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 Königsberg, 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 gratitude, by his astonishing 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 friendship, 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 compassion 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 passing 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.