"Dear Father:--I have a great joy to confide to you. My husband's
parents have become reconciled with me. They are here in Venice, where
they will pass several weeks. They live in a hotel, but I see them
every day, and have already learned to love my mother-in-law dearly.
She reminds me a little of Lady Banbury, only she is not quite so
magnificent and wise, but she is a very kind and distinguished old
lady, and friendly beyond expectation to me. She is indescribably
charming with the children.
"You should only see her sitting on the floor building the St. Mark's
Church with blocks for Harry. Harry is naturally the favorite; he has
the Baerenburg family look.
"But still he has something of my dear, wild father; he prefers to
build the Campanile than the St. Mark's Church, because 'it falls
together with such a nice noise when it is finished,' he said to me
yesterday, and then his eyes sparkled so, and he danced about so that I
embraced him for it.
"Naturally my position has changed for the better. My mother-in-law is
one of those who do nothing by halves. She has introduced me to many
ladies, and already taken me several times 'into society'--the Venetian
society as preliminary. Ah, if you knew how hard it was for me to go
among people the first time! I could scarcely stand. Now I have almost
accustomed myself to it. I still indeed prefer to remain at home, but
my mother-in-law may be right when she forces me to 'show myself,' when
she tells me that it is an injustice to my family to yield to my
selfish preference for solitude. Yes, certainly she is right. The proof
of it is the total change which has taken place in my husband since I
have won my little place in society, and--I may say it to you without
vanity--since I have been made something of, for they are really very
good to me. My music comes to my help. Karl is as pleased as a child at
my social success, and is not weary of repeating to me the compliments
which they pay him about me.
"He suddenly sees me with quite different eyes, and pays court to me
like a lover. He asks my advice in everything, and is never weary of
saying how pleasant it is to have a clever wife who can think for one.
"And I, at first--I tell this to you only, papa--at first this change
filled me with bitterness. I was no worse at that time when others
would know nothing of me. But I restrain myself. Do I not fare better,
much better, than I ever dared expect? Whatever I can do to make his
life pleasant I will do.
"Can you guess who has done all this for me? My old friend, Nita. Soon
after you left here she came to Venice to see me, because my letters
had made her sad. And she did not rest until, with the powerful help of
Lady Banbury, who is, as you know, the sister of my mother-in-law, she
had brought about the reconciliation between Karl and his parents. What
trouble she took, how many letters she wrote, how she travelled here
and there--it is not to be described.
"Ah, what a lovely girl! You should learn to know her more intimately.
She is prettier than ever, although she is nearly thirty. Her fame
grows daily, and if you perhaps believe that she poses as a muse, and
boasts exaggeratedly like any other female celebrity--far from it!
There is something so purely womanly, tender, in her manner, and such a
charming smile when she raises a child on her knees.
"And now of what lies nearest my heart.
"My husband resumes his career. We leave for Washington in the latter
part of April.
"The thought of again putting such a large portion of the globe between
me and you makes me sad. When you were with me this autumn I felt so
truly how wholly I am knit together with you. I would so love to take
you with me into our new home. Oh, how charming a nest I would build
for you, how I would pet you, wait on you, amuse you! But you would not
consent, even for love of me, and besides there is no continuing place
for a great man like you in our little household.
"But still I must see you again before I go. Name some place where it
would be agreeable to you to meet us. It is all one to me, from Madrid
to Nijey Novogorod. Colia is coming also; he has promised me. And there
we will all be together for a few days, only live in each other, and be
happy as one can be when tears of parting are already in his eyes, and
rejoice in each other as people who know that their time is short can.
So, only fix a place--will you not?--and soon.
"I hear a twittering outside the door. It is Natascha who has wakened.
Now Annunziata brings her in. I wish you could see her. Such a tousled
little golden, curly head, such eyes, and the dear little dimples round
her mouth. She is my sunshine! And how she stretches out her arms to
me!
"I had to interrupt my letter to take her on my lap. The rogue would
not have it otherwise. You would be pleased with her. She is fully five
months prettier than when you saw her. She has three new teeth, which
look like little pearls. She walks quite nicely already, and also
begins to understand much. If I ask her how much she loves grandpa, and
show her your picture, she spreads out her little arms as wide as she
can and closes her eyes.
"Adieu, papa. _Auf baldiges Wiedersehen!_
"One thing more; I wished to write it at the beginning and could not,
but now it must leave the pen. It is fearful to me that you torment
yourself for my sake; I really do not need it. With the income which I
derive yearly from what is left of my fortune, and with what my husband
now receives from his parents, we can live perfectly, perfectly well.
Therefore, I beg you, if you give concerts for your own distraction, so
be it; but only not for my sake. All greetings from my husband, from
me. Well, I kiss you a thousand times, and remain, counting on a speedy
meeting,
"Your thankful daughter,
"M."
It was in Vienna that Lensky received his daughter's letter, at
breakfast in a hotel, the day after a concert when he had at length
received an ovation. He felt electrified, newly animated, ten years
younger.
He read the letter twice; but if the first reading had truly pleased
him, the second attentive perusal only moderately satisfied him.
"H-m! h-m!" he murmured to himself. "Yes, it is quite good, it is
better than I dared expect. Poor woman! He loves her from convenience;
she rules him since she no longer deludes herself about him. But still
it is fearful for her to be bound for her whole life to this shallow
man. She has a fine character, she will do her duty, will fight out her
life-conflict honorably from pride, so as not to be reproached by her
children, and not to give the malicious world the pleasure of
slandering her. She will be a splendid mother. How maternity sanctifies
a woman! And Nita--poor Colia!" Suddenly he felt strangely; remembrance
had allured him to a dark spot of which he felt a horror. How would the
meeting with Colia be? For years he had longed to be reconciled with
his son, and still he could not overcome a certain anxiety in this
case.
He tried to think of something else. What city should he appoint as the
place of the family meeting? He did not wish to cause Mascha any great
expense. Venice would have been the most convenient, but the old
Baerenburgs vexed him. Well, it would occur to him. Meanwhile he picked
up the newspaper. A correspondence from Rome was among the contents.
The name Perfection immediately met his eye, the name of the young
pianist who had formerly accompanied him on his concert tours. He had
never had any special personal liking for Perfection, but yet he looked
upon him as his musical apprentice and was interested in his progress.
He looked over the article more closely. The blood rushed to his head.
What was it he read there? His name--yes--near Perfection's.
"Two greater contrasts would be hard to name in the musical world than
Albert Perfection and Boris Lensky. This is the more striking as they,
travelling together for years, formed a musical whole. But while the
art of the pianist developed more splendidly with each year, the
virtuosity of the violinist crumbled away bit by bit. The public did
not suspect at Lensky's last concert tour what is now apparent to the
most short-sighted; namely, that the applause which was accorded to
Lensky was really only for Perfection's accompanying. Since then
Perfection has emancipated himself from the despotism of his musical
tyrant--for whom he has, nevertheless, preserved the most touching
affection--and now stands alone in his artistic greatness, one of the
noblest phenomenal artists of all times. Especially striking is the
circumstance that he has been quite uninfluenced by Lensky in his
artistic development.
"It is not uninteresting to bring more plainly to view the particulars
of the glaring contrast between these two musical individualities. The
principal difference is that Albert Perfection is a civilized genius,
while Lensky, even at the height of his achievements, was nothing but a
genial barbarian.
"Perfection is just as free as Lensky of old-fashioned
virtuoso-pedantry, but he is also free of that distorted Tartar
romanticism of which Lensky never knew how to make an end. Without, in
so far as his thankless instrument permits, standing behind, in warmth
and tenderness, the violinist's performances, his playing is still
distinguished by a quite architectural perfection of style which no
other virtuoso has attained. He never sins against good taste, against
what we might call the higher moral principles of art. A Roman lady
remarked recently that Perfection was for her a too well-bred pianist.
He lacks the bewitching sinfulness, the demoniac fire which
distinguished Lensky in his good days. That may be, but how sadly these
bewitching peculiarities of youth degenerate in an old artist we have
already unfortunately had occasion to observe in Lensky's last concert
tour. And how greatly the symptoms of decay have increased in him since
then, every musical report which comes to us from Germany proves. The
bewitching sinfulness has become a caricature, and of the demoniac fire
nothing more seems to be left than a Berserker rage expressed with the
bow over the unvanquishable coldness of the public.
"One remembers in Rome no such success of a virtuoso as that which
Albert Perfection attained last month in the Palazzo Caffarelli. He is
the lion of the day. When he drives through the streets, the students
nudge each other and say: '_Ah, e Perfezione!_' and hats are removed as
before a crowned head."
This article was signed Arnold Spatzig. And if, instead of the name,
had stood three stars, it would have been the same for Lensky; he would
still have known whom he had to thank for this essay. For more than
twenty years Arnold Spatzig had made a practice of insulting and
vexing him; what wonder that he had become a master in this art? But
until now he had confined himself to insulting Lensky the composer; the
virtuoso had been too popular for him to venture to attack him before;
and now--Lensky looked at the article again. "Nonsense--moral
principle in art--lecture on musical morals--caricature--old
scoundrel--nonsense! He has only injured Perfection by his partiality.
The article is indeed well written, that is the foolishness. Distorted
Tartar romanticism--that will please many--very many--" He struck his
fist on the table, his throat contracted.
That critics frequently please themselves with thrusts at an old great
man in order to pay homage to new ones, he knew. That the time might
have already come for him, already now--that had never occurred to him.
"What Lensky was--" he repeated. "The donkey treats me like a corpse
whom one has forgotten to bury. I will show him that I still live, and
that an old eagle is always more than a young sparrow!"
Hereupon the impressario, Herr Braun, entered. "A brilliant success
yesterday," said he. "Affairs are coming round; we have great victories
before us." He spread out a number of musical criticisms before the
virtuoso, and then continued: "We must now consider where we will turn.
Perhaps to Paris, and from thence to London. Or shall we first take
Brussels?"
"Cut short all preparations in Paris," cried Lensky.
"What do you prefer?"
"Rome."
A momentary confusion takes possession of the agent. "H-m! The moment
is not exactly favorable; Perfection has just--in Rome----"
The old violinist started up, he clapped the impressario on the chest;
he was beside himself, his face was distorted with rage. "And shall I
fear this street-boy?" he gasped. "I tell you, it is to be Rome!"