‘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 muttered 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.’