A Nobleman's Nest. Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
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we do now?"—she asked.
"I recognise you in that question! You cannot possibly sit with folded hands. Come, if you like, let us draw, before it has grown completely dark. Perhaps the other muse—the muse of drawing … what's her name? I've forgotten … will be more gracious to me. Where is your album? Do you remember?—my landscape there is not finished."
Liza went into the next room for her album, and Pánshin, when he was left alone, pulled a batiste handkerchief from his pocket, polished his nails, and gazed somewhat askance at his hands. They were very handsome and white; on the thumb of the left hand he wore a spiral gold ring. Liza returned; Pánshin seated himself near the window, and opened the album.
"Aha!"—he exclaimed:—"I see that you have begun to copy my landscape—and that is fine. Very good! Only here—give me a pencil—the shadows are not put on thickly enough. … Look."
And Pánshin, with a bold sweep, prolonged several long strokes. He constantly drew one and the same landscape: in the foreground were large, dishevelled trees, in the distance, a meadow, and saw-toothed mountains on the horizon. Liza looked over his shoulder at his work.
"In drawing, and in life in general,"—said Pánshin, bending his head now to the right, now to the left:—"lightness and boldness are the principal thing."
At that moment, Lemm entered the room, and, with a curt inclination, was on the point of departing; but Pánshin flung aside the album and pencil, and barred his way.
"Whither are you going, my dear Christofór Feódoritch? Are not you going to stay and drink tea?"
"I must go home,"—said Lemm in a surly voice:—"my head aches."
"Come, what nonsense!—stay. You and I will have a dispute over Shakespeare."
"My head aches,"—repeated the old man.
"We tried to play a Beethoven sonata without you,"—went on Pánshin, amiably encircling his waist with his arm, and smiling brightly:—"but we couldn't make it go at all. Just imagine, I couldn't play two notes in succession correctly."
"You vould haf done better to sing your romantz,"—retorted Lemm, pushing aside Pánshin's arm, and left the room.
Liza ran after him. She overtook him on the steps.
"Christofór Feódoritch, listen,"—she said to him in German, as she accompanied him to the gate, across the close-cropped green grass of the yard:—"I am to blame toward you—forgive me."
Lemm made no reply.
"I showed your cantata to Vladímir Nikoláitch; I was convinced that he would appreciate it—and it really did please him greatly."
Lemm halted.
"Zat is nozing,"—he said in Russian, and then added in his native tongue:—"but he cannot understand anything; how is it that you do not perceive that?—he is a dilettante—and that's all there is to it!"
"You are unjust to him,"—returned Liza:—"he understands everything, and can do nearly everything himself."
"Yes, everything is second-class, light-weight, hasty work. That pleases, and he pleases, and he is content with that—well, and bravo! But I am not angry; that cantata and I—we are old fools; I am somewhat ashamed, but that does not matter."
"Forgive me, Christofór Feódoritch,"—said Liza again.
"It does not mattair, it does not mattair," he repeated again in Russian:—"you are a goot girl … but see yonder, some vun is coming to your house. Good-bye. You are a fery goot girl."
And Lemm, with hasty strides, betook himself toward the gate, through which was entering a gentleman with whom he was not acquainted, clad in a grey coat and a broad-brimmed straw hat. Courteously saluting him (he bowed to all newcomers in the town of O * * *; he turned away from his acquaintances on the street—that was the rule which he had laid down for himself), Lemm passed him, and disappeared behind the hedge. The stranger looked after him in amazement, and, exchanging a glance with Liza, advanced straight toward her.
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