"Now I will go back to that hall again," said Albert to himself. "Petrof must have many things still to tell me."
There seemed to be no one now in the hall; and in the place of the artist Petrof, Albert himself stood on the platform, and was playing on his violin all that the voice had said before.
But his violin was of strange make: it was composed of nothing but gla.s.s, and he had to hold it with both hands, and slowly rub it on his breast to make it give out sounds. The sounds were so sweet and delicious, that Albert felt he had never before heard any thing like them. The more tightly he pressed the violin to his breast, the more sweet and consoling they became. The louder the sounds, the more swiftly the shadows vanished, and the more brilliantly the walls of the hall were illuminated. But it was necessary to play very cautiously on the violin, lest it should break.
Albert played on the instrument of gla.s.s cautiously and well. He played things the like of which he felt no one would ever hear again.
He was growing tired, when a heavy distant sound began to annoy him. It was the sound of a bell, but this sound seemed to have a language.
"Yes," said the bell, with its notes coming from somewhere far off and high up, "yes, he seems to you wretched; you despise him, but he is better and happier than you. No one ever will play more on that instrument!"
These words which he understood seemed suddenly so wise, so novel, and so true, to Albert, that he stopped playing, and, while trying not to move, lifted his eyes and his arms toward heaven. He felt that he was beautiful and happy. Although no one was in the hall, Albert expanded his chest, and proudly lifted his head, and stood on the platform so that all might see him.
Suddenly some one"s hand was gently laid on his shoulder; he turned around, and in the half light saw a woman. She looked pityingly at him, and shook her head. He immediately became conscious that what he was doing was wrong, and a sense of shame came over him.
"Where shall I go?" he asked her. Once more she gazed long and fixedly at him, and bent her head pityingly. She was the one, the very one whom he loved, and her dress was the same; on her round white neck was the pearl necklace, and her lovely arms were bare above the elbows.
She took him in her arms, and bore him away through the hall. At the entrance of the hall, Albert saw the moon and water. But the water was not below as is usually the case, and the moon was not above; there was a white circle in one place as sometimes happens. The moon and the water were together,--everywhere, above and below, and on all sides and around them both. Albert and his love darted off toward the moon and the water, and he now realized that she whom he loved more than all in the world was in his arms: he embraced her, and felt inexpressible felicity.
"Is not this a dream?" he asked himself. But no, it was the reality, it was more than reality: it was reality and recollection combined.
Then he felt that the indescribable pleasure which he had felt during the last moment was gone, and would never be renewed.
"Why am I weeping?" he asked of her. She looked at him in silence, with pitying eyes. Albert understood what she desired to say in reply. "Just as when I was alive," he went on to say. She, without replying, looked straight forward.
"This is terrible! How can I explain to her that I _am_ alive?" he asked himself in horror. "My G.o.d, I am alive! Do understand me," he whispered.
"He is better and happier," said a voice.
But something kept oppressing Albert ever more powerfully. Whether it was the moon or the water, or her embrace or his tears, he could not tell, but he was conscious that he could not say all that it was his duty to say, and that all would be quickly over.
Two guests coming out from Anna Ivanovna"s rooms stumbled against Albert lying on the threshold. One of them went back to Anna Ivanovna, and called her. "That was heartless," he said. "You might let a man freeze to death that way."
"_Akh!_ why, that is my Albert. See where he was lying!" exclaimed the hostess. "Annushka, have him brought into the room; find a place for him somewhere," she added, addressing the maid.
"Oh! I am alive, why do you bury me?" muttered Albert, as they brought him unconscious into the room.
TWO HUSSARS.
_A TALE._
1856.
Jomini, ay, Jomini, But not a single word of vodka.[56]
D. DAVUIDOF.
At the very beginning of this century, when there were no railways, no macadamized roads, no gas or stearine candles, no low and springy sofas, no unvarnished furniture, no disillusionized young men with eye-gla.s.ses, no women philosophers of liberal tendencies, no dear Camilles, such as our time has produced in abundance; in those nave days when travellers made the journey from Moscow to Petersburg by stage or carriage, and took with them a whole kitchen of domestic preparations, and travelled for a week, night and day, over soft roads, muddy or dusty as the case might be, pinned their faith to Pozharsky cutlets, Valda bluebells, and pretzels; when during the long autumn evenings tallow candles burned till they had to be snuffed, and cast their rays on family circles of twenty or thirty people (at b.a.l.l.s, wax or spermaceti candles were set up in candelabra); when furniture was placed with stiff precision; when our fathers were still young, not merely by the absence of wrinkles and gray hair, but fought duels for women, and were fain to rush from one end of a room to the other to pick up a handkerchief dropped accidentally or otherwise, and our mothers wore short waists and huge sleeves, and decided family affairs by the drawing of lots; when charming Camilles avoided the light of day; in the nave period of Masonic lodges, of Martinists, and of the _Tugendbund_; at the time of the Miloradovitches, Davuidofs, and Pushkins,--a meeting of landed proprietors took place in the governmental city of K., and the election of the college of n.o.bles was drawing to a close.
[Footnote 56: From the poem ent.i.tled, "The Song of an Old Hussar," in which a veteran contrasts the mighty days of the past with the dilettanti present. Denis Vasilyevitch Davuidof, who was an officer of hussars, died in 1839.--TR.]
I.
"Well, all right, it"s all the same, be it in the hall," said a young officer dressed in a shuba, and wearing a hussar"s helmet, as he dismounted from a travelling sledge in front of the best hotel of the city of K.
"A great meeting, little father, your excellency,--a tremendous crowd,"
said the hall-boy, who had already learned from the officer"s man that it was Count Turbin, and therefore honored him with the address of "your excellency." "Madame Afrimova and her daughters have expressed the intention of going away this evening; you can be accommodated with their room as soon as it is vacated,--No. 11," the hall-boy went on to say, noiselessly showing the count the way, and constantly turning round to look at him.
In the sitting-room, at a small table under a blackened full-length portrait of the Emperor Alexander, sat a number of men, evidently belonging to the local aristocracy, drinking champagne; and on one side were some travelling merchants in blue shubas.
The count entered the room, and calling Blucher, a huge gray boarhound that accompanied him, he threw off his cloak, the collar of which was covered with frost, and, after ordering vodka, sat down at the table in a short blue-satin jacket, and entered into conversation with the gentlemen sitting there. The latter, attracted toward the new-comer by his handsome and frank exterior, offered him a gla.s.s of champagne.
The count had begun to drink his gla.s.s of vodka; but now he also ordered a bottle of champagne, in order to return the courtesy of his new companions.
The driver came in to ask for vodka-money.
"Sashka,"[57] cried the count, "give it to him."
[Footnote 57: Diminished diminutive of Aleksandr.]
The driver went out with Sashka, but quickly returned, holding the money in his hands.
"What! little father, "slency, is that right? I did my best for you. You promised me a half-ruble, and you have only given me a quarter!"
"Sashka, give him a ruble."
Sashka, hanging down his head, gazed at the driver"s feet.
"He will have enough," said he in his deep voice. "Besides, I haven"t any more money."
The count drew from his pocket-book the two solitary blue notes[58] which were in it, and gave one to the driver, who kissed his hand, and went off.
"I have come to the end," said the count, "my last five rubles."
[Footnote 58: Blue notes were five rubles.]
"True hussar style, count," said one of the n.o.bles, whose mustaches, voice, and a certain energetic freedom in the use of his legs, proclaimed him, beyond a peradventure, to be a retired cavalryman. "Are you going to spend some time here, count?"
"I must have some money if I stay, otherwise I should not be very likely to. Besides, there are no spare rooms, the Devil take it, in this cursed tavern."
"I beg of you, count," pursued the cavalryman, "wouldn"t you like to come in with me? My room is No. 7. If you wouldn"t object to sleep there for the present. We shall be here three days at least. To-day I was at the marshal"s: how glad he would be to see you!"
"That"s right, count, stay with us," urged another of the table companions, a handsome young man. "What is your hurry? And besides, this happens only once in three years,--these elections. We might get a glimpse of some of our girls, count!"