XXXIX.
"Really, without evasion, what do you think of Lensky?" It is the Countess Löwenskiold, one of the former Lensky enthusiasts, who asks this question of Albert Perfection. She sits in one of the first rows of the Salla Dante, between Perfection and Madame Spatzig, with whom she is quite intimate, and awaits Lensky's appearance on the stage.
"I have such an insurmountable feeling of reverence and gratitude for Lensky that my judgment may not be impartial," replied Perfection, correctly.
"Perfection, pas de bêtises, give your true opinion," commands Frau Spatzig in her rough, guttural voice.
"Well, my true opinion is: I regret that with Lensky the summits are so near the abysses," says Perfection. "You must not misunderstand me, honored Countess----"
The Countess laughs and strikes him with her fan. "I understand you very well," cries she. "The epigram is wonderfully descriptive."
"Alas! it is not original with me; it comes from De Sterny--but how unpunctual Lensky is to-day." Perfection looks at his watch. "Half-past nine."
"And yet he will play all that for us?" says Madame Spatzig, and points to an unusually long programme.
"It is indeed a somewhat tasteless and overladen musical menu," murmurs Spatzig, who sits behind the Löwenskiold. "Shall you remain until the end, Countess?"
"Impossible, my friend."
"Still, he should begin," says Madame Spatzig.
"He has surely not become ill?" meanwhile, a few seats away, whispers Mascha to her brother. "Suppose you go and see."
Then Lensky steps on the stage. His face is flushed, he stumbles over a chair, collects himself, and bows. Spatzig looks at him attentively. "H-m! He is nervous as a conservatorist," murmurs he.
He takes up his violin. His programme begins with Beethoven's C minor sonata dedicated to Emperor Alexander.
How wonderfully he played it formerly, with what noble comprehension of the magnificent earnestness of the composition. Now----
A mocking smile appears ever more plainly on Frau Zingarelli Spatzig's face. The critic whispers to Countess Löwenskiold. "One has seldom heard such poor playing in a public concert," he remarks. One scarcely recognizes the sonata. Quite without taking breath, he springs from one movement to the next. The scherzo--formerly it was a masterpiece of grace and poetry. Now--is that really Lensky who chases the bow over the strings with this stumbling, musical insolence?
Mascha's cheeks burn with shame; she looks to the right and left, shyly and anxiously, expecting something terrible. She would like to hold the people's ears, or call to them: "Wait, have patience with him, he will surely come to himself." Before they know it, he has finished the sonata.
A moderate applause accompanies his exit. One shows him the consideration due to a celebrity. Mascha breathes freely, as after a danger passed through. All at once the hushed hand-clapping breaks forth afresh, becomes importunate, immoderate, supported by loud cries of "Bravo!" The couple of hundred young Russians present, students, painters, or archaeologists, pay homage, in their uncomprehending, mistaken national enthusiasm, to their great man.
At first the Romans put up with it. Lensky has appeared upon the stage; he bows solemnly, benevolently. He does not know that he has played badly, and is pleased at the enthusiasm.
Spatzig still whispers to the Countess Löwenskiold and holds his sides with laughter. The Russians are wild. It is too bad; Madame Spatzig makes a little attempt--only from petulance--behind her fan, so that no one perceives it; she begins to hiss. Then around her through the whole room, louder and louder, resounds the cutting, scornful sound, louder, ever louder.
Lensky stands as if rooted to the ground; then, mechanically raising his hands, he makes the old, proud gesture with which he used to repel too violent applause. But the hissing increases, loud insults are mingled therewith. The horrid noise with which an Italian audience expresses its displeasure and scorn resounds through the sober, cold hall.
Then Perfection springs up. "Silenzio!" he thunders to the excited public--and all is hushed.
Lensky has withdrawn from the stage. A strange feeling prevails. One feels that something terrible has happened. A brilliant fame has been wiped out. A great man has been insulted.
Several people leave the hall. The entertainment is over, why wait? It is not possible that the concert should proceed. Mascha and Nikolai rise to go to him; then a murmur goes through the ranks, some one is coming; one expects a manager, any one, who will announce to the audience that Lensky is ill. Or is the pianist to play his number? No; it is Lensky himself who comes on the stage. He holds himself stiffly, looks neither to the right nor the left; no hand moves to greet him. They really do not understand what he wishes, but they remain seated. They look at him with attention, respect, and remorse. How miserable he looks, and how noble and magnificent! His eyes shine with a supernatural light from his face, which is pale and sunken like that of a corpse.
Already after the first stroke of the bow a touched consideration spreads through the hall. What is he playing? Nobody knows, but no one remains unmoved who hears him, and no one will forget these tones--a melody which no one knows, and which carries all away with it, sublime, wonderful, compassionate, and elevating. It is the great word in art which he has sought in vain during his whole life, and which he has found at last, now--no one has yet ever heard the violin played thus. Every thought of strings and bow vanishes. It is an angel's voice which sings. A shudder creeps over those who listen, a kind of sacred terror, as if something supernatural, spiritual, drew near. Then--all at once he stops. Has a string snapped?
The hand with the bow has sunk down; he bends his head forward--listens. To what does he listen?
His face takes on a glorified, ecstatic expression. He gives a short cry, then stretching out both arms, he falls to the floor. He had grown young again, the dead had arisen for him. He no longer felt the weight of his body, the great soul was set free.
He had indeed known that something wonderful must come in Rome.
They brought him to the hotel, the physician came--two physicians. One did what one could. All attempts at reanimation were in vain. The doctors pronounced it heart failure. At two o'clock in the morning the two children of the deceased remained alone with the corpse.