All was prepared for a cordial, festive reception in the Hotel de
l'Europe, the same hotel in which Lensky had lived thirty years before,
and in which everything had changed, as all Rome.
Natascha had on an embroidered white dress in honor of his arrival.
Mascha declared that she recognized him; at any rate, she displayed the
utmost friendliness. When he took her in his arms she passed her tiny
hands caressingly over his rough, wrinkled cheeks, and the old man
rejoiced in the fresh young bud, and could not kiss her enough.
But the family reunion was not so happy and cheerful as Mascha had
dreamed. A weight lay on all. Lensky, who formerly had never felt the
slightest fatigue from travelling, was to-day so weary that his hands
trembled. He left the choicest morsels untouched on his plate, and
drank more wine than formerly. He scarcely spoke, often for long
moments brooded absent-mindedly, while his deathly pale face took on an
intense listening and longing expression which was as weird as
mysterious to his children.
When he roused himself, he turned his attention almost exclusively to
his son. Incessantly his eyes sought Nikolai's. The young man showed
the elder every possible attention, but he could not talk with him.
Meanwhile Mascha did not cease to try to enliven the oppressive mood,
whose cause she did not suspect, by all kinds of communications. She
told of her Cousin Anna, who had finally married--an American parvenu,
whom she treated very badly, and who was very proud of her. He had
built her a house in the Champs Elysees, after her personal liking. The
house was very large and very handsome. It had room for everything,
only not for Anna's mother. Old Madame Jeliagin, who as long as her
daughter was unmarried would have spent her last cent to live according
to their rank, now begged from one relative to another. "She was with
us in Venice for six weeks this winter," said Mascha, "and you will
scarcely believe me, I know you are prejudiced against aunt, but I was
very happy with her. She is so simple now, and so pitifully modest. She
no longer paints, and she ties her cap-strings under her chin. She
always jumps up if one wants anything, and waited on my husband as on a
Sultan. He was always very good to her, and she admired him immensely.
With me and the children she was of such an old-fashioned, clinging
tenderness that it warmed my heart. She has still a very strong family
feeling, and told me much of my dear mother. Strange, with so many
people their good peculiarities only come to light when they are too
old to embitter life with vanity." Mascha smiled. It did Lensky good to
see, for the first time in so many years, this healthy, happy
expression on her face. Meanwhile she continued:
"Still, I have news of some one who will perhaps interest you more than
Aunt Barbe. Whom did I meet to-day on the Corso? Sonia, with her
father. You perhaps know that he has recently been made inspector--I do
not know the title exactly, protector perhaps--of the Choreographic
Institute in St. Petersburg. He is still the same, fire and flame for
culture and beautiful women. Sonia may have much to endure. She bears
it all patiently, as she bears everything. Do you know that she has
grown much prettier in these five years, Nikolai?"
Nikolai only murmured distractedly: "So, really?" and crumbled his
bread.
"Yes, less stout, her face more expressive. She has more manner, and
dresses with much taste."
"I always thought her pretty, and one of the best and most sympathetic
girls whom I had ever met," said Nikolai, with the emphasis with which
men praise girls with whom they feel themselves in the wrong.
"I asked her to visit us to-day. She said she could not come to-day,
she expected a friend--Nita Sankjewitch."
Nikolai bit his lips. In this moment that vein of loathing for his
father rose again in him. Suddenly he felt something peculiar. He
raised his eyes and met his father's. A shudder ran over him. So much
anxious, supplicating sadness was in this glance.
[Illustration]
They were at dessert when a waiter entered and presented a
visiting-card to Lensky. Lensky changed color and trembled when he took
the card from the salver and read the name.
"What does he want here?" he burst out violently, without restraining
himself before the waiter.
"Who is it?" asked Mascha, in Russian.
"Perfection!" Lensky drummed confusedly on the table.
"But, papa, you cannot expect anything else," whispered Mascha, softly.
"He has only shown you a politeness which is your due."
Lensky frowned.
Then Nikolai laid his hand on his arm. "Shall I receive Perfection in
your place?" asked he. "I will tell him that you are tired from the
journey; he might come later."
At his son's touch Lensky started. His gloomy face lightened. "No,
no, my boy; best of thanks, Colia, I am going myself. It only vexed
me at first to be torn away from our cosy circle. We will make it
short--farewell."
With that he went.
Mascha and Nikolai still remained at table. They looked at each other
piercingly. Each wished to read the thoughts of the other from the
face.
"How do you find him?" asked Mascha at length.
"Very changed."
"Is he not?" Mascha fought back tears. "It is terrible to look on. He
is not to be recognized; five months ago he was quite different. If one
only could prevent him from playing. I am convinced he will experience
something annoying."
"Yes, if one could only prevent him," murmured Nikolai.
Meanwhile Lensky had entered the drawing-room. A correctly dressed,
well-bred looking blond man came to meet him, with the exclamation:
"Welcome, heartily welcome to Rome!" and stretched out both hands to
him.
Lensky negligently took one. Perfection's air of hearty comradeship
vexed him. What did this little pianist permit himself? Formerly his
accompanist had waited until he gave him his hand. Perfection noticed
the old man's vexation. He was ready to pacify him. The news that
Lensky would give a concert in Rome had at first caused him some
excitement. Now, when he saw him before him, his excitement changed to
compassion--the noble garment in which the triumphant ambition of
young, aspiring mediocrity prefers to clothe itself to a vanquished
great one. The broken old man with the round shoulders and trembling
hands could no longer injure him. He suddenly felt the most tender
reverence for him, and pressed his hand to his lips like that of a
priest.
How repulsive such demonstrations would formerly have been to Lensky!
He would have roughly and imperiously rebuffed them. Now this token of
submission flattered him. "It was very nice in you to hurry a little to
visit me," said he. "H-m--sit down." More he could not say.
"You have no idea what enthusiasm it caused among your adorers when one
learned that one might at last greet you again here," began the
talkative Perfection.
"Ah! Have you really left me anything?" said Lensky, striking his
former accompanist familiarly on the knee.
"Do not humiliate me, master," replied Perfection.
Again Lensky struck him on the knee, and laughed loudly and somewhat
constrainedly, although nothing laughable had been said.
"I am very glad--really very glad to see you again," he assured the
pianist.
The latter smiled comprehendingly. "It reminds you of old times, _mon
maitre_."
Lensky's face clouded. "Not wholly--h-m!--I must still congratulate you
upon your success. I am proud of you--regard you a little as my musical
apprentice. Do you give another concert here?"
"No, not at present. I only remained in Rome on your account, master.
You do not know how I long for the sound of your violin. How are you
pleased with your pianist?"
Lensky passed his hand over his forehead. "As much as one can be with a
pianist with whom one has been associated for six weeks only. He has
not yet learned to think with me. For the rest, he is quite a clever
man."
"I begin to be jealous!" cried Perfection.
"It is not necessary. With you it went better--finally. At first I
tormented myself enough with you. But--one may say what one will--the
piano accompaniment remains always a leaden weight for a violinist.
With the orchestra it fares better, but that is too ceremonious. If I
envy the pianist one thing, it is his independence. The accompanists
are none of them worth anything--none of them."
"You discourage me, _mon maitre_," cried Perfection. "When I heard of
the trouble you had recently with pianists, I wished to place myself at
your disposal, at least for your concert here."
Perhaps the offer was really well meant. In any case it was the
quintessence of artistic politeness. Instead of thinking of this,
Lensky burst out as if Perfection had wished to insult him with his
offer, and cried: "So that it might be said the audience at Lensky's
performances applauded the accompanist merely, eh?"
An unpleasant silence followed. At last Perfection began with
suffocated voice: "As I see, you have read Spatzig's article about me."
"Yes; I even did not grudge you the article from my heart," assured
Lensky, cuttingly. "I am glad for you that you stand so well with the
critics."
Perfection looked the furious old man full in the face. Offended
innocence and insulted dignity spoke from his face.
"You do me bitter injustice by this allusion," said he, quietly, and
with emphasis. "I could not help it that that article was written. I
had not read it before it appeared. If I had known of it I would never
have given my consent to its publication. I found it tasteless and
rough, and did not feel at all flattered by it, but ashamed. It has
made me many enemies in Germany. In Rome, on the contrary, where it has
been translated into French and Italian and printed in different
journals, it has been of use to me, of great use, and you, Lensky"--for
the first time Perfection called his former patron briefly by his name,
which did not escape the latter--"you, Spatzig's _feuilleton_ has
here--understand me correctly, here in Rome, where you have not
been heard for thirty years; here, where they rely on Spatzig's
judgment--immeasurably injured. I tell you truly, in the superficial
musical world which here forms the decisive part of the audience, a
great prejudice against you prevails. The hearty enthusiasm which
everywhere else meets you is here limited to one or two hundred of your
old admirers in the strangers' colony. So! There you have the
situation." Perfection is silent.
Lensky's lips have drawn themselves ever more deeply down at the
corners; his nostrils quiver, he passes his hand uneasily over the
table between himself and Perfection. "That is all very instructive and
very interesting that you tell me," said he, uneasily; "but how does it
further concern me?"
"It is in your power to change the situation, and I would like to
persuade you to do your part. H-m! it is so hard to speak of it to you,
Lensky, you have such passionate prejudices; but, really, it will lead
to nothing to further excite Spatzig. If you soothe his vanity, wounded
by you, he will immediately write an article about you which will
paralyze the effect of the one about me. He will make converts for you,
will extol you just as zealously as he has formerly depreciated you."
"And what shall I do to cause this important reverse of affairs?" asks
Lensky, with caustic scorn.
Perfection hesitated a moment, then he replied: "Call upon Frau
Spatzig."
"So, then, Spatzig has a wife?" asked Lensky. "You surely must know; he
has been married for more than six years."
"I had no suspicion, never troubled myself about Herr Spatzig's private
affairs," replied Lensky, arrogantly.
"A former singer, Signora Zingarelli. She spoke with great interest of
you; told me that, long years ago, on your first tour in America, she
had the pleasure of learning to know you personally, and assured me
that she would be very happy to see you again. She laid great stress on
it."
"What is the lovely creature's name? Zinga--Zinga----"
"Zingarelli."
"So, Zingarelli!" Lensky laughed to himself. "That is indeed
delightful, that is charming, really. The Zingarelli! I remember her
distinctly. A Belgian with a pretty white complexion and red hair. I
compliment Herr Spatzig. H-m! And I should call upon this lady?"
"It would be to your interest," said Perfection. "If it, nevertheless,
would be disagreeable to you, I make you another proposition. I play
to-morrow at a soiree at the Spatzigs. Come for my sake, to do me the
honor, without having left a card before."
"H-m! To a soiree at Madame Zingarelli Spatzig's! Pardon me, does any
one go to her house?"
"All Rome, especially the distinguished foreigners. She entertains a
great deal. She brought Spatzig a considerable fortune."
"Yes, yes; she sang third _roles_ in Morelli's troupe in Russia. It is
very tolerable to sing third _roles_ in a travelling Italian opera
troupe!" Lensky laughed significantly.
Perfection was silent.
"But do not be so sanctimonious," now cried Lensky. "It certainly
cannot be unknown to you that Zingarelli was a quite common courtesan."
"I know nothing of that," replied Perfection, coldly, with the suitable
dignity with which a man of the world corrects a forward person who
dares bring to light his facts of the past, which the man of the world
has buried for his convenience. At the same time the pianist had risen
from his chair. He took his hat. "Well, will you forget the old grudge,
Lensky? May I tell Frau Spatzig that you are coming?"
"You are here in her commission?" cried Lensky, to whom a new reason
for Perfection's manner had occurred.
Perfection, who had not found it hard to answer before, remained
silent.
"I understand," said Lensky. "She needs me to show me. One knows by
what arts such women charm society to their drawing-rooms. It would
please her to lead about the old lion by a chain. There may even be a
little advantage for him to permit it"--with a sharp glance at
Perfection--"but--" He now stood before Perfection, drawn up to his full
height, and gloomy. With a gesture which was peculiar to him when
greatly excited, he raised his arms and clenched his fists.
"You can tell her," cried he, slowly letting his arms sink--"you can
tell her that I would rather stand in the pillory and be stared at by
the passers-by than set foot over the threshold of the Spatzig couple.
It would seem less degrading to me than to sue for the favor of this
pack of idiots."
A minute later Lensky was alone in the room. Perfection has withdrawn
with a deep bow. Lensky had the feeling that a misfortune had
occurred--a misfortune which was his fault. He did not know what, and
could not measure the consequences of what had happened. Suddenly his
heart beat loudly and heavily. The sweat of anxiety stood on his brow.
Why had he not better governed himself?
But what wonder? He had never been able to govern himself; how should
he learn it as an old man?