youth ever quite to forget himself, or to be thoroughly carried away. It should be mentioned to his credit, by the way, that he never boasted of his victories. To Maria Dmitrievna's house he had obtained access as soon as he arrived in O., and he soon made himself thoroughly at home in it. As to Maria Dmitrievna herself, she thought there was nobody in the world to be compared with him.
Panshine bowed in an engaging manner to all the occupants of the room; shook hands with Maria Dmitrievna and Elizaveta Mikhailovna, lightly tapped Gedeonovsky on the shoulder, and, turning on his heels, took Lenochka's head between his hands and kissed her on the forehead.
"Are not you afraid to ride such a vicious horse?" asked Maria
Dmitrievna.
"I beg your pardon, it is perfectly quiet. No, but I will tell you what I really am afraid of. I am afraid of playing at preference with Sergius Petrovich. Yesterday, at the Bielenitsines', he won all the money I had with me."
Gedeonovsky laughed a thin and cringing laugh; he wanted to gain the good graces of the brilliant young official from St. Petersburg, the governor's favorite. In his conversations with Maria Dmitrievna, he frequently spoke of Panshine's remarkable faculties. "Why, really now, how can one help praising him?" he used to reason. "The young man is a success in the highest circles of society, and at the same time he does his work in the most perfect manner, and he isn't the least bit proud." And indeed, even at St. Petersburg, Panshine was looked upon as an efficient public servant; the work "burnt under his hands;" he spoke of it jestingly, as a man of the world should, who does not attach any special importance to his employment; but he was a "doer." Heads of departments like such subordinates; he himself never doubted that in time, supposing he really wished it, he would be a Minister.
"You are so good as to say that I won your money," said Gedeonovsky; "but who won fifteen roubles from me last week? And besides—"
"Ah, rogue, rogue!" interrupted Panshine, in a pleasant tone, but with an air of indifference bordering on contempt, and then, without paying him any further attention, he accosted Liza.
"I cannot get the overture to Oberon here," he began. "Madame Bielenitsine boasted that she had a complete collection of classical music; but in reality she has nothing but polkas and waltzes. However, I have already written to Moscow, and you shall have the overture in a week."
"By the way," he continued, "I wrote a new romance yesterday; the words are mine as well as the music. Would you like me to sing it to you? Madame Bielenitsine thought it very pretty, but her judgment is not worth much. I want to know your opinion of it. But, after all, I think I had better sing it by-and-by."
"Why by-and-by?" exclaimed Maria Dmitrievna, "why not now?"
"To hear is to obey," answered Panshine, with a sweet and serene smile, which came and went quickly; and then, having pushed a chair up to the piano, he sat down, struck a few chords, and began to sing the following romance, pronouncing the words very distinctly
Amid pale clouds, above the earth,
The moon rides high,
And o'er the sea a magic light
Pours from the sky.
My Spirit's waves, as towards the moon,
Towards thee, love, flow:
Its waters stirred by thee alone
In weal or woe.
My heart replete with love that grieves
But yields no cry,
I suffer—cold as yonder moon
Thou passest by.
Panshine sang the second stanza with more than usual expression and feeling; in the stormy accompaniment might be heard the rolling of the waves. After the words, "I suffer!" he breathed a light sigh, and with downcast eyes let his voice die gradually away. When he had finished; Liza praised the air, Maria Dmitrievna said, "Charming!" and Gedeonovsky exclaimed, "Enchanting!—the words and the music are equally enchanting!" Lenochka kept her eyes fixed on the singer with childish reverence. In a word, the composition of the young dilettante delighted all who were in the room. But outside the drawing-room door, in the vestibule, there stood, looking on the floor, an old man who had just come into the house, to whom, judging from the expression of his face and the movements of his shoulders, Panshine's romance, though really pretty, did not afford much pleasure. After waiting a little, and having dusted his boots with a coarse handkerchief, he suddenly squeezed up his eyes, morosely compressed his lips, gave his already curved back an extra bend, and slowly entered the drawing-room.
"Ah! Christophor Fedorovich, how do you do?" Panshine was the first to exclaim, as he jumped up quickly from his chair. "I didn't suspect you were there. I wouldn't for any thing have ventured to sing my romance before you. I know you are no admirer of the light style in music."
"I didn't hear it," said the new-comer, in imperfect Russian. Then, having bowed to all the party, he stood still in an awkward attitude in the middle of the room.
"I suppose, Monsieur Lemm," said Maria Dmitrievna, "you have come to give Liza a music lesson."
"No; not Lizaveta Mikhailovna, but Elena Miknailovna."
"Oh, indeed! very good. Lenochka, go up-stairs with Monsieur Lemm."
The old man was about to follow the little girl, when Panshine stopped him.
"Don't go away when the lesson is over, Christopher Fedorovich," he said. "Lizaveta Mikhailovna and I are going to play a duet—one of Beethoven's sonatas."
The old man muttered something to himself, but Panshine continued in
German, pronouncing the words very badly—
"Lizaveta Mikhailovna has shown me the sacred cantata which you have dedicated to her—a very beautiful piece! I beg you will not suppose I am unable to appreciate serious music. Quite the reverse. It is sometimes tedious; but, on the other hand, it is extremely edifying."
The old man blushed to the ears, cast a side glance at Liza, and went hastily out of the room.
Maria Dmitrievna asked Panshine to repeat his romance; but he declared that he did not like to offend the ears of the scientific German, and proposed to Liza to begin Beethoven's sonata. On this, Maria Dmitrievna sighed, and, on her part, proposed a stroll in the garden to Gedeonovsky.
"I want to have a little more chat with you," she said, "about our poor Fedia, and to ask for your advice."
Gedeonovsky smiled and bowed, took up with two fingers his hat, on the brim of which his gloves were neatly laid out, and retired with Maria Dmitrievna.
Panshine and Eliza remained in the room. She fetched the sonata, and spread it out. Both sat down to the piano in silence. From up-stairs there came the feeble sound of scales, played by Lenochka's uncertain fingers.
* * * * *
Note to p. 36.
It is possible that M. Panshine may have been inspired by Heine's verses:—
Wie des Mondes Abbild zittert
In den wilden Meereswogen,
