"Well?" Nikolai cries out to his father.
For an hour he has been sitting in the virtuoso's parlor, impatiently
awaiting his return; sits there with a newspaper in his hand, with a
high-beating heart, which he tries to persuade that hope is a frivolous
deceiver on which one should not rely. One glance at Lensky's face
suffices to convince the formerly so obstinate heart.
"It is nothing," murmured Lensky, quite confusedly; "nothing. It cannot
be; you must submit; it is never otherwise!" And, as if to cut off all
further explanation, he asks: "Was no one here in my absence? No
visitor?"
"No one came up here," replies Nikolai. "I thought it would be in
vain," stammered he, with difficulty preserving his composure. "But you
were so convinced. So, then, nothing--no reason?" And, with a pitiable
smile, he adds: "It must be borne! A very good article in the _Times_,
on Hector Berlioz; you should read it. How stupid I am, I have torn the
sheet. Pardon!" He still rests his eyes supplicatingly on his father,
as if he hoped he would tell him more explicitly how it had all been.
But the virtuoso is silent. He only murmurs something to himself, then
sits down, with his back to Nikolai, near the chimney, and stares into
the dull fire-place.
"Did--did she displease you?" asks Nikolai.
Lensky does not reply.
Meanwhile, there is a loud knock at the door. Every one comes to see
Lensky without being announced; that is an acknowledged custom.
"Come in!" calls he, harshly.
A tall, slender man, dressed in the latest fashion, enters. Valerian
Kyrillowitch Kasin, Sonia's father.
"What joy to meet you here in Paris!" he says to the virtuoso. "We two
have enjoyed life together here in our time, you and I!"
"Yes, very much," murmurs Lensky.
"What an atmosphere!" raves Kasin. "It goes to one's head like
champagne. I am intoxicated, fairly intoxicated. Guess whom I found
again in Paris--our Senta, from Vienna."
"I have no idea whom you mean," says Lensky, with poorly concealed
uneasiness.
"The charming girl whose acquaintance we made at the Njikitjin's in
Vienna. We named her Senta, because she fell in love with your picture,
Boris, quite like the Wagnerian enthusiast with the picture of the
Flying Dutchman. I scarcely knew that she had another name."
"It is unbearably close here," murmurs Lensky, and pulls at his collar.
"Please open the window, Nikolai."
Nikolai does so, and remains standing near the window.
"I do not remember," says Lensky.
"Really, you do not remember? But, _a propos_, if it does not
inconvenience you, could you lend me one or two thousand francs? I have
already telegraphed to St. Petersburg."
"I beg you, Nikolai, take two thousand-franc notes from the desk in my
bed room. Here is the key."
Nikolai takes the key and goes in the adjoining room, the door of
which, as his father notices not without vexation, he leaves open.
"So you no longer remember her!" goes on Kasin. "That is
incomprehensible to me; you were quite wild about her, enthusiastic. I
had never seen you thus before about a girl. I met her one evening at
Njikitjin's, only one evening, but I remember her very well. She had,
indeed, no incense for me; she saw and heard at that time nothing but
Lensky. You must remember her. They called her Senta in the Njikitjin
set."
"Have you found the money, Colia?" calls Lensky, irritably, to his son.
"At once, father. The lock is rusty. I--I made a mistake in the key."
"Now her name is Fraeulein von Sankjewitch, and she is the most intimate
friend of my daughter," explains Kasin. "The strangest of all is that
she has never said a word about you to Sonia. Young girls usually tell
each other everything. And, as she fainted last winter at one of your
concerts, she has evidently not forgotten you. And you, ungrateful one,
is it really worth while to please you--to please you thus? All the
music-mad ladies were beside themselves with jealousy. Besides--who
knows?--if you see her again she will turn your head once more. She is
more charming than ever, greatly changed, but grown prettier."
Then Nikolai enters and brings the money. Soon after, Kasin leaves.
Nikolai politely accompanies him to the door, which he locks behind
him. In what he now has to discuss with his father he does not wish to
be disturbed.
"So that was it--that," he says, slowly, as he goes up to Lensky.
"I do not understand what you mean," stammers Lensky, uneasily, but his
eyes fall before the accusing glance of his son.
For a short moment deep silence rules. The blood has rushed to the
virtuoso's face. He breathes heavily; wishes to say something, but does
not bring it out.
"You have guessed!" cries out Nikolai. "But it was only a trifle! It
was six years ago--she was a child at that time, a child intoxicated
with music, irresponsible from enthusiasm. One must not be too severe!
Ah!" with a hoarse groan. "Still, it is all the same, and you were
right, and I was a fool!" He hurries out. Then a heavy hand seizes him
by the shoulder.
"Colia, stay!" cries Lensky.
"Father!"
"It is not as you think," says Lensky, slowly, raising his bowed head.
He is now deathly pale.
"So it was only mere gossip on Kasin's part?" says Nikolai. "You have
never seen her, or, at least, she never pleased you?"
Lensky shakes his massive head. "Yes, she pleased me," said he,
hoarsely, "very much; in that Kasin spoke the truth. She pleased me
indescribably. There was something unusual about her, something warmer,
more natural than the others, and such a peculiar way of looking at
one, as you know. I thought--but I was mistaken." He pauses.
"Well, father?" Nikolai urges.
"One evening I found her alone," murmurs Lensky, scarce audibly.
"Njikitjin had arranged it so. Oh! the lowness, the commonness of such
a woman, who will flatter one at any price! I lost my head. She did not
at first understand me--I thought it was affectation. Must you know
all?"
"Yes!"
"Well"--Lensky gasps the words more than speaks them--"I was like a
wild animal. She cried for help. I heard some one come, fortunately for
her. And I was as frightened as a thief, and left. Now, have you heard
enough?" he fairly screams, and stamps on the floor.
Lensky is silent. Nikolai's face is ashy, as that of a man whose heart
has ceased beating with horror.
"Now I know why she shrank from me," says he, dully, without looking at
his father. Then he leaves him.