Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 1

by Leo Tolstoy

  He got up and leaned over to Delésov’s ear.

  ‘No, why should I name her?’ he said. ‘You no doubt know her – everybody knows her. I kept silent and only looked at her; I knew I was a poor artist, and she an aristocratic lady. I knew that very well. I only looked at her and planned nothing …’

  Albert reflected, trying to remember.

  ‘How it happened I don’t remember; but I was once called in to accompany her on the violin.… But what was I, a poor artist?’ he said, shaking his head and smiling. ‘But no, I can’t tell it …’ he added, clutching his head. ‘How happy I was!’

  ‘Yes? And did you often go to her house?’ Delésov asked.

  ‘Once! Once only … but it was my own fault. I was mad! I was a poor artist, and she an aristocratic lady. I ought not to have said anything to her. But I went mad and acted like a fool. Since then all has been over for me. Petróv told the truth, that it would have been better for me to have seen her only at the theatre …’

  ‘What was it you did?’ asked Delésov.

  ‘Ah, wait! Wait! I can’t speak of that!’

  With his face hidden in his hands he remained silent for some time.

  ‘I came late to the orchestra. Petróv and I had been drinking that evening, and I was distracted. She was sitting in her box talking to a general. I don’t know who that general was. She sat at the very edge of the box, with her arm on the ledge; she had on a white dress and pearls round her neck. She talked to him and looked at me. She looked at me twice. Her hair was done like this. I was not playing, but stood near the basses and looked at her. Then for the first time I felt strange. She smiled at the general and looked at me. I felt she was speaking about me, and I suddenly saw that I was not in the orchestra, but in the box beside her and holding her arm, just there.… How was that?’ Albert asked after a short silence.

  ‘That was vivid imagination,’ said Delésov.

  ‘No, no! … but I don’t know how to tell it,’ Albert replied, frowning. ‘Even then I was poor and had no lodging, and when I went to the theatre I sometimes stayed the night there.’

  ‘What, at the theatre? In that dark, empty place?’

  ‘Oh, I am not afraid of such nonsense. Wait a bit.… When they had all gone away I would go to the box where she had been sitting and sleep there. That was my one delight. What nights I spent there! But once it began again. Many things appeared to me in the night, but I can’t tell you much.’ Albert glanced at Delésov with downcast eyes. ‘What was it?’ he asked.

  ‘It is strange!’ said Delésov.

  ‘No, wait, wait!’ he continued, whispering in Delésov’s ear. ‘I kissed her hand, wept there beside her, and talked much with her. I inhaled the scent of her perfume and heard her voice. She told me much in one night. Then I took my violin and played softly; and I played splendidly. But I felt frightened. I am not afraid of those foolish things and don’t believe in them, but I was afraid for my head,’ he said, touching his forehead with an amiable smile. ‘I was frightened for my poor wits. It seemed to me that something had happened to my head. Perhaps it’s nothing. What do you think?’

  Both were silent for some minutes.

  ‘Und wenn die Wolken sie verhüllen

  Die Sonne bleibt doch ewig klar.’ 9

  Albert sang with a soft smile. ‘Is not that so?’ he added.

  ‘Ich auch habe gelebt und genossen …’10

  ‘Ah, how well old Petróv would have explained it all to you!’

  Delésov looked silently and in terror at the pale and agitated face of his companion.

  ‘Do you know the “Juristen-Waltzer”?’ Albert suddenly exclaimed, and without awaiting an answer he jumped up, seized the violin, and began to play the merry waltz tune, forgetting himself completely, and evidently imagining that a whole orchestra was playing with him. He smiled, swayed, shifted his feet, and played superbly.

  ‘Eh! Enough of merrymaking!’ he said when he had finished, and nourished the violin.

  ‘I am going,’ he said, after sitting silently for awhile – ‘won’t you come with me?’

  ‘Where to?’ Delésov asked in surprise.

  ‘Let’s go to Anna Ivánovna’s again. It’s gay there – noise, people, music!’

  At first Delésov almost consented, but bethinking himself he tried to persuade Albert not to go that night.

  ‘Only for a moment.’

  ‘No really, you’d better not!’

  Albert sighed and put down the violin.

  ‘So I must stay here?’

  And looking again at the table (there was no wine left) he said good-night and left the room.

  Delésov rang.

  ‘See that you don’t let Mr Albert go anywhere without my permission,’ he said to Zakhár.

  VI

  THE next day was a holiday. Delésov was already awake and sitting in his drawing-room drinking coffee and reading a book. Albert had not yet stirred in the next room.

  Zakhár cautiously opened the door and looked into the dining-room.

  ‘Would you believe it, sir? He is asleep on the bare sofa! He wouldn’t have anything spread on it, really. Like a little child. Truly, an artist.’

  Towards noon groaning and coughing were heard through the door.

  Zakhár again went into the dining-room, and Delésov could hear his kindly voice and Albert’s weak, entreating one.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, when Zakhár returned.

  ‘He’s fretting, sir, won’t wash, and seems gloomy. He keeps asking for a drink.’

  ‘No. Having taken this matter up I must show character,’ said Delésov to himself.

  He ordered that no wine should be given to Albert and resumed his book, but involuntarily listened to what was going on in the dining-room. There was no sound of movement there and an occasional deep cough and spitting was all that could be heard. Two hours passed. Having dressed, Delésov decided to look in at his visitor before going out. Albert was sitting motionless at the window, his head resting on his hand. He looked round. His face was yellow, wrinkled, and not merely sad but profoundly miserable. He tried to smile by way of greeting, but his face took on a still more sorrowful expression. He seemed ready to cry. He rose with difficulty and bowed.

  ‘If I might just have a glass of simple vodka!’ he said with a look of entreaty. ‘I am so weak – please!’

  ‘Coffee will do you more good. Have some of that instead.’

  Albert’s face suddenly lost its childlike expression; he looked coldly, dim-eyed, out of the window, and sank feebly onto his chair.

  ‘Or would you like some lunch?’

  ‘No thank you, I have no appetite.’

  ‘If you wish to play the violin you will not disturb me,’ said Delésov, laying the violin on the table.

  Albert looked at the violin with a contemptuous smile.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am too weak, I can’t play,’ and he pushed the instrument away from him.

  After that, whatever Delésov might say, offering to go for a walk with him, and to the theatre in the evening, he only bowed humbly and remained stubbornly silent. Delésov went out, paid several calls, dined with friends, and before going to the theatre returned home to change and to see what the musician was doing. Albert was sitting in the dark hall, leaning his head in his hands and looking at the heated stove. He was neatly dressed, washed, and his hair was brushed; but his eyes were dim and lifeless, and his whole figure expressed weakness and exhaustion even more than in the morning.

  ‘Have you dined, Mr Albert?’ asked Delésov.

  Albert made an affirmative gesture with his head and, after a frightened look at Delésov, lowered his eyes. Delésov felt uncomfortable.

  ‘I spoke to the director of the theatre about you to-day,’ he said, also lowering his eyes. ‘He will be very glad to receive you if you will let him hear you.’

  ‘Thank you, I cannot play!’ muttered Albert under his breath, and went into his room, shutting the door behind him ve
ry softly.

  A few minutes later the door-knob was turned just as gently, and he came out of the room with the violin. With a rapid and hostile glance at Delésov he placed the violin on a chair and disappeared again.

  Delésov shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

  ‘What more am I to do? In what am I to blame?’ he thought.

  ‘Well, how is the musician?’ was his first question when he returned home late that evening.

  ‘Bad!’ said Zakhár, briefly and clearly. ‘He has been sighing and coughing and says nothing, except that he started begging for vodka four or five times. At last I gave him one glass – or else we might finish him off, sir. Just like the clerk …’

  ‘Has he not played the violin?’

  ‘Didn’t even touch it. I took it to him a couple of times, but he just took it up gently and brought it out again,’ Zakhár answered with a smile. ‘So your orders are not to give him any drink?’

  ‘No, we’ll wait another day and see what happens. And what’s he doing now?’

  ‘He has locked himself up in the drawing-room.’

  Delésov went into his study and chose several French books and a German Bible. ‘Put these books in his room to-morrow, and see that you don’t let him out,’ he said to Zakhár.

  Next morning Zakhár informed his master that the musician had not slept all night: he had paced up and down the rooms, and had been into the pantry, trying to open the cupboard and the door, but he (Zakhár) had taken care to lock everything up. He said that while he pretended to be asleep he had heard Albert in the dark muttering something to himself and waving his arms about.

  Albert grew gloomier and more taciturn every day. He seemed to be afraid of Delésov, and when their eyes met his face expressed sickly fear. He did not touch the books or the violin, and did not reply to questions put to him.

  On the third day of the musician’s stay Delésov returned home late, tired and upset. He had been driving about all day attending to a matter that had promised to be very simple and easy but, as often happens, in spite of strenuous efforts he had been quite unable to advance a single step with it. Besides that he had called in at his club and had lost at whist. He was in bad spirits.

  ‘Well, let him go his way!’ he said to Zakhár, who told him of Albert’s sad plight. ‘To-morrow I’ll get a definite answer out of him, whether he wants to stay here and follow my advice, or not. If not, he needn’t! It seems to me that I have done all I could.’

  ‘There now, try doing good to people!’ he thought to himself. ‘I put myself out for him, I keep that dirty creature in my house, so that I can’t receive a visitor in the morning. I bustle and run about, and he looks on me as if I were a villain who for his own pleasure has locked him up in a cage. And above all, he won’t take a single step to help himself. They are all like that.’ (The ‘they’ referred to people in general, and especially to those with whom he had had business that day.) ‘And what is the matter with him now? What is he thinking about and pining for? Pining for the debauchery from which I have dragged him? For the humiliation in which he was? For the destitution from which I have saved him? Evidently he has fallen so low that it hurts him to see a decent life …

  ‘No, it was a childish act,’ Delésov concluded. ‘How can I improve others, when God knows whether I can manage myself?’ He thought of letting Albert go at once, but after a little reflection put it off till the next day.

  During the night he was roused by the sound of a table falling in the hall, and the sound of voices and footsteps. He lighted a candle and listened in surprise.

  ‘Wait a bit. I’ll tell my master,’ Zakhár was saying; Albert’s voice muttered something incoherently and heatedly. Delésov jumped up and ran into the hall with the candle. Zakhár stood against the front door in his night attire, and Albert, with his hat and cloak on, was pushing him aside and shouting in a tearful voice:

  ‘You can’t keep me here! I have a passport,11 and have taken nothing of yours. You may search me. I shall go to the chief of police!…’

  ‘Excuse me, sir!’ Zakhár said, addressing his master while continuing to guard the door with his back. ‘He got up during the night, found the key in my overcoat pocket, and drank a whole decanter of liqueur vodka. Is that right? And now he wants to go away. You ordered me not to let him out, so I dare not let him go.’

  On seeing Delésov Albert made for Zakhár still more excitedly.

  ‘No one dare hold me! No one has a right to!’ he shouted, raising his voice more and more.

  ‘Step aside, Zakhár!’ said Delésov. ‘I can’t and don’t want to keep you, but I advise you to stay till the morning,’ he said to Albert.

  ‘No one can keep me! I’ll go to the chief of police!’ Albert cried louder and louder, addressing himself to Zakhár alone and not looking at Delésov. ‘Help!’ he suddenly screamed in a furious voice.

  ‘What are you screaming like that for? Nobody is keeping you!’ said Zakhár, opening the door.

  Albert stopped shouting. ‘You didn’t succeed, did you? Wanted to do for me – did you!’ he muttered to himself, putting on his goloshes. Without taking leave, and continuing to mutter incoherently, he went out. Zakhár held a light for him as far as the gate, and then came back.

  ‘Well, God be thanked, sir!’ he said to his master. ‘Who knows what might happen? As it is I must count the silver plate …’

  Delésov merely shook his head and did not reply. He vividly recalled the first two evenings he had spent with the musician, and recalled the last sad days which by his fault Albert had spent there, and above all he recalled that sweet, mixed feeling of surprise, affection and pity, which that strange man had aroused in him at first sight, and he felt sorry for him. ‘And what will become of him now?’ he thought. ‘Without money, without warm clothing, alone in the middle of the night …’ He was about to send Zakhár after him, but it was too late.

  ‘Is it cold outside?’ he inquired.

  ‘A hard frost, sir,’ replied Zakhár. ‘I forgot to inform you, but we shall have to buy more wood for fuel before the spring.’

  ‘How is that? You said that we should have some left over.’

  VII

  IT was indeed cold outside, but Albert, heated by the liquor he had drunk and by the dispute, did not feel it. On reaching the street he looked round and rubbed his hands joyfully. The street was empty, but the long row of lamps still burned with ruddy light; the sky was clear and starry. ‘There now!’ he said, addressing the lighted window of Delésov’s lodging, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets under his cape, and stooping forward. He went with heavy, uncertain steps down the street to the right. He felt an unusual weight in his legs and stomach, something made a noise in his head, and some invisible force was throwing him from side to side, but he still went on in the direction of Anna Ivánovna’s house. Strange, incoherent thoughts passed through his mind. Now he remembered his last altercation with Zakhár, then for some reason the sea and his first arrival in Russia by steamboat, then a happy night he had passed with a friend in a small shop he was passing, then suddenly a familiar motif began singing itself in his imagination, and he remembered the object of his passion and the dreadful night in the theatre. Despite their incoherence all these memories presented themselves so clearly to his mind that, closing his eyes, he did not know which was the more real: what he was doing, or what he was thinking. He did not realize or feel how his legs were moving, how he swayed and bumped against the wall, how he looked around him, or passed from street to street. He realized and felt only the things that, intermingling and fantastically following one another, rose in his imagination.

  Passing along the Little Morskáya Street, Albert stumbled and fell. Coming to his senses for a moment he saw an immense and splendid building before him and went on. In the sky no stars, nor moon, nor dawn, were visible, nor were there any street lamps, but everything was clearly outlined. In the windows of the building that towered at the end of the street lights
were shining, but those lights quivered like reflections. The building stood out nearer and nearer and clearer and clearer before him. But the lights disappeared directly he entered the wide portals. All was dark within. Solitary footsteps resounded under the vaulted ceiling, and some shadows slid rapidly away as he approached. ‘Why have I come here?’ thought he; but some irresistible force drew him on into the depths of the immense hall. There was some kind of platform, around which some small people stood silently. ‘Who is going to speak?’ asked Albert. No one replied, except that someone pointed to the platform. A tall thin man with bristly hair and wearing a parti-coloured dressing-gown was already standing there, and Albert immediately recognized his friend Petróv. ‘How strange that he should be here!’ thought he. ‘No, brothers!’ Petróv was saying, pointing to someone. ‘You did not understand a man living among you; you have not understood him! He is not a mercenary artist, not a mechanical performer, not a lunatic or a lost man. He is a genius – a great musical genius who has perished among you unnoticed and unappreciated!’ Albert at once understood of whom his friend was speaking, but not wishing to embarrass him he modestly lowered his head.

  ‘The holy fire that we all serve has consumed him like a blade of straw!’ the voice went on, ‘but he has fulfilled all that God implanted in him and should therefore be called a great man. You could despise, torment, humiliate him,’ the voice continued, growing louder and louder – ‘but he was, is, and will be, immeasurably higher than you all. He is happy, he is kind. He loves or despises all alike, but serves only that which was implanted in him from above. He loves but one thing – beauty, the one indubitable blessing in the world. Yes, such is the man! Fall prostrate before him, all of you! On your knees!’ he cried aloud.