[Illustration]
A large number of persons had assembled in Kiev during the period of the
Contracts to hear the musical improviser. He was blind; but marvellous
reports had been circulated in regard to his musical talent. Therefore
the Contract hall was crowded; and a lame old gentleman, a relative
of the artist, had taken charge of the proceeds,—all which were to be
devoted to some charitable object, unknown to the public.
Complete silence reigned in the hall when a young man, with a pale face
and beautiful large eyes, appeared on the platform. No one would have
suspected his blindness, save for the rigid expression of his eyes, and
the fact that he was led by a fair-haired young woman, who was said to be
his wife.
“No wonder he produces such a striking impression,” remarked a young man
to his neighbor; “he has an unusually dramatic countenance.”
Indeed, the blind man’s pale face, with that thoughtful set look in the
eyes, no less than his entire person, impressed the beholder as something
quite remarkable; and his playing confirmed that impression.
A southern Russian audience generally loves and appreciates its national
airs; and in this instance even the mixed audience that assembled at
the Contracts was at once carried away by the burning torrent of melody
which they heard. The marvellous improvisation evoked by the fingers
of the blind musician revealed his keen appreciation of the Nature so
familiar to them all, as well as a rare intimacy with the secret springs
of national melody. Rich in coloring, graceful and melodious, it gushed
forth like a rippling stream,—rising, now into a song of triumph, then
again lapsing into a plaintive and sympathetic murmur. At times it was
as if a storm were thundering in the sky, echoing through space; and the
next moment the music changed to the whistling of the wind through the
grass over the mounds of the wild steppes, reviving vague dreams of the
past.
When the player ceased, the deafening applause of the delighted audience
filled the great hall. The blind man sat with drooping head, listening
in surprise to those unfamiliar sounds. But when he raised his hands and
again struck the keys, silence fell at once upon the vast hall.
At this moment Maxim entered. He gazed attentively at this crowd, which
controlled by one emotion sat with burning, eager eyes riveted upon
the blind man. As the old man listened, he dreaded lest this powerful
improvisation, now flowing so freely from the musician’s soul, might
suddenly end, as it used of old, in a distressing and unsatisfied
question,—thus opening a fresh wound in the heart of his blind pupil.
But the sounds increased in volume and power, growing more and more
imperious, as they touched the hearts of the sympathetic and expectant
audience. And the longer Maxim listened, the stronger grew his assurance
that he recognized something familiar in the blind man’s playing. Yes,
it was that noisy street. A clear, resonant, and buoyant wave rolls
dashing along, sparkling and breaking up into a thousand sounds. Now it
rises and swells, now it recedes with a faint, remote, but continuous
murmur,—always calm, picturesquely impassive, cold and indifferent.
Suddenly Maxim’s heart sank within him. Again came the well-known
wail from the pressure of the musician’s fingers. It escaped, echoed
through space, and was lost in the air. But it was no longer the moan of
individual sorrow, the utterance of a blind man’s egotistical suffering.
Tears sprang into the old man’s eyes, and tears stood also in those of
his neighbors, while above the picturesque, impassioned tumult of the
street rose the intensely woful heart-rending note of lamentation. Maxim
recognized in it the pathetic song of the blind,—“Give to the blind!—for
Christ’s sake!” It fell like a stroke of lightning on the heads of the
assembled multitude, and every heart throbbed in unison with the expiring
wail.
For some time after the music ceased, the audience, seized with horror at
the awful realities of life, sat silent and motionless.
The old veteran bowed his head. “Yes, he sees at last. A perception
of the woes of the world has taken the place of his former blind,
unquenchable, selfish suffering. He feels, he sees; and his hands are
endowed with a mighty power.”
The old soldier bent his head lower and lower. His task was accomplished;
his life had not been in vain. Those full powerful tones, as they echoed
through the hall, taking possession of the audience, bore witness to this
truth.
* * * * *
This was the _début_ of the blind musician.
[Illustration: THE END]