Part 16

"The thought of again putting such a large portion of the globe between me and you makes me sad. When you were with me this autumn I felt so truly how wholly I am knit together with you. I would so love to take you with me into our new home. Oh, how charming a nest I would build for you, how I would pet you, wait on you, amuse you! But you would not consent, even for love of me, and besides there is no continuing place for a great man like you in our little household.

"But still I must see you again before I go. Name some place where it would be agreeable to you to meet us. It is all one to me, from Madrid to Nijey Novogorod. Colia is coming also; he has promised me. And there we will all be together for a few days, only live in each other, and be happy as one can be when tears of parting are already in his eyes, and rejoice in each other as people who know that their time is short can. So, only fix a place--will you not?--and soon.

"I hear a twittering outside the door. It is Natascha who has wakened. Now Annunziata brings her in. I wish you could see her. Such a tousled little golden, curly head, such eyes, and the dear little dimples round her mouth. She is my sunshine! And how she stretches out her arms to me!

"I had to interrupt my letter to take her on my lap. The rogue would not have it otherwise. You would be pleased with her. She is fully five months prettier than when you saw her. She has three new teeth, which look like little pearls. She walks quite nicely already, and also begins to understand much. If I ask her how much she loves grandpa, and show her your picture, she spreads out her little arms as wide as she can and closes her eyes.

"Adieu, papa. _Auf baldiges Wiedersehen!_

"One thing more; I wished to write it at the beginning and could not, but now it must leave the pen. It is fearful to me that you torment yourself for my sake; I really do not need it. With the income which I derive yearly from what is left of my fortune, and with what my husband now receives from his parents, we can live perfectly, perfectly well. Therefore, I beg you, if you give concerts for your own distraction, so be it; but only not for my sake. All greetings from my husband, from me. Well, I kiss you a thousand times, and remain, counting on a speedy meeting,

"Your thankful daughter,

"M."

It was in Vienna that Lensky received his daughter's letter, at breakfast in a hotel, the day after a concert when he had at length received an ovation. He felt electrified, newly animated, ten years younger.

He read the letter twice; but if the first reading had truly pleased him, the second attentive perusal only moderately satisfied him.

"H-m! h-m!" he murmured to himself. "Yes, it is quite good, it is better than I dared expect. Poor woman! He loves her from convenience; she rules him since she no longer deludes herself about him. But still it is fearful for her to be bound for her whole life to this shallow man. She has a fine character, she will do her duty, will fight out her life-conflict honorably from pride, so as not to be reproached by her children, and not to give the malicious world the pleasure of slandering her. She will be a splendid mother. How maternity sanctifies a woman! And Nita--poor Colia!" Suddenly he felt strangely; remembrance had allured him to a dark spot of which he felt a horror. How would the meeting with Colia be? For years he had longed to be reconciled with his son, and still he could not overcome a certain anxiety in this case.

He tried to think of something else. What city should he appoint as the place of the family meeting? He did not wish to cause Mascha any great expense. Venice would have been the most convenient, but the old Baerenburgs vexed him. Well, it would occur to him. Meanwhile he picked up the newspaper. A correspondence from Rome was among the contents. The name Perfection immediately met his eye, the name of the young pianist who had formerly accompanied him on his concert tours. He had never had any special personal liking for Perfection, but yet he looked upon him as his musical apprentice and was interested in his progress.

He looked over the article more closely. The blood rushed to his head. What was it he read there? His name--yes--near Perfection's.

"Two greater contrasts would be hard to name in the musical world than Albert Perfection and Boris Lensky. This is the more striking as they, travelling together for years, formed a musical whole. But while the art of the pianist developed more splendidly with each year, the virtuosity of the violinist crumbled away bit by bit. The public did not suspect at Lensky's last concert tour what is now apparent to the most short-sighted; namely, that the applause which was accorded to Lensky was really only for Perfection's accompanying. Since then Perfection has emancipated himself from the despotism of his musical tyrant--for whom he has, nevertheless, preserved the most touching affection--and now stands alone in his artistic greatness, one of the noblest phenomenal artists of all times. Especially striking is the circumstance that he has been quite uninfluenced by Lensky in his artistic development.

"It is not uninteresting to bring more plainly to view the particulars of the glaring contrast between these two musical individualities. The principal difference is that Albert Perfection is a civilized genius, while Lensky, even at the height of his achievements, was nothing but a genial barbarian.

"Perfection is just as free as Lensky of old-fashioned virtuoso-pedantry, but he is also free of that distorted Tartar romanticism of which Lensky never knew how to make an end. Without, in so far as his thankless instrument permits, standing behind, in warmth and tenderness, the violinist's performances, his playing is still distinguished by a quite architectural perfection of style which no other virtuoso has attained. He never sins against good taste, against what we might call the higher moral principles of art. A Roman lady remarked recently that Perfection was for her a too well-bred pianist. He lacks the bewitching sinfulness, the demoniac fire which distinguished Lensky in his good days. That may be, but how sadly these bewitching peculiarities of youth degenerate in an old artist we have already unfortunately had occasion to observe in Lensky's last concert tour. And how greatly the symptoms of decay have increased in him since then, every musical report which comes to us from Germany proves. The bewitching sinfulness has become a caricature, and of the demoniac fire nothing more seems to be left than a Berserker rage expressed with the bow over the unvanquishable coldness of the public.

"One remembers in Rome no such success of a virtuoso as that which Albert Perfection attained last month in the Palazzo Caffarelli. He is the lion of the day. When he drives through the streets, the students nudge each other and say: '_Ah, e Perfezione!_' and hats are removed as before a crowned head."

This article was signed Arnold Spatzig. And if, instead of the name, had stood three stars, it would have been the same for Lensky; he would still have known whom he had to thank for this essay. For more than twenty years Arnold Spatzig had made a practice of insulting and vexing him; what wonder that he had become a master in this art? But until now he had confined himself to insulting Lensky the composer; the virtuoso had been too popular for him to venture to attack him before; and now--Lensky looked at the article again. "Nonsense--moral principle in art--lecture on musical morals--caricature--old scoundrel--nonsense! He has only injured Perfection by his partiality. The article is indeed well written, that is the foolishness. Distorted Tartar romanticism--that will please many--very many--" He struck his fist on the table, his throat contracted.

That critics frequently please themselves with thrusts at an old great man in order to pay homage to new ones, he knew. That the time might have already come for him, already now--that had never occurred to him. "What Lensky was--" he repeated. "The donkey treats me like a corpse whom one has forgotten to bury. I will show him that I still live, and that an old eagle is always more than a young sparrow!"

Hereupon the impressario, Herr Braun, entered. "A brilliant success yesterday," said he. "Affairs are coming round; we have great victories before us." He spread out a number of musical criticisms before the virtuoso, and then continued: "We must now consider where we will turn. Perhaps to Paris, and from thence to London. Or shall we first take Brussels?"

"Cut short all preparations in Paris," cried Lensky.

"What do you prefer?"

"Rome."

A momentary confusion takes possession of the agent. "H-m! The moment is not exactly favorable; Perfection has just--in Rome----"

The old violinist started up, he clapped the impressario on the chest; he was beside himself, his face was distorted with rage. "And shall I fear this street-boy?" he gasped. "I tell you, it is to be Rome!"

XXXVI.

Rome! Rome! The word had always had a particular ring for him. The most beautiful happiness of his life he had found in Rome--he had buried it in Rome.

If his great, weary soul, dreading the future, had, after the fashion of weary souls, sought in the past a place of rest, it always stopped at the point where Natalie had entered his life. His thoughts did not willingly wander further back.

His childhood and early youth had been a time of harsh renunciation, amidst rough, immoral surroundings. The impression of immodest jokes, impure habits, petty distrust, ambiguous sneers, hard work, unaesthetic education, was inseparable from this period of his life. He was so much the more horrified thereat as he knew that the influence of these repulsive details had secretly penetrated through his every pore, that the soil in which he had grown up had forever soiled the roots of his being. He detested the slightest remembrance of his early youth.

All that was beautiful and noble and good in his life had begun with Natalie, in Rome. A strange, urgent longing drove him there. He was convinced that he would there experience something extraordinary, a last brilliant point in his existence, an immense victory and--the ghostly alluring which had formerly only pursued him at long intervals of time now vibrated about him ever oftener, no longer tormenting as formerly, but sweet, mysteriously promising, quite calming. It was now quite near.

Rome! Rome! He said the word often to himself, softly, slowly, as one utters the name of a beloved one. Ever more foolish became the expectations which he centred upon his stay in Rome.

He would grow young again--the dead would arise for him in Rome. His heart beat loudly when the train stopped and the conductor cried out in the clear April air, "Roma--Roma!"

It was in the afternoon, and the sun shone brightly. They had both come to the station, Mascha and Nikolai--Mascha full of happy, tender expectation; Nikolai not without a certain embarrassment. Even now, after nearly five years, it had cost him a certain effort to resolve upon meeting his father. But scarcely had his glance fallen upon Lensky when he forgot all that had separated him from him. When he noticed the slow anxiety with which the old man came up to him, without venturing to stretch out the arms, with which he made frequent twitching, helpless motions, to him, his heart bled for him, and not troubling himself about the tourists and loungers on the platform, he hurried up to his father and embraced him. Lensky laughed convulsively, somewhat childishly, as old men laugh in order not to weep; then he walked through the station between his two children.

Walking heavily, with the forcedly erect carriage of a man who tries to conceal his increasing infirmity, he strode through the crowd. As formerly when he casually showed himself in a public place, he stared straight before him to avoid the curious looks which used to follow him. But to-day no one looked after him. Only a street-boy pointed out his long hair to another, and laughed at it.

A brilliant blue April sky arched itself over the city. At first Lensky merely exchanged a few remarks with his children and inquired heartily of their affairs. Gradually he grew more silent, ever more silent. Mascha alone maintained the conversation. But Lensky did not hear what she said. His nearsighted eyes wandered uneasily over everything they passed. At times he bent far forward, and then suddenly, as if disappointed, turned away his head.

"What are you seeking, father?" asked Nikolai.

"Rome--I find it no more," murmured Lensky.

"Yes, it has changed very much since eight years ago, since mamma's death."

"I did not see it eight years ago," replied Lensky, roughly. "The Rome that I seek dates much further back."

"The Rome in which you were betrothed to our little mother," whispered Mascha, softly.

He nodded shortly, repellently. All at once his sad face cleared.

"There I still see old acquaintances," he cried, and pointed to two antique columns which, strangely enough, were built into a small house, one of whose tiny windows looked out over their time-blackened magnificence.

"That is just as at that time," cried the old man, animatedly, "even to the particulars of white curtains and red flowers. I remember how your mother once could not laugh enough at the contrast between these freshly washed curtains and the gloomy Roman splendor. Heavens, how she laughed! You can none of you laugh as she. I must show you the house in the Via Giulia, where she lived at that time."

"That has long disappeared," said Colia. "Even eight years ago it no longer existed."

"How do you know that?" burst out Lensky, quite harshly.

"Because she--because mamma sought it then and did not find it."

"Ah! she also sought it," murmured Lensky, and fell into a brooding silence. After a while he raised his head.

"Why did they tear it down?" cried he, angrily. "They had no right to tear it down. It was no trivial, ordinary house, but an old palace, a wonderful old palace, a bit of history. Do not these clowns know that there are relics on which one dare not lay a hand? It brings misfortune to desecrate sanctuaries."

Once more his eyes wander over his surroundings. "No; there is nothing more left of my Rome," said he, after a pause. Then slowly raising his eyes, he adds: "Nothing but the eternal blue heavens above us."

XXXVII.

All was prepared for a cordial, festive reception in the Hotel de l'Europe, the same hotel in which Lensky had lived thirty years before, and in which everything had changed, as all Rome.

Natascha had on an embroidered white dress in honor of his arrival. Mascha declared that she recognized him; at any rate, she displayed the utmost friendliness. When he took her in his arms she passed her tiny hands caressingly over his rough, wrinkled cheeks, and the old man rejoiced in the fresh young bud, and could not kiss her enough.

But the family reunion was not so happy and cheerful as Mascha had dreamed. A weight lay on all. Lensky, who formerly had never felt the slightest fatigue from travelling, was to-day so weary that his hands trembled. He left the choicest morsels untouched on his plate, and drank more wine than formerly. He scarcely spoke, often for long moments brooded absent-mindedly, while his deathly pale face took on an intense listening and longing expression which was as weird as mysterious to his children.

When he roused himself, he turned his attention almost exclusively to his son. Incessantly his eyes sought Nikolai's. The young man showed the elder every possible attention, but he could not talk with him.

Meanwhile Mascha did not cease to try to enliven the oppressive mood, whose cause she did not suspect, by all kinds of communications. She told of her Cousin Anna, who had finally married--an American parvenu, whom she treated very badly, and who was very proud of her. He had built her a house in the Champs Elysees, after her personal liking. The house was very large and very handsome. It had room for everything, only not for Anna's mother. Old Madame Jeliagin, who as long as her daughter was unmarried would have spent her last cent to live according to their rank, now begged from one relative to another. "She was with us in Venice for six weeks this winter," said Mascha, "and you will scarcely believe me, I know you are prejudiced against aunt, but I was very happy with her. She is so simple now, and so pitifully modest. She no longer paints, and she ties her cap-strings under her chin. She always jumps up if one wants anything, and waited on my husband as on a Sultan. He was always very good to her, and she admired him immensely. With me and the children she was of such an old-fashioned, clinging tenderness that it warmed my heart. She has still a very strong family feeling, and told me much of my dear mother. Strange, with so many people their good peculiarities only come to light when they are too old to embitter life with vanity." Mascha smiled. It did Lensky good to see, for the first time in so many years, this healthy, happy expression on her face. Meanwhile she continued:

"Still, I have news of some one who will perhaps interest you more than Aunt Barbe. Whom did I meet to-day on the Corso? Sonia, with her father. You perhaps know that he has recently been made inspector--I do not know the title exactly, protector perhaps--of the Choreographic Institute in St. Petersburg. He is still the same, fire and flame for culture and beautiful women. Sonia may have much to endure. She bears it all patiently, as she bears everything. Do you know that she has grown much prettier in these five years, Nikolai?"

Nikolai only murmured distractedly: "So, really?" and crumbled his bread.

"Yes, less stout, her face more expressive. She has more manner, and dresses with much taste."

"I always thought her pretty, and one of the best and most sympathetic girls whom I had ever met," said Nikolai, with the emphasis with which men praise girls with whom they feel themselves in the wrong.

"I asked her to visit us to-day. She said she could not come to-day, she expected a friend--Nita Sankjewitch."

Nikolai bit his lips. In this moment that vein of loathing for his father rose again in him. Suddenly he felt something peculiar. He raised his eyes and met his father's. A shudder ran over him. So much anxious, supplicating sadness was in this glance.

They were at dessert when a waiter entered and presented a visiting-card to Lensky. Lensky changed color and trembled when he took the card from the salver and read the name.

"What does he want here?" he burst out violently, without restraining himself before the waiter.

"Who is it?" asked Mascha, in Russian.

"Perfection!" Lensky drummed confusedly on the table.

"But, papa, you cannot expect anything else," whispered Mascha, softly. "He has only shown you a politeness which is your due."

Lensky frowned.

Then Nikolai laid his hand on his arm. "Shall I receive Perfection in your place?" asked he. "I will tell him that you are tired from the journey; he might come later."

At his son's touch Lensky started. His gloomy face lightened. "No, no, my boy; best of thanks, Colia, I am going myself. It only vexed me at first to be torn away from our cosy circle. We will make it short--farewell."

With that he went.

Mascha and Nikolai still remained at table. They looked at each other piercingly. Each wished to read the thoughts of the other from the face.

"How do you find him?" asked Mascha at length.

"Very changed."

"Is he not?" Mascha fought back tears. "It is terrible to look on. He is not to be recognized; five months ago he was quite different. If one only could prevent him from playing. I am convinced he will experience something annoying."

"Yes, if one could only prevent him," murmured Nikolai.

Meanwhile Lensky had entered the drawing-room. A correctly dressed, well-bred looking blond man came to meet him, with the exclamation: "Welcome, heartily welcome to Rome!" and stretched out both hands to him.

Lensky negligently took one. Perfection's air of hearty comradeship vexed him. What did this little pianist permit himself? Formerly his accompanist had waited until he gave him his hand. Perfection noticed the old man's vexation. He was ready to pacify him. The news that Lensky would give a concert in Rome had at first caused him some excitement. Now, when he saw him before him, his excitement changed to compassion--the noble garment in which the triumphant ambition of young, aspiring mediocrity prefers to clothe itself to a vanquished great one. The broken old man with the round shoulders and trembling hands could no longer injure him. He suddenly felt the most tender reverence for him, and pressed his hand to his lips like that of a priest.

How repulsive such demonstrations would formerly have been to Lensky! He would have roughly and imperiously rebuffed them. Now this token of submission flattered him. "It was very nice in you to hurry a little to visit me," said he. "H-m--sit down." More he could not say.

"You have no idea what enthusiasm it caused among your adorers when one learned that one might at last greet you again here," began the talkative Perfection.

"Ah! Have you really left me anything?" said Lensky, striking his former accompanist familiarly on the knee.

"Do not humiliate me, master," replied Perfection.

Again Lensky struck him on the knee, and laughed loudly and somewhat constrainedly, although nothing laughable had been said.

"I am very glad--really very glad to see you again," he assured the pianist.

The latter smiled comprehendingly. "It reminds you of old times, _mon maitre_."

Lensky's face clouded. "Not wholly--h-m!--I must still congratulate you upon your success. I am proud of you--regard you a little as my musical apprentice. Do you give another concert here?"

"No, not at present. I only remained in Rome on your account, master. You do not know how I long for the sound of your violin. How are you pleased with your pianist?"

Lensky passed his hand over his forehead. "As much as one can be with a pianist with whom one has been associated for six weeks only. He has not yet learned to think with me. For the rest, he is quite a clever man."

"I begin to be jealous!" cried Perfection.

"It is not necessary. With you it went better--finally. At first I tormented myself enough with you. But--one may say what one will--the piano accompaniment remains always a leaden weight for a violinist. With the orchestra it fares better, but that is too ceremonious. If I envy the pianist one thing, it is his independence. The accompanists are none of them worth anything--none of them."

"You discourage me, _mon maitre_," cried Perfection. "When I heard of the trouble you had recently with pianists, I wished to place myself at your disposal, at least for your concert here."

Perhaps the offer was really well meant. In any case it was the quintessence of artistic politeness. Instead of thinking of this, Lensky burst out as if Perfection had wished to insult him with his offer, and cried: "So that it might be said the audience at Lensky's performances applauded the accompanist merely, eh?"

An unpleasant silence followed. At last Perfection began with suffocated voice: "As I see, you have read Spatzig's article about me."

"Yes; I even did not grudge you the article from my heart," assured Lensky, cuttingly. "I am glad for you that you stand so well with the critics."

Perfection looked the furious old man full in the face. Offended innocence and insulted dignity spoke from his face.