V.

"You don't mean to say that you've gone to bed at this time," said Albert

with a smile. "I was there again, at Anna Ivánovna's. I spent a very

pleasant evening. We had music, told stories; there was a very pleasant

company there. Please let me have a glass of something to drink," he added,

seizing a carafe of water that stood on the table, "only not water."

Albert was just as he had been the night before,--the same lovely smiling

eyes and lips, the same fresh inspired brow, and weak features. Zakhár's

overcoat fitted him as though it had been made for him, and the clean,

tall, stiffly-starched collar of the dress-shirt picturesquely fitted

around his delicate white neck, giving him a peculiarly childlike and

innocent appearance.

He sat down on Delesof's bed, smiling with pleasure and gratitude, and

looked at him without speaking. Delesof gazed into Albert's eyes, and

suddenly felt himself once under the sway of that smile. All desire for

sleep vanished from him, he forgot his resolution to be stern: on the

contrary, he felt like having a gay time, to hear some music, and to talk

confidentially with Albert till morning. Delesof bade Zakhár bring a bottle

of wine, cigarettes, and the violin.

"This is excellent," said Albert. "It's early yet, we'll have a little

music. I will play whatever you like."

Zakhár, with evident satisfaction, brought a bottle of Lafitte, two

glasses, some mild cigarettes such as Albert smoked, and the violin. But,

instead of going off to bed as his bárin bade him, he lighted a cigar, and

sat down in the next room.

"Let us talk instead," said Delesof to the musician, who was beginning to

tune the violin.

Albert sat down submissively on the bed, and smiled pleasantly.

"Oh, yes!" said he, suddenly striking his forehead with his hand, and

putting on an expression of anxious curiosity. The expression of his face

always foretold what he was going to say. "I wanted to ask you,"--he

hesitated a little,--"that gentleman who was there with you last

evening.... You called him N. Was he the son of the celebrated N.?"

"His own son," replied Delesof, not understanding at all what Albert could

find of interest in him.

"Indeed!" he exclaimed, smiling with satisfaction. "I instantly noticed

that there was something peculiarly aristocratic in his manners. I love

aristocrats. There is something splendid and elegant about an aristocrat.

And that officer who danced so beautifully," he went on to ask. "He also

pleased me very much, he was so gay and noble looking. It seems he is

called Adjutant N. N."

"Who?" asked Delesof.

"The one who ran into me when we were dancing. He must be a splendid man."

"No, he is a silly fellow," replied Delesof.

"Oh, no! it can't be," rejoined Albert hotly. "There's something very, very

pleasant about him. And he's a fine musician," added Albert. "He played

something from an opera. It's a long time since I have seen any one who

pleased me so much."

"Yes, he plays very well; but I don't like his playing," said Delesof,

anxious to bring his companion to talk about music. "He does not understand

classic music, but only Donizetti and Bellini; and that's no music, you

know. You agree with me, don't you?"

"Oh, no, no! Pardon me," replied Albert with a gentle expression of

vindication. "The old music is music; but modern music is music too. And in

the modern music there are extraordinarily beautiful things. Now,

'Somnambula,' and the _finale_ of 'Lucia,' and Chopin, and 'Robert'! I

often think,"--he hesitated, apparently collecting his thoughts,--"that if

Beethoven were alive, he would weep tears of joy to hear 'Somnambula.' It's

so beautiful all through. I heard 'Somnambula' first when Viardot and

Rubini were here. That was something worth while," he said, with shining

eyes, and making a gesture with both hands, as though he were casting

something from his breast. "I'd give a good deal, but it would be

impossible, to bring it back."

"Well, but how do you like the opera nowadays?" asked Delesof.

"Bosio is good, very good," was his reply, "exquisite beyond words; but she

does not touch me here," he said, pointing to his sunken chest. "A singer

must have passion, and she hasn't any. She is enjoyable, but she doesn't

torture you."

"Well, how about Lablache?"

"I heard him in Paris, in 'The Barber of Seville.' Then he was the only

one, but now he is old. He can't be an artist, he is old."

"Well, supposing he is old, still he is fine in _morceaux d'ensemble_,"

said Delesof, still speaking of Lablache.

"Who said that he was old?" said Albert severely. "He can't be old. The

artist can never be old. Much is needed in an artist, but fire most of

all," he declared with glistening eyes, and raising both hands in the air.

And, indeed, a terrible inner fire seemed to glow throughout his whole

frame. "Ah, my God!" he exclaimed suddenly. "You don't know Petrof, do

you,--Petrof, the artist?"

"No, I don't know him," replied Delesof with a smile.

"How I wish that you and he might become acquainted! You would enjoy

talking with him. How he does understand art! He and I often used to meet

at Anna Ivánovna's, but now she is vexed with him for some reason or other.

But I really wish that you might make his acquaintance. He has great, great

talent."

"Oh! Does he paint pictures?" asked Delesof.

"I don't know. No, I think not; but he was an artist of the Academy. What

thoughts he had! Whenever he talks, it is wonderful. Oh, Petrof has great

talent, only he leads a very gay life!... It's too bad," said Albert with a

smile. The next moment he got up from the bed, took the violin, and began

to play.

"Have you been at the opera lately?" asked Delesof.

Albert looked round, and sighed.

"Ah, I have not been able to!" he said, clutching his head. Again he sat

down by Delesof. "I will tell you," he went on to say, almost in a whisper.

"I can't go: I can't play there. I have nothing, nothing at all,--no

clothes, no home, no violin. It's a wretched life,--a wretched life!" he

repeated the phrase. "Yes, and why have I got into such a state? Why,

indeed? It ought not to have been," said he, smiling. "_Akh! Don Juan._"

And he struck his head.

"Now let us have something to eat," said Delesof.

Albert, without replying, sprang up, seized the violin, and began to play

the _finale_ of the first act of "Don Juan," accompanying it with a

description of the scene in the opera.

Delesof felt the hair stand up on his head, when he played the voice of the

dying commander.

"No, I cannot play to-night," said Albert, laying down the instrument. "I

have been drinking too much." But immediately after he went to the table,

poured out a brimming glass of wine, drank it at one gulp, and again sat

down on the bed near Delesof.

Delesof looked steadily at Albert. The latter occasionally smiled, and

Delesof returned his smile. Neither of them spoke, but the glance and smile

brought them close together into a reciprocity of affection. Delesof felt

that he was growing constantly fonder and fonder of this man, and he

experienced an inexpressible pleasure.

"Were you ever in love?" he asked suddenly. Albert remained sunk in thought

for a few seconds, then his face lighted up with a melancholy smile. He

bent over toward Delesof, and gazed straight into his eyes.

"Why did you ask me that question?" he whispered. "But I will tell you all

about it. I like you," he added, after a few moments of thought, and

glancing around. "I will not deceive you, I will tell you all, just as it

was, from the beginning." He paused, and his eyes took on a strange wild

appearance. "You know that I am weak in judgment," he said suddenly. "Yes,

yes," he continued. "Anna Ivánovna has told you about it. She tells

everybody that I am crazy. It isn't true, she says it for a joke; she is a

good woman, but I really have not been quite well for some time." Albert

paused again, and stood up, gazing with wide-opened eyes at the dark door.

"You asked me if I had ever been in love. Yes, I have been in love," he

whispered, raising his brows. "That happened long ago; it was at a time

when I still had a place at the theatre. I went to play second violin at

the opera, and she came into a parquet box at the left."

Albert stood up, and bent over to Delesof's ear. "But no," said he, "why

should I mention her name? You probably know her, everybody knows her. I

said nothing, but simply looked at her: I knew that I was a poor artist,

and she an aristocratic lady. I knew that very well. I only looked at her,

and had no thoughts."

Albert paused for a moment, as though making sure of his recollections.

"How it happened I know not, but I was invited once to accompany her on my

violin.... Now I was only a poor artist!" he repeated, shaking his head and

smiling. "But no, I cannot tell you, I cannot!" he exclaimed, again

clutching his head. "How happy I was!"

"What? did you go to her house often?" asked Delesof.

"Once, only once.... But it was my own fault; I wasn't in my right mind. I

was a poor artist, and she an aristocratic lady. I ought not to have spoken

to her. But I lost my senses, I committed a folly. Petrof told me the

truth: 'It would have been better only to have seen her at the theatre.'"

"What did you do?" asked Delesof.

"Ah! wait, wait, I cannot tell you that."

And, hiding his face in his hands, he said nothing for some time.

"I was late at the orchestra. Petrof and I had been drinking that evening,

and I was excited. She was sitting in her box, and talking with some

general. I don't know who that general was. She was sitting at the very

edge of the box, with her arm resting on the rim. She wore a white dress,

with pearls on her neck. She was talking with him, but she looked at me.

Twice she looked at me. She had arranged her hair in such a becoming way! I

stopped playing, and stood near the bass, and gazed at her. Then, for the

first time, something strange took place in me. She smiled on the general,

but she looked at me. I felt certain that she was talking about me; and

suddenly I seemed to be not in my place in the orchestra, but was standing

in her box, and seizing her hand in that place. What was the meaning of

that?" asked Albert, after a moment's silence.

"A powerful imagination," said Delesof.

"No, no, ... I cannot tell," said Albert frowning. "Even then I was poor. I

hadn't any room; and when I went to the theatre, I sometimes used to sleep

there."

"What, in the theatre?" asked Delesof.

"Ah! I am not afraid of these stupid things. Ah! just wait a moment. As

soon as everybody was gone, I went to that box where she had been sitting,

and slept there. That was my only pleasure. How many nights I spent there!

Only once again did I have that experience. At night many things seemed to

come to me. But I cannot tell you much about them." Albert contracted his

brows, and looked at Delesof. "What did it mean?" he asked.

"It was strange," replied the other.

"No, wait, wait!" he bent over to his ear, and said in a whisper,--

"I kissed her hand, wept there before her, and said many things to her. I

heard the fragrance of her sighs, I heard her voice. She said many things

to me that one night. Then I took my violin, and began to play softly. And

I played beautifully. But it became terrible to me. I am not afraid of such

stupid things, and I don't believe in them, but my head felt terribly," he

said, smiling sweetly, and moving his hand over his forehead. "It seemed

terrible to me on account of my poor mind; something happened in my head.

Maybe it was nothing; what do you think?"

Neither spoke for several minutes.

_"Und wenn die Wolken sie verhüllen,

Die Sonne bleibt doch ewig klar._[54]"

hummed Albert, smiling gently. "That is true, isn't it?" he asked.

_"Ich auch habe gelebt und genossen."_[55]

[Footnote 54:

E'en though the clouds may veil it,

The sun shines ever clear.

]

[Footnote 55: