Читать книгу Boris Lensky - Ossip Schubin - Страница 6

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Now the concert is over. After much that was beautiful and noble, in conclusion Lensky, in a superior, quite negligent manner, threw to the public a bravura piece by some unknown Russian composer, a wild, triumphal fanfare of neck-breaking double notes.

They hurrah, clap, are mad with enthusiasm, call him back again and again, but Lensky shows himself no more. He and his son roll along in a cab to the Hotel Westminster, where the great violinist, according to old custom, has his quarters.

The fever of his musical excitement still throbs in Lensky's every vein. His nerves are still quivering from the fierce, jubilant storm of applause. Something like an echo of the hand-clapping, which sounds quite like a hail-storm, yet rings in his ears.

Nikolai has no noise of applause in his ears, therefore he hears again and again the first sweet, dreamy bars of the "Légende." They form in his soul the musical background for a pale little face with large, gloomy eyes and melancholy, lovely mouth. How she had listened to his father's playing, quite with a kind of horror in her solemn gaze! He had never seen any one listen so. At every tone the expression of her face had changed. Were there, then, really people upon whom music could have such an effect?

And then how she had suddenly sunk down! Ah! how charming it was to take the slender, supple body in his arms, which scarcely felt the weight. Her head had rested so heavily and wearily on his shoulder; her hair, the silky, soft, golden-brown hair, had touched his cheek. He could not forget it; it seemed to him that he still held her; he felt the unconscious leaning of the warm young body against his breast. And this little face! How much more beautiful it had become when the forced self-restraint had left it. The cold, gloomy expression had vanished; it looked deathly sad, the poor, pale little face. But what an indescribable tenderness and goodness mingled with the sadness!

What might the great pain which lay hidden in her young heart be? Ah, to be able to console her! A foolish wish! Where were his thoughts wandering?

"Have you a match, Colia?" asks a rough voice near him.

Nikolai starts. He seems to himself impolite in his silence to his father. He should have said a few words to him upon his success.

"To-day was an inspiration, father," he remarks, while he hands the virtuoso his match-box.

"There was a great noise, at any rate," says Lensky, and shrugs his shoulders. "That does not mean much. I beg you! A success is always like an epidemic or a conflagration. No one really knows why. Sometimes one achieves it, and not at other times. Apropos, some one fainted to-day. Who was it? An old woman, was it not?"

"No; a young girl."

"Was she pretty?"

"She pleased me."

"H-m! h-m! And she fainted because she was too tightly laced?"

"No, father. She evidently fainted from excitement. I have never seen any one listen as she listened to you."

"Swooned from excitement," repeats Lensky. "A pretty young woman! Mais c'est un succès de Torreador--the highest that a man can attain."

The carriage stops before the Hotel Westminster.

"Will you dine with me?" Lensky asks, as he gets out.

"If you will permit me," replies Nikolai.

"Only no such formalities!" bursts out the violinist. "Do not force yourself to anything from politeness. You must not, if you do not wish. The company which you will find with me will not suit you without that."

Lensky says that quite roughly and angrily. In general, the opposing manners of the two men are strange enough. At heart they evidently cling to each other very greatly; still, a perceptible lack of confidence is apparent in the relations between father and son.

"And at what hour may I come?" asks Nikolai.

"May I come!" his father mimics him. "That is really not to be borne. Leave me in peace with your aristocratic manners. Do not forget that you have a proletary for a father. My guests come at half-past eight, and you can come when you will."

With that they have reached the first story of the hotel, where are the violinist's secluded rooms.

Nikolai's room is one story higher. "For, near each other, we would mutually annoy each other," the virtuoso has from the beginning signified to his son. "Adieu à tantôt," he calls to the young man. With that they separate.

When Nikolai joins Lensky, half an hour later, they are already at table.

The atmosphere of the little dining-room is filled with the savory odor of potage bisque, the virtuoso's favorite dish. Gay dishes of dessert stand on the table, the chandelier sheds its glaring light over an extremely mixed assembly. At Lensky's right sits Madame Grévin, a very old friend of his; at his left, the Countess d'Olbreuse, who, probably to accentuate the situation, has kept on her hat. This great lady, in the rôle of guest in artistic circles, is in some manner annoying to Nikolai. He feels especially constrained, seems to himself awkward in his pedantically correct clothes; he wears a dress-coat and white cravat, because after dinner he is going into society--laughable. The place opposite his father has been left vacant for him. His eyes wander over the guests. He sees a strikingly dressed young harpist, with loud, noisy manners and bold expressions, Mademoiselle Klein, from Vienna; then a violin virtuoso of good family, Monsieur Paul, not without intelligence and wit, but without belief in his art, which he seems to consider a moderately remunerative trade; a vain French journalist with pretentious cynicism--no single artist of really significant renown; and in the midst of all this unenlivening gang--his father.

"Can he feel at home with these men?" Nikolai asks himself, and looks at him scrutinizingly.

At first he sits quite silently there, and only addresses a few friendly words across the table to Madame Bulatow, the wife of a poor, unrecognized composer. His boundless kindness of heart never fails with poor unfortunates, however raging, untamably wild, quite rough he may otherwise be. But to no one is he so tender as to his own country people. Poor Russians in a strange land he treats as relatives.

The further the dinner progresses, the worse becomes the universal tone, the more unrestrained Lensky. His manner to the Countess d'Olbreuse becomes completely inadmissible.

In the beginning he scarcely noticed her. But as she, from vanity and a whim, had evidently determined to make his conquest, to rouse him from his indifference with all kinds of flatteries and coquetries, he gradually warms, presses her hand, whispers all kinds of insidious remarks to her with wicked glances, permits himself so much that at last she is frightened and tries to restrain him. But to restrain Lensky after the second bottle of wine, at the close of a good dinner, and near a very pretty woman, who has suddenly become prudish after she had, a few minutes before, thrown herself at his head, is no easy thing.

Nikolai, whose blood burns in his brown cheeks, foolishly lets himself be brought to remark a shy, "Mais, mon père!" and by that attains a not at all pleasing result. Always excited by the slightest weight or restraint, to violent opposition, Lensky is least of all inclined to submit to be lectured by his "aristocratic son." His face, flushed by wine, becomes distorted, his eyes glisten. He is just about to say something horrible, unpardonable--the word dies on his lips; he turns his head and listens. A very excited child's voice outside is heard by turns with a waiter's voice: "I wish to go in, laissez-moi donc!"

Was it possible? The door opens. Breathless, with cheeks flushed from the cold, a girl of perhaps seventeen years bursts in and into Lensky's arms, who has hastily sprung up.

"Here I am at last!" said she, breathless, between laughing and weeping, in Russian. "Oh, if you knew how much trouble I had in getting to you! They would not let me in. What does it matter, now I am with you? And how are you? Are you well again? Oh, you poor dear, I could not bear it any longer, I was so worried about you!"

He holds her delightedly to his breast, covers her whole face with kisses. "It is my daughter," he explains to his astonished-looking guests. "Please make room for her near me, Madame Grévin." And as a waiter pushes a chair between the old woman and the virtuoso, he continues: "Take off your coat and hat, Mascha, and now sit down and get your breath." Then he passes his hand over her soft dark hair. His touching tenderness has wiped away every trace from his face of the hateful expression which formerly disfigured it. "Yes, yes, this is my daughter, my foolish, ignorant daughter, a little goose, who loves me dearly." And the voice of the spoiled despot, who recently only tolerated the homage of hundreds of women crazy about him, trembles at these words quite as if he wondered that his own child loves him! "Are you hungry, my little dove?" asks he.

"No, papa, I am too happy to be hungry; but I am thirsty." And she reaches for his champagne glass.

"Oh, you little wretch!" admonishes Lensky, tenderly, while Nikolai calls to him across the table: "Don't give her any champagne; she cannot stand it. A thimbleful goes to her head."

"And I like it so much," sighs the girl.

"Tell us, please, how you really came here, Mascha," Lensky asks his daughter in French. "I thought you still in Arcachon."

"I ran away," says she, gayly, and laughs till her white teeth show between her full child's lips. "Ran away secretly, and quite alone!"

"So, well, that is good," says Lensky, and immediately is vexed at having made an unsuitable remark before his daughter. He adds: "You at least took your maid with you?"

"No, papa, no one. Ah! please do not look so gloomy; only do not be angry. If you must quarrel with me, quarrel to-morrow, but not to-day; I am too happy to be with you. See, it was this way: Since October, I have been with Aunt Sophie in Arcachon, because Aunt Barbara has not yet arranged her house in Paris, and therefore cannot take me. Ah! I must always go from one aunt to another, because you will not have me with you, you naughty papa!"

At this jesting reproof Lensky's face darkens; meanwhile, the girl continues: "All at once I heard you were in Paris. Ah! to know you were in Paris and not dare to come--that was unbearable. But, however, I begged.... 'It is impossible,' was the answer every time. Aunt Barbara could not receive me before the fifteenth, and then, besides, no one had time to accompany me to Paris--and all sorts of simple excuses, which made me furious. Meanwhile, I read in the papers how people half kill each other for places at your concerts, how all Paris is on its knees before you, and I am happy and proud of you."

"Ah! you are proud of me?" says Lensky, in a tone which among all those present only his son understands.

"But, papa," says Mascha, shrugging her shoulders impatiently at this interruption, "am I proud? How can you ask? Yes, immensely proud of you. But then I read that you look pale and weary; then I am quite consumed with anxiety, and dream every night that you are ill. Then yesterday evening I read that you had had a stroke of apoplexy. I was beside myself. They tried to talk me out of my anxiety, to convince me that if you were dangerously ill they would certainly have already telegraphed me. They were all very kind, and wished to telegraph to you, but I could not sit there idle for hours, waiting for a telegram. And so I ran away at six o'clock in the morning while every one was asleep. It was bitterly cold. I sold my watch, and then did not have money enough to buy my ticket; a young man was so kind as to assist me."

"Ah! an obliging young man," interrupted the journalist.

"He was very nice," affirmed Mascha. "He took the ticket for me--he spoke English to me; only think, papa, he took me for an Englishwoman. Then I left him and hurried into a coupé, and away we went. In my coupé sat an old man and an old woman. I thought they were married, because they quarrelled incessantly, but the old woman got out at Bordeaux. I remained alone with the old man. For one moment I was afraid."

"Of what, then?" asks the journalist in an unpleasant tone.

"It was just before a tunnel; he drew out a large pocket-knife. I thought he would murder me, but no, it was only to peel a pear. He wished to force half of it upon me. When I refused, he offered me chocolate; he became very insolent. I cannot bear that, and threatened to signal for help." She interrupts her confession with a pretty little shudder. "I did not know that it would be so unpleasant to travel alone."

"In a ladies' coupé you would have been spared these unpleasantnesses," said Madame Grévin, provincially stiffly.

"Ah, madame!" says Mascha, with her soft eyes looking first at Lensky and then at the old woman, "I had quite forgotten that there were ladies' coupés. I only thought to come to Paris as quickly as possible. It all turned out well, you shall see. God be thanked, just then the train stopped. I opened the window, called to the conductor to open the door; he did not hear me. French conductors never hear one. Then my young gentleman discovered me. You know the one from the station in Arcachon, who was walking up and down the platform smoking. He threw away his cigar and hurried to my help. I would like to change my coupé, I said, with a glance at my objectionable travelling companion. He understood, took me in another compartment, said I was evidently not accustomed to travelling alone, and asked if I would permit him to offer me his protection. I was very thankful to him, and then I told him my whole story, and that I was your daughter, papa. He said that he was an old friend of yours, Nikolinka"--to her brother. "He told me his name, Count Bärenburg. He is a diplomat, was in St. Petersburg, and said he had often met you at Uncle Sergeis. Do you remember him, Nikolinka?"

"I believe it," said Nikolai. "He is a man who saved my life on a bear hunt. I was in very close quarters with a wounded beast."

"And he shot the bear?" said Lensky.

"No," replied Nikolai; "he was, as he modestly expressed it, too cowardly to discharge his gun--the ball might have hit me. 'Every one who will cannot be a William Tell,' said he, afterward, laughing. He stabbed the brute with his hunting-knife, in danger of being strangled with me."

"He saved you with danger to his life? Then he must like you very much," bursts out Maschenka.

"He scarcely knew me."

"Ah, how generous!" said Mascha. "How glad I am to have learned to know him, and you cannot think how nice he was to me. He spoke so pleasantly of you, Colia. Then he got a paper to see whether there was anything about you in it, papa. We found a notice which relieved me as to your health, and then after the worry I had had, my heart was so light that I cried. Arrived in Paris, he sent his servant with me because he did not want me to drive all the way through the city alone, and here I am. You see, madame"--she turns coaxingly to Grévin--"on the whole it was certainly better than if I had travelled in a ladies' compartment."

But Madame Grévin only shrugged her shoulders, and said: "That is a matter of taste; for my daughter, I should have preferred the ladies' compartment."

Lensky is silent; he notices vexedly what a false effect the story of his petted daughter has made on those present.

Most of the men smile; they seek behind Mascha's naïveté calculating frivolity seeking for adventures.

Meanwhile, without embarrassment, she drinks a few sips of champagne from her father's glass, and continues: "The stupidest was that they did not want to let me in here to you in the hotel. They said, 'Monsieur Lensky is dining now.' And yet I told them that I was your daughter. They said very coarsely: 'Anyone could say that.' For what did they take me, then--for one of those fools who run after you?"

"Mascha!" Lensky says, reprovingly.

"And, besides, I look so strikingly like you," she continues.

"So, do you really look like me?" asks Lensky, who cannot look stern before this sweet childish tenderness. "Really like me?" Then, taking her by the chin and looking attentively at her face: "Well, yes; the dear God is a great artist. Strange what wonderfully beautiful variations he can write on an ugly theme!"

"Mamma always said it was quite laughable how much I resembled you," whispers Mascha; and adds softly: "She always said that to me when she was especially good to me."

Those present have ceased to interest themselves in the child; only Madame d'Olbreuse looks at her kindly across the virtuoso. The journalist industriously supplies Mademoiselle Klein with champagne; the other men talk together, murmur bad jokes in each other's ears, half aloud, with the evident intention to be heard. The champagne goes more and more to Mademoiselle Klein's head. After an animated tirade upon Lensky, she says, laughingly: "I have been in Paradise often enough to hear Lensky, but if it were necessary, I would go into hell for him."

"Ah, so!" calls out Lensky, amused at the immoderateness of the young woman. "But if they would not let you into hell?"

"I would pay a few sins for admittance." And looking at him boldly from half-closed eyes, she takes a flower from the bouquet on her breast, and throws it across the table at him. He catches it laughingly. Suddenly he feels something strange. His daughter's eyes rest upon him, astonished, surprised. With a gesture of anger, he throws the flower under the table. "Nikolai, I beg you, take the child home," says he, springing up.

"Where, father?"

"Where?" repeats Lensky. "Why, to the Jeliagin--anywhere, only away from here."

"Will you permit me to take your daughter to Princess Jeliagin's? My carriage waits below. I have room for her and Monsieur Nikolas," says the Countess d'Olbreuse.

"I am very much obliged to you, Countess," replied Lensky. Then, dismissing Mascha with a kiss on the forehead, he turns to his guests. "I think we can go in the drawing-room; coffee is waiting already."

Still, while Mascha, quite amazed at her father's sudden unfriendliness, slips into her sable-lined velvet coat, Lensky comes up to his two children. "See that she is well wrapped up, Colia," says he to his son. "She is very delicate, and takes cold easily. She is, indeed, thoroughly like me, but still in much she is like her mother. God, those eyes! And say a good word for her to Barbara; see that she is not too harshly received."

"We will both defend her," says Countess d'Olbreuse kindly. "I understand that an anxious papa is frightened at such a mad prank, but one must be very hard-hearted not to pardon it."

"Ah, you have no idea what is before me! Aunt Barbara is not bad, she even likes me; but her daughter, my Cousin Anna, is terrible!" says Mascha "Why do you send me away, papa? I hoped that you would keep me with you."

"It is impossible," says he, with a short, characteristic motion of the head and shoulders, and with a gloomy decision which permits no objecting.

"Really impossible?" repeats Mascha, depressed. "Well, then, good-by. It still was lovely to see you again. If only those horrid people had not been there! That bold girl who threw you the flower--how could she dare to presume so with you!" And Mascha's eyes sparkled with anger.

"She is charming, your daughter; I am quite in love with her," says the kind D'Olbreuse; "but now come, my dear child."

"One more kiss," murmurs Lensky, and takes the sweet, pale little face of his daughter between his great, warm hands. It is as if he could not look long enough on this sad, tender loveliness. "Oh, you angel, you! I will visit you to-morrow in the morning; but do not come here any more, I beg you. So--one kiss, and one more on your dear eyes--goodnight!"