The next morning when Delesof was awakened to go to his office, he saw,
with an unpleasant feeling of surprise, his old screen, his old servant,
and his clock on the table.
"What did I expect to see if not the usual objects that surround me?" he
asked himself.
Then he recollected the musician's black eyes and happy smile; the motive
of the _Melancholie_ and all the strange experiences of the night came back
into his consciousness. It was never his way, however, to reconsider
whether he had done wisely or foolishly in taking the musician home with
him. After he had dressed, he carefully laid out his plans for the day: he
took some paper, wrote out some necessary directions for the house, and
hastily put on his cloak and galoshes.
As he went by the dining-room he glanced in at the door. Albert, with his
face buried in the pillow and lying at full length in his dirty, tattered
shirt, was buried in the profoundest slumber on the saffron sofa, where in
absolute unconsciousness he had been laid the night before.
Delesof felt that something was not right: it disturbed him. "Please go for
me to Boriuzovsky, and borrow his violin for a day or two," said he to his
man; "and when he wakes up, bring him some coffee, and get him some clean
linen and some old suit or other of mine. Fix him up as well as you can,
please."
When he returned home in the afternoon, Delesof, to his surprise, found
that Albert was not there.
"Where is he?" he asked of his man.
"He went out immediately after dinner," replied the servant. "He took the
violin, and went out, saying that he would be back again in an hour; but
since that time we have not seen him."
"Ta, ta! how provoking!" said Delesof. "Why did you let him go, Zakhár?"
Zakhár was a Petersburg lackey, who had been in Delesof's service for eight
years. Delesof, as a single young bachelor, could not help intrusting him
with his plans; and he liked to get his judgment in regard to each of his
undertakings.
"How should I have ventured to detain him?" replied Zakhár, playing with
his watch-charms. "If you had intimated, Dmitri Ivánovitch, that you wished
me to keep him here, I might have kept him at home. But you only spoke of
his wardrobe."
"Ta! how vexatious! Well, what has he been doing while I was out?"
Zakhár smiled.
"Indeed, he's a real artist, as you may say, Dmitri Ivánovitch. As soon as
he woke up he asked for some madeira: then he began to keep the cook and me
pretty busy. Such an absurd.... However, he's a very interesting character.
I brought him some tea, got some dinner ready for him; but he would not eat
alone, so he asked me to sit down with him. But when he began to play on
the fiddle, then I knew that you would not find many such artists at
Izler's. One might well keep such a man. When he played 'Down the Little
Mother Volga' for us, why, it was enough to make a man weep. It was too
good for any thing! The people from all the floors came down into our
entry to listen."
"Well, did you give him some clothes?" asked the bárin.
"Certainly I did: I gave him your dress-shirt, and I put on him an overcoat
of mine. You want to help such a man as that, he's a fine fellow." Zakhár
smiled. "He asked me what rank you were, and if you had had important
acquaintances, and how many _souls_ of peasantry you had."
"Very good: but now we must send and find him; and henceforth don't give
him any thing to drink, otherwise you'll do him more harm than good."
"That is true," said Zakhár in assent. "He doesn't seem in very robust
health: we used to have an overseer who, like him"....
Delesof, who had already long ago heard the story of the drunken overseer,
did not give Zakhár time to finish, but bade him make every thing ready for
the night, and then go out and bring the musician back.
He threw himself down on his bed, and put out the candle; but it was long
before he fell asleep, for thinking about Albert.
"This may seem strange to some of my friends," said Delesof to himself,
"but how seldom it is that I can do any thing for any one beside myself!
and I ought to thank God for a chance when one presents itself. I will not
send him away. I will do every thing, at least every thing that I can, to
help him. Maybe he is not absolutely crazy, but only inclined to get drunk.
It certainly will not cost me very much. Where one is, there is always
enough to satisfy two. Let him live with me a while, and then we will find
him a place, or get him up a concert; we'll help him off the shoals, and
then there will be time enough to see what will come of it." An agreeable
sense of self-satisfaction came over him after making this resolution.
"Certainly I am not a bad man: I might say I am far from being a bad man,"
he thought. "I might go so far as to say that I am a good man, when I
compare myself with others."
He was just dropping off to sleep when the sound of opening doors, and
steps in the ante-room, roused him again. "Well, shall I treat him rather
severely?" he asked himself; "I suppose that is best, and I ought to do
it."
He rang.
"Well, did you find him?" he asked of Zakhár, who answered his call.
"He's a poor, wretched fellow, Dmitri Ivánovitch," said Zakhár, shaking his
head significantly, and closing his eyes.
"What! is he drunk?"
"Very weak."
"Had he the violin with him?"
"I brought it: the lady gave it to me."
"All right. Now please don't bring him to me to-night: let him sleep it
off; and to-morrow don't under any circumstances let him out of the house."
But before Zakhár had time to leave the room, Albert came in.