The hosts were in the little drawing-room, and all the guests had
likewise assembled there; the only missing members were Peter and
Evelyn. Maxim was conversing with his old comrade, and the young men sat
in silence beside the open windows. One could not fail to observe the
strangely quiet yet expectant air that brooded over this little circle,
as if each one had a premonition of an impending crisis. Although Maxim
never interrupted his conversation, he kept all the while throwing swift,
impatient glances toward the door. Pani Popèlska was trying to play the
amiable and devoted hostess, but her face bore a sad and almost guilty
look. Pan Popèlski alone, who had grown a good deal stouter, but had lost
none of his amiability, sat quietly dozing in his chair, waiting for
supper.
All eyes turned in that direction when footsteps were heard on the
terrace which led from the garden into the drawing-room. Within the
broad, dusky doorway appeared the figure of Evelyn with the blind youth
slowly mounting the steps behind her. The young girl, although conscious
that every eye rested upon her, was not in the least embarrassed.
Crossing the room with her usual composure, she smiled slightly as she
met the glance that Maxim darted at her from beneath his brows, and her
own eyes flashed back defiance. Maxim grew suddenly abstracted, and
replied at random when a question was directly addressed to him. Pani
Popèlska watched her son.
The young man followed the maiden, giving no apparent heed to the
direction in which she was leading him. When his slender form and pale
face appeared against the background of the doorway, he seemed to pause
on the threshold of that room so brightly lighted and filled with guests;
but after a moment’s hesitation he crossed it with the air of one both
absent-minded and intensely absorbed, went up to the piano, and opened it.
For the moment Peter seemed utterly unconscious of his surroundings,
forgetful of the presence of strangers, and instinctively longing for
his favorite instrument as a vent whereby to express the emotions that
were filling his bosom. Having raised the piano-lid, with his fingers
resting lightly on the keys he struck a few rapid chords. It was as if
he were putting a question, half to the instrument and half to his own
soul. Then with his hands still resting on the keys, he remained plunged
in deep thought, while utter silence reigned in the little drawing-room.
The night looked in through the dusky windows, and here and there
clusters of green leaves shining in the lamplight peered curiously
in from the garden. The guests, their attention aroused by these few
whispering chords, and influenced more or less by the strange inspiration
that seemed to radiate from the face of the blind youth, sat in silent
expectation.
But Peter remained as before, his eyes uplifted as if he were listening.
Mingled emotions chased one another like billows through his heart. He
had been uplifted by the tide of a new life,—even as a boat, after a long
and peaceful rest upon the sandy shore, is suddenly tossed upward by the
waves. Question, surprise, and unwonted excitement filled his mind. The
blind eyes dilating, alternately sparkled and grew dim. For a moment one
might imagine that he had not found within his soul the response for
which he so eagerly listened; but all at once, with the same eager face,
as though he could no longer wait, he started, touched the keys, and
upborne by new waves of emotion surrendered himself to the tide that
swept onward in full, resonant, and tumultuous chords. They gave voice to
the countless memories of his past life which had thronged upon him, as
with drooping head he sat there listening. The multitudinous voices of
Nature, the moaning of the wind, the whispering of the forest, the ripple
of the river, and that indefinite murmur which is lost in the remote
distance could be heard, intermingling, forming a sort of background for
the deep and inscrutable agitation that swells the heart and leaps up in
the soul at the bidding of Nature’s mysterious whisper,—a feeling not
easily defined. Sadness?—why then is it so sweet? Joy?—then why is it so
profoundly, so inexplicably sad?
All this was evoked by the blind musician’s fingers, in low soft tones,
at first hesitating and vague. His imagination strove as it were to
gain control over this flood of chaotic images, and without success.
Those powerful and depressing influences of an impetuous and passionate
nature, confused and vague though they were, had taken full possession
of the musician, but were as yet wholly beyond his control. From time to
time the sounds grew in volume and power. One felt that the player must
presently combine them into a melodious and perfect flood of harmony,
and his audience listened in breathless expectation, Maxim wondering all
the while as to the cause of the unusual depth of feeling displayed.
But before the flood had time to rise to its full height, it suddenly
subsided into a plaintive murmur, like a wave breaking into foam and
spray; and again nothing was heard but the sad lingering notes, that rang
like questions in the air.
The blind man paused for a moment, but the silence in the drawing-room
remained uninterrupted, save by the rustling noise of the leaves in the
garden. The fascination which had transported his listeners far beyond
these walls suddenly vanished, and until the musician again struck the
keys of the instrument they realized that they were seated in a small
room, with the dark night peering in at the windows. Again the sounds
rose and fell as if vainly seeking after the unknown. Charming folk-songs
were interwoven with the vague harmony of the chords,—songs telling
of love and sorrow, or reminiscences of the glories and sufferings of
bygone days, or the eager impetuosity of youth and hope,—the blind man
thus striving to express his feelings by embodying them in forms already
familiar to his imagination. But the song too ended with the same minor
note,—like an unanswered question echoing through the silence of the
little drawing-room.
Then for the third time Peter began to play a piece which he had once
learned by heart,—and again broke off.
Possibly he had hoped to find the musical genius of the composer in
sympathy with his mood.