itrievna, he frequently alluded to
Panshin's remarkable capacities. "For why should not I praise him?" he
argued. "The young man is making a success in the highest sphere of life,
discharges his service in an exemplary manner, and is not the least bit
proud." Moreover, even in Petersburg Panshin was considered an energetic
official: he got through an immense amount of work; he alluded to it
jestingly, as is befitting a fashionable man who attaches no particular
importance to his labours, but he was "an executor." The higher officials
love such subordinates; he never had the slightest doubt himself, that,
if he so wished, he could become a Minister in course of time.

"You are pleased to say that I beat you at cards,"--remarked
Gedeonovsky:--"but who was it that won twelve rubles from me last week?
and besides...."

"Villain, villain," Panshin interrupted him, with a caressing but almost
disdainful carelessness, and without paying any further attention to him,
he stepped up to Liza.

"I have not been able to find the overture of 'Oberon' here," he
began:--"Mme. Byelenitzyn was merely boasting, that she had all the
classical music,--as a matter of fact, she has nothing except polkas and
waltzes; but I have already written to Moscow, and within a week I shall
have that overture. By the way,"--he continued,--"I wrote a new romance
yesterday; the words also are my own. Would you like to have me sing it
for you? I do not know how it has turned out; Mme. Byelenitzyn thought
it extremely charming, but her words signify nothing,--I wish to know
your opinion. However, I think it will be better later on...."

"Why later on?"--interposed Marya Dmitrievna:--"Why not now?"

"I obey, ma'am,"--said Panshin, with a certain bright, sweet smile,
which was wont to appear on his face, and suddenly to vanish,--pushed
forward a chair with his knee, seated himself at the piano, and after
striking several chords, he began to sing, clearly enunciating the words,
the following romance:

The moon floats high above the earth
Amid the clouds so pale;
But from the crest of the sea surge moveth
A magic ray.
The sea of my soul hath acknowledged thee
To be its moon,
And 't is moved,--in joy and in sorrow,--
By thee alone.
With the anguish of love, the anguish of dumb aspirations,
The soul is full;
I suffer pain.... But thou from agitation art as free