Boris Lensky Part 35

"She is right," he murmured. "Who knows, another would have perhaps been still worse, still worse! But now leave me alone with my child; it would be better."

Barenburg left the room. "He gambles!" said Lensky, looking Mascha straight in the eyes.

Mascha lowered her eyes. "Only since our marriage," murmured she.

"The miserable fellow!" burst out Lensky.

"Do not be too severe with him," said Mascha. "He is indeed almost as much to be pitied as I. Ah, father, father!" She wrung her hands, then suddenly, with a gesture of unspeakable despair, pus.h.i.+ng back the hair from her temples, she cried: "If I only had the courage to hold my Natascha close to my heart and kiss her for a last time, and spring down into the water with her--there--" She points to a window; she has evidently already busied herself with the thought. "But how can I have the courage when she smiles at me, and twitches her little limbs so gayly, and so rejoices in life!"

Lensky laid his arm round the young wife and leaned the head of the unhappy woman on his shoulder. "It will be better; he will change in time. You only must not yield too much to him; you must take the reins in your hand, must have head and character for two. Forget the old story, demand your right of him; then all will go well, believe me. As for your pecuniary affairs, I will take counsel. Only this--" He took the pearl necklace which had remained on the table and let it slide caressingly through his fingers. "Do not give this away; that you must not inflict upon me--only not that. I will take counsel, do not worry yourself."

x.x.xIV.

Yes, he would take counsel. It was harder than he thought. By the necessary inquiry into his affairs, it turned out that nothing more of his fortune was left to him. Where had it gone? He had lived so simply these last years, quite like a beggar. Where was the money?

The great sympathy which he had always felt for every living being, for everything that feels pain, had latterly become morbid and exaggerated in character. He gave and gave to every one who turned to him; gave without reckoning, without thinking, a.s.sisted every need, every weakness, every burden, in order to alleviate a grief, were it only for an hour. He gave until he had nothing more to give. The only thing that was left him to procure relief for his unhappy child was to again appear before the public. So he took up anew the wanderer's staff.

This time also he allowed his former manager, Herr Braun, to plan his foreign tour. He gave his first concert beyond the frontier in Konigsberg. He did not feel anxious about the audience. With the thundering applause which had everywhere fallen to his share at his last concert tour still ringing in his ears, he quite did not comprehend the possibility of a fiasco. Another kind of discomfort tormented him.

In the recently flown years, which he had earnestly and solitarily pa.s.sed in the effort to listen once more to the inner voices, which had been silenced in the mad whirl of his virtuoso life, but which anew, at first hesitatingly, but then ever more powerfully, more enthusiastically, vibrated through his mind--in these four years of exclusively creative activity, virtuosity had lost its nimbus for him.

This kind of triumph seemed to him small, quite degrading. He was really ashamed to appear before the public with his old arts. But--he did it for his child.

But not the slightest doubt that he would be received with rejoicings occurred to him. He was mistaken. When early in February he gave his first concert in Konigsberg, the hall was half empty, the audience remained cold. How was that possible?

He thought that the critics would revenge him for the pitiable indifference of the throng, that his colleagues would bring him ovations, would rebuild for him his old pedestal of subjection and flattery. But no. The critics were lukewarm, and the artist world showed itself quite adverse.

How was it, then, that he, by his boundless generosity could win no enduring grat.i.tude, by his astonis.h.i.+ng genius could not win respect which should secure him, at his age, from the severity of an objective judgment? How was it that he, a few years after his disappearance from the arena, already was accounted with those to be judged? He had never believed in friends.h.i.+p, and now, as it appeared, he really had no friends.

In his time he had been raved over, adored, flattered, and secretly envied; he had not been loved, and people were not inclined to spare him. He had always been too rough, too ruthless, too arrogant. Always ready to give to every one, he would never accept anything, even thanks. In spite of his outward benevolence, his winning kindness in superficial intercourse, he was at heart very reserved and inaccessible. Except to his wife and children, he had never been intimate with a single being, however much painful compa.s.sion he might feel for every misery.

This repellent arrogance of feeling, which always showed upon nearer acquaintance, had something paining and humiliating. People were ashamed to be dependent upon a man who made so little of it.

A number of new, clever virtuosos, who formerly could have won no recognition, had appeared in the foreground, and the public had grown accustomed to them. Indeed none of these new artists equalled Lensky in the might of his talent, but the magnificent splendor which had characterized his art in its zenith was no longer remembered. The faults, on the contrary, which disfigured his performance still more significantly at his last appearances, were remembered only too well.

People asked themselves how they could have been so pleased by such arbitrariness, and every form of musical failing. They were happy to have escaped this fame carrying all before it, and near which no other genius could expand.

His reappearance on the musical horizon had the same effect as the sudden apparition among the living of one for years believed dead. The chasm which his retirement had made was closed; there was no longer a place for him. Instead of defending him, his colleagues triumphantly gave reasons for the repellent bearing of the public.

He felt as if annihilated. It was not possible that his old power had really left him, he told himself. If he had, a short time ago, thought poorly of his virtuoso success, he now longed for it. A consuming, morbid ambition overcame him, a thirst for triumph. He who had formerly hated all exaggerated figures of speech, all flowery phrases, now hungered for great, enthusiastic demonstrations. He rejoiced at every flattery, however tasteless it might be. That fatal giddiness which overcomes great men when they must descend, overcame him.

He clung to everything to win a support. He who had once so roughly held aloof from all advertising, only tolerating about him those journalists who might afford him a pa.s.sing diversion, or who suited his humor, now stooped for the favor of the most subordinate reporters. He crowded concert-halls, which else would have remained half empty, with free tickets, in order to secure himself a receptive audience. It was all in vain.

A wild defiance overcame him. He everywhere suspected cabals, grew quite foolish and childish in his fancies. They were unfavorable to Russians in Germany. The indifference of the public was a political demonstration.

Before the public he purposely exhibited a haughty, rough manner, but when he knew himself un.o.bserved, then he hid his head in his hands and wept like a little child.

The old pact with the devil was broken. He sought something else which he could not find--a musical expression for the new, elevating charm which had recently enthralled him and for which he forgot his old art.

x.x.xV.

"Dear Father:--I have a great joy to confide to you. My husband's parents have become reconciled with me. They are here in Venice, where they will pa.s.s several weeks. They live in a hotel, but I see them every day, and have already learned to love my mother-in-law dearly.

She reminds me a little of Lady Banbury, only she is not quite so magnificent and wise, but she is a very kind and distinguished old lady, and friendly beyond expectation to me. She is indescribably charming with the children.

"You should only see her sitting on the floor building the St. Mark's Church with blocks for Harry. Harry is naturally the favorite; he has the Barenburg family look.

"But still he has something of my dear, wild father; he prefers to build the Campanile than the St. Mark's Church, because 'it falls together with such a nice noise when it is finished,' he said to me yesterday, and then his eyes sparkled so, and he danced about so that I embraced him for it.

"Naturally my position has changed for the better. My mother-in-law is one of those who do nothing by halves. She has introduced me to many ladies, and already taken me several times 'into society'--the Venetian society as preliminary. Ah, if you knew how hard it was for me to go among people the first time! I could scarcely stand. Now I have almost accustomed myself to it. I still indeed prefer to remain at home, but my mother-in-law may be right when she forces me to 'show myself,' when she tells me that it is an injustice to my family to yield to my selfish preference for solitude. Yes, certainly she is right. The proof of it is the total change which has taken place in my husband since I have won my little place in society, and--I may say it to you without vanity--since I have been made something of, for they are really very good to me. My music comes to my help. Karl is as pleased as a child at my social success, and is not weary of repeating to me the compliments which they pay him about me.

"He suddenly sees me with quite different eyes, and pays court to me like a lover. He asks my advice in everything, and is never weary of saying how pleasant it is to have a clever wife who can think for one.

"And I, at first--I tell this to you only, papa--at first this change filled me with bitterness. I was no worse at that time when others would know nothing of me. But I restrain myself. Do I not fare better, much better, than I ever dared expect? Whatever I can do to make his life pleasant I will do.

"Can you guess who has done all this for me? My old friend, Nita. Soon after you left here she came to Venice to see me, because my letters had made her sad. And she did not rest until, with the powerful help of Lady Banbury, who is, as you know, the sister of my mother-in-law, she had brought about the reconciliation between Karl and his parents. What trouble she took, how many letters she wrote, how she travelled here and there--it is not to be described.

"Ah, what a lovely girl! You should learn to know her more intimately.

She is prettier than ever, although she is nearly thirty. Her fame grows daily, and if you perhaps believe that she poses as a muse, and boasts exaggeratedly like any other female celebrity--far from it!

There is something so purely womanly, tender, in her manner, and such a charming smile when she raises a child on her knees.

"And now of what lies nearest my heart.

"My husband resumes his career. We leave for Was.h.i.+ngton in the latter part of April.

"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 suns.h.i.+ne! 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."