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Lensky has withdrawn from the stage.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.