“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.

Chapter VII

“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?”