by Leo Tolstoy
III
SOMETHING strange occurred with everyone present and something strange was felt in the dead silence that followed Albert’s playing. It was as if each would have liked to express what all this meant, but was unable to do so. What did it mean – this bright hot room, brilliant women, the dawn in the windows, excitement in the blood, and the pure impression left by sounds that had flowed past? But no one even tried to say what it all meant: on the contrary everyone, unable to dwell in those regions which the new impression had revealed to them, rebelled against it.
‘He really plays well, you know!’ said the officer.
‘Wonderfully!’ replied Delésov, stealthily wiping his cheek with his sleeve.
‘However, it’s time for us to be going,’ said the man who was lying on the sofa, having somewhat recovered. ‘We must give him something. Let’s make a collection.’
Meanwhile Albert sat alone on a sofa in the next room. Leaning his elbows on his bony knees he stroked his face and ruffled his hair with his moist and dirty hands, smiling happily to himself.
They made a good collection, which Delésov offered to hand to Albert.
Moreover it had occurred to Delésov, on whom the music had made an unusual and powerful impression, to be of use to this man. It occurred to him to take him home, dress him, get him a place somewhere, and in general rescue him from his sordid condition.
‘Well, are you tired?’ he asked, coming up to him.
Albert smiled.
‘You have real talent. You ought to study music seriously and give public performances.’
‘I’d like to have something to drink,’ said Albert, as if just awake.
Delésov brought some wine, and the musician eagerly drank two glasses.
‘What excellent wine!’ he said.
‘What a delightful thing that Mélancolie is!’ said Delésov.
‘Oh, yes, yes!’ replied Albert with a smile – ‘but excuse me: I don’t know with whom I have the honour of speaking, maybe you are a count, or a prince: could you, perhaps, lend me a little money?’ He paused a little. ‘I have nothing … I am a poor man. I couldn’t pay it back.’
Delésov flushed: he felt awkward, and hastily handed the musician the money that had been collected.
‘Thank you very much!’ said Albert, seizing the money. ‘Now let’s have some music. I’ll play for you as much as you like – only let me have a drink of something, a drink …’ he added, rising.
Delésov brought him some more wine and asked him to sit beside him.
‘Excuse me if I am frank with you,’ he said, ‘your talent interests me so much. It seems to me you are not in good circumstances.’
Albert looked now at Delésov and now at his hostess who had entered the room.
‘Allow me to offer you my services,’ continued Delésov. ‘If you are in need of anything I should be glad if you would stay with me for a time. I am living alone and could perhaps be of use to you.’
Albert smiled and made no reply.
‘Why don’t you thank him?’ said the hostess. ‘Of course it is a godsend for you. Only I should not advise you to,’ she continued, turning to Delésov and shaking her head disapprovingly.
‘I am very grateful to you!’ said Albert, pressing Delésov’s hand with his own moist ones – ‘Only let us have some music now, please.’
But the other visitors were preparing to leave, and despite Albert’s endeavours to persuade them to stay they went out into the hall.
Albert took leave of the hostess, put on his shabby broad-brimmed hat and old summer cloak, which was his only winter clothing, and went out into the porch with Delésov.
When Delésov had seated himself with his new acquaintance in his carriage, and became aware of the unpleasant odour of drunkenness and uncleanness which emanated so strongly from the musician, he began to repent of his action and blamed himself for childish soft-heartedness and imprudence. Besides, everything Albeit said was so stupid and trivial, and the fresh air suddenly made him so disgustingly drunk that Delésov was repelled. ‘What am I to do with him?’ he thought.
When they had driven for a quarter of an hour Albert grew silent, his hat fell down at his feet, and he himself tumbled into a corner of the carriage and began to snore. The wheels continued to creak monotonously over the frozen snow; the feeble light of dawn hardly penetrated the frozen windows.
Delésov turned and looked at his companion. The long body covered by the cloak lay lifelessly beside him. The long head with its big black nose seemed to sway on that body, but looking closer Delésov saw that what he had taken for nose and face was hair, and that the real face hung lower. He stooped and was able to distinguish Albert’s features. Then the beauty of the forehead and calmly closed lips struck him again.
Under the influence of tired nerves, restlessness from lack of sleep at that hour of the morning, and of the music he had heard, Delésov, looking at that face, let himself again be carried back to the blissful world into which he had glanced that night; he again recalled the happy and magnanimous days of his youth and no longer repented of what he had done. At that moment he was sincerely and warmly attached to Albert, and firmly resolved to be of use to him.
IV
NEXT morning when he was awakened to go to his office, Delésov with a feeling of unpleasant surprise saw around him his old screen, his old valet, and his watch lying on the small side-table. ‘But what did I expect to see if not what is always around me?’ he asked himself. Then he remembered the musician’s black eyes and happy smile, the motif of Mélancolie, and all the strange experiences of the previous night passed through his mind.
He had no time however to consider whether he had acted well or badly by taking the musician into his house. While dressing he mapped out the day, took his papers, gave the necessary household orders, and hurriedly put on his overcoat and overshoes. Passing the dining-room door he looked in. Albert, after tossing about, had sunk his face in the pillow, and lay in his dirty ragged shirt, dead asleep on the leather sofa where he had been deposited unconscious the night before. ‘There’s something wrong!’ thought Delésov involuntarily.
‘Please go to Boryuzóvski and ask him to lend me a violin for a couple of days,’ he said to his manservant. ‘When he wakes up, give him coffee and let him have some underclothing and old clothes of mine. In general, make him comfortable – please!’
On returning late in the evening Delésov was surprised not to find Albert.
‘Where is he?’ he asked his man.
‘He went away immediately after dinner,’ replied the servant. ‘He took the violin and went away. He promised to be back in an hour, but he’s not here yet.’
‘Tut, tut! How provoking!’ muttered Delésov. ‘Why did you let him go, Zakhár?’
Zakhár was a Petersburg valet who had been in Delésov’s service for eight years. Delésov, being a lonely bachelor, could not help confiding his intentions to him, and liked to know his opinion about all his undertakings.
‘How could I dare not to let him?’ Zakhár replied, toying with the fob of his watch. ‘If you had told me to keep him in I might have amused him at home. But you only spoke to me about clothes.’
‘Pshaw! How provoking! Well, and what was he doing here without me?’
Zakhár smiled.
‘One can well call him an “artist”,1 sir. As soon as he woke he asked for Madeira, and then he amused himself with the cook and with the neighbour’s manservant. He is so funny. However, he is good-natured. I gave him tea and brought him dinner. He would not eat anything himself, but kept inviting me to do so. But when it comes to playing the violin, even Izler has few artists like him. One may well befriend such a man. When he played Down the Little Mother Volga to us it was as if a man were weeping. It was too beautiful. Even the servants from all the flats came to our back-entrance to hear him.’
‘Well, and did you get him dressed?’ his master interrupted him.
‘Of course. I gave him
a nightshirt of yours and put my own paletot on him. A man like that is worth helping – he really is a dear fellow!’ Zakhár smiled.
‘He kept asking me what your rank is, whether you have influential acquaintances, and how many serfs you own.’
‘Well, all right, but now he must be found, and in future don’t let him have anything to drink, or it’ll be worse for him.’
‘That’s true,’ Zakhár interjected. ‘He is evidently feeble; our old master had a clerk like that …’
But Delésov, who had long known the story of the clerk who took hopelessly to drink, did not let Zakhár finish, and telling him to get everything ready for the night, sent him out to find Albert and bring him back.
He then went to bed and put out the light, but could not fall asleep for a long time, thinking about Albert. ‘Though it may seem strange to many of my acquaintances,’ he thought, ‘yet one so seldom does anything for others that one ought to thank God when such an opportunity presents itself, and I will not miss it. I will do anything – positively anything in my power – to help him. He may not be mad at all, but only under the influence of drink. It won’t cost me very much. Where there’s enough for one there’s enough for two. Let him live with me a while, then we’ll find him a place or arrange a concert for him and pull him out of the shallows, and then see what happens.’
He experienced a pleasant feeling of self-satisfaction after this reflection.
‘Really I’m not altogether a bad fellow,’ he thought. ‘Not at all bad even – when I compare myself with others.’
He was already falling asleep when the sound of opening doors and of footsteps in the hall roused him.
‘Well, I’ll be stricter with him,’ he thought, ‘that will be best; and I must do it.’
He rang.
‘Have you brought him back?’ he asked when Zakhár entered.
‘A pitiable man, sir,’ said Zakhár, shaking his head significantly and closing his eyes.
‘Is he drunk?’
‘He is very weak.’
‘And has he the violin?’
‘I’ve brought it back. The lady gave it me.’
‘Well, please don’t let him in here now. Put him to bed, and to-morrow be sure not to let him leave the house on any account.’
But before Zakhár was out of the room Albert entered it.
V
‘DO you want to sleep already?’ asked Albert with a smile. ‘And I have been at Anna Ivánovna’s and had a very pleasant evening. We had music, and laughed, and there was delightful company. Let me have a glass of something,’ he added, taking hold of a water-bottle that stood on a little table, ‘— but not water.’
Albert was just the same as he had been the previous evening: the same beautiful smile in his eyes and on his lips, the same bright inspired forehead, and the same feeble limbs. Zakhár’s paletot fitted him well, and the clean wide unstarched collar of the nightshirt encircled his thin white neck picturesquely, giving him a particularly childlike and innocent look. He sat down on Delésov’s bed and looked at him silently with a happy and grateful smile. Delésov looked into his eyes, and again suddenly felt himself captivated by that smile. He no longer wanted to sleep, he forgot that it was his duty to be stern: on the contrary he wished to make merry, to hear music, and to chat amicably with Albert till morning. He told Zakhár to bring a bottle of wine, some cigarettes, and the violin.
‘There, that’s splendid!’ said Albert. ‘It’s still early, and we’ll have some music. I’ll play for you as much as you like.’
Zakhár, with evident pleasure, brought a bottle of Lafitte, two tumblers, some mild cigarettes such as Albert smoked, and the violin. But instead of going to bed as his master told him to, he himself lit a cigar and sat down in the adjoining room.
‘Let us have a talk,’ said Delésov to the musician, who was about to take up the violin.
Albert submissively sat down on the bed and again smiled joyfully.
‘Oh yes!’ said he, suddenly striking his forehead with his hand and assuming an anxiously inquisitive expression. (A change of expression always preceded anything he was about to say.) – ‘Allow me to ask —’ he made a slight pause – ‘that gentleman who was there with you last night – you called him N—, isn’t he the son of the celebrated N—?’
‘His own son,’ Delésov answered, not at all understanding how that could interest Albert.
‘Exactly!’ said Albert with a self-satisfied smile. ‘I noticed at once something particularly aristocratic in his manner. I love aristocrats: there is something particularly beautiful and elegant in an aristocrat. And that officer who dances so well?’ he asked. ‘I liked him very much too: he is so merry and so fine. Isn’t he Adjutant N. N.?’
‘Which one?’ asked Delésov.
‘The one who bumped against me when we were dancing. He must be an excellent fellow.’
‘No, he’s a shallow fellow,’ Delésov replied.
‘Oh, no!’ Albert warmly defended him. ‘There is something very, very pleasant about him. He is a capital musician,’ he added. ‘He played something there out of an opera. It’s a long time since I took such a liking to anyone.’
‘Yes, he plays well, but I don’t like his playing,’ said Delésov, wishing to get his companion to talk about music. ‘He does not understand classical music – Donizetti and Bellini, you know, are not music. You think so too, no doubt?’
‘Oh, no, no, excuse me!’ began Albert with a gentle, pleading look. ‘The old music is music, and the new music is music. There are extraordinary beauties in the new music too. Sonnambula,2 and the finale of Lucia,3 and Chopin, and Robert!4 I often think —’ he paused, evidently collecting his thoughts – ‘that if Beethoven were alive he would weep with joy listening to Sonnambula. There is beauty everywhere. I heard Sonnambula for the first time when Viardot5 and Rubini6 were here. It was like this …’ he said, and his eyes glistened as he made a gesture with both arms as though tearing something out of his breast. ‘A little more and it would have been impossible to bear it.’
‘And what do you think of the opera at the present time?’ asked Delésov.
‘Bosio7 is good, very good,’ he said, ‘extraordinarily exquisite, but she does not touch one here,’ – pointing to his sunken chest. ‘A singer needs passion, and she has none. She gives pleasure but does not torment.’
‘How about Lablache?’8
‘I heard him in Paris in the Barbier de Séville. He was unique then, but now he is old: he cannot be an artist, he is old.’
‘Well, what if he is old? He is still good in morceaux d’ensemble,’ said Delésov, who was in the habit of saying that of Lablache.
‘How “what if he is old?” ’ rejoined Albert severely. ‘He should not be old. An artist should not be old. Much is needed for art, but above all, fire!’ said he with glittering eyes and stretching both arms upwards.
And a terrible inner fire really seemed to burn in his whole body.
‘O my God!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘Don’t you know Petróv, the artist?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Delésov replied, smiling.
‘How I should like you to make his acquaintance! You would enjoy talks with him. How well he understands art, too! I used often to meet him at Anna Ivánovna’s, but now she is angry with him for some reason. I should very much like you to know him. He has great talent, great talent!’
‘Does he paint now?’ Delésov asked.
‘I don’t know, I think not, but he was an Academy artist. What ideas he has! It’s wonderful when he talks sometimes. Oh, Petróv has great talent, only he leads a very gay life … that’s a pity,’ Albert added with a smile. After that he got off the bed, took the violin, and began tuning it.
‘Is it long since you were at the opera?’ Delésov asked.
Albert looked round and sighed.
‘Ah, I can’t go there any more!’ he said. ‘I will tell you!’ And clutching his head he again sat down beside Delésov and muttere
d almost in a whisper: ‘I can’t go there. I can’t play there – I have nothing – nothing! No clothes, no home, no violin. It is a miserable life! A miserable life!’ he repeated several times. ‘And why should I go there? What for? No need!’ he said, smiling. ‘Ah! Don Juan …’
He struck his head with his hand.
‘Then let us go there together sometime,’ said Delésov.
Without answering, Albert jumped up, seized the violin, and began playing the finale of the first act of Don Juan, telling the story of the opera in his own words.
Delésov felt the hair stir on his head as Albert played the voice of the dying commandant.
‘No!’ said Albert, putting down the violin. ‘I cannot play today. I have had too much to drink.’
But after that he went up to the table, filled a tumbler with wine, drank it at a gulp, and again sat down on Delésov’s bed.
Delésov looked at Albert, not taking his eyes off him. Occasionally Albert smiled, and so did Delésov. They were both silent; but their looks and smiles created more and more affectionate relations between them. Delésov felt himself growing fonder of the man, and experienced an incomprehensible joy.
‘Have you ever been in love?’ he suddenly asked.
Albert thought for a few seconds, and then a sad smile lit up his face. He leaned over to Delésov and looked attentively in his eyes.
‘Why have you asked me that?’ he whispered. ‘I will tell you everything, because I like you,’ he continued, after looking at him for awhile and then glancing round. ‘I won’t deceive you, but will tell you everything from the beginning, just as it happened.’ He stopped, his eyes wild and strangely fixed. ‘You know that my mind is weak,’ he suddenly said. ‘Yes, yes,’ he went on. ‘Anna Ivánovna is sure to have told you. She tells everybody that I am mad! That is not true; she says it as a joke, she is a kindly woman, and I have really not been quite well for some time.’ He stopped again and gazed with fixed wide-open eyes at the dark doorway. ‘You asked whether I have been in love?… Yes, I have been in love,’ he whispered, lifting his brows. ‘It happened long ago, when I still had my job in the theatre. I used to play second violin at the Opera, and she used to have the lower-tier box next the stage, on the left.’