IX.
But the face of the blind man showed none of the rapture that had taken possession of his audience. It was plain that even this piece had not given him the satisfaction he was looking for. The last notes vibrated like the others, intimating the same question,—a murmur of dissatisfaction; and as the mother looked at her son’s face she saw in it an expression which was familiar to her. The sunny day of that far-away spring was revived in her memory, when her boy lay prostrated on the bank of the river, overcome by the too vivid emotions of the new and exciting world of spring. This expression however rested but for a moment on Peter’s face, then vanished.
Now the hum of voices filled the parlor. Stavruchènko embraced the musician with enthusiasm. “By Jove! my dear fellow, you play finely! That is the kind of playing we like!”
The young people, still excited and agitated, were shaking hands with him. The student prophesied a world-wide fame for him as an artist. “That is true,” assented the elder brother. “You are fortunate to have become thoroughly familiar with the character of the folk-songs. You are a perfect master in that domain. But will you tell me, please, what was the last piece you played?”
Peter gave the name of an Italian piece.
“I thought so,” replied the young man. “I am somewhat familiar with it. You have a remarkably original style. Many play it more correctly than you, but no one has ever yet played it with such effect.”
“Why do you think that others play it more correctly?” asked his brother.
“Well—how can I convey my meaning? I have always heard it performed just as it is written. While this sounds like a translation from the Italian into Little Russian.”
The blind man listened attentively. It was a new thing for him to be the centre of animated conversation, and he was proud to feel his power. So he too might accomplish something in life!
As he sat there, with his hand resting on the music-rack, listening to all this talk, suddenly a warm touch fell on his hand. It was Evelyn, who had drawn near, and who now with a fugitive pressure of his fingers whispered joyously: “You hear? You too will have work in the world. If you could only see the effect you produce on others by your playing!”
The blind man started and drew himself erect. No one but the mother noticed this little interlude. Her face flushed as deeply as if she had just received the first kiss of a new-born and passionate love.
The blind man still remained on the same spot, and his face had not yet lost its pallor. Overwhelmed as he was by the impressions of his new happiness, he may also have felt the approach of the storm that like a dark and shapeless cloud was rising out of the depths of his brain.
VI. THE CRISIS. AN ATTEMPT AT SYNTHESIS.
VI.
The Crisis. An Attempt at Synthesis.
On the following day the blind man awoke early. All was quiet in his room, neither was there as yet any movement in the house. Through the window which had remained open into the garden during the night came the freshness of the early morning. His memory had not yet recalled to him the events of the previous day, but his whole being was filled with a new and unusual sensation.
Peter lay for several moments in bed, listening to the twitter of a bird in the garden and to the feelings stirring within his own heart. “What has happened to me?” he thought; and at this very moment the words which were spoken to him in the twilight, near the old mill, flashed into his mind: “Is it possible that you had never thought of this? How dull you are.”
It was true, Peter had never thought of it. Evelyn’s presence had always been a joy to him, but until yesterday he had never realized the fact, any more than one realizes the air he breathes. Those simple words had fallen into his soul like a pebble upon the glassy surface of a stream: one moment it was placid, serenely reflecting the sunlight and the blue sky,—a toss of the pebble, and it is shaken to its very depths. Now he awoke like one newly born, and Evelyn—his old companion—appeared to him in an altered light. As he recalled one by one the incidents of yesterday, even the most minute, he heard with fresh surprise the accents of her altered voice as reproduced by his imagination,—“How stupid you are!” “Don’t, my darling!”
Instantly Peter rose, dressed himself, and ran through the dewy garden to the old mill. The water was murmuring and the wild-cherry bushes whispering the same as ever,—only then it had been dark, and now it was a bright sunny morning. Never before had light produced so palpable an effect upon him. The bright rays of the cheerful sun seemed to mingle with the dewy fragrance and the universal freshness of the early morning, stirring his nerves to a gentle excitement.
But together with this pleasing agitation there arose in the inmost depths of the blind man’s heart another and a different feeling, so vague and shapeless that at first he did not even realize its presence; but gradually it grew to be a part of himself, like the strain of melancholy that sometimes weaves itself imperceptibly through a merry song. It rose from the depths of his soul as from small beginnings a heavy cloud gathers in the heated atmosphere; and just as a cloud is expanded by rain, so was this emotion deepened by rising tears, until it grew to predominate over every other feeling. It was but recently that her words had sounded in his ears, and he could remember every detail of that first explanation; he seemed still to feel her silken hair and to hear the throbbing of her heart against his own. And out of all this he wrought an image that made his own heart beat with joy. Yet now a dark and shapeless “something” rises to blight this image with its poisonous breath, and to cause it to vanish into empty air.
In vain did Peter go afterward to the mill and spend hours at a time there, beset by contending feelings, endeavoring to recall to his imagination Evelyn’s words, her voice, and her movements. He had lost the power that once he possessed of uniting them in one harmonious whole. From the very beginning there had been an intangible “something” that he had been unable to grasp; and now this “something” was rising above his head, as a storm-cloud rises from the horizon. The sound of her voice was hushed, all the impressions of that happy evening had grown dim, and behold a void was in their place, to fill which void there rose from the depths of the blind man’s soul a yearning desire. He longed to see her. The sudden shock that had roused that evenly balanced youthful nature from its brief slumber had likewise awakened the fatal element that contained within itself the germs of irrepressible suffering. He loved her, and longed to see her.