"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.