellent! only just here--give me a
pencil--the shadows are not put in strongly enough. Look."
And Panshin with a flourish added a few long strokes. He was for ever
drawing the same landscape: in the foreground large disheveled trees, a
stretch of meadow in the background, and jagged mountains on the
horizon. Lisa looked over his shoulders at his work.
"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