Boris Lensky.

by Ossip Schubin.

"He had many faults, but one greatest of all faults he had not, that of quackery--

"With all his faults he was a man, fiery real from the great fire bosom of nature herself."--Carlyle.

I.

"Whoever wishes to know how great is the power which the charm of music can exercise over humanity must visit one of Boris Lensky's concerts.

"Boris Lensky! The name in itself has a legendary sound--a magic fascination surrounds the man and his violin. For every one who has attended one of his concerts, the longing, listening expression on the faces of the women who hear him is something which remains forever interwoven in remembrance with the complaining sweetness of his art.

The best and n.o.blest of women, when they listen to his wonderful violin, fall into a feverish trance which makes them lose all power over themselves.

"In Russia they call Boris Lensky the devil's violinist, and in explanation of the G.o.dless charm which glows in his art, the following neat little tale is told:

"Almost fifty years ago, crept through the poorest quarter of Moscow a neglected, ugly child, who, in order to earn his scanty food, sc.r.a.ped his violin as best he might, and sometimes received a copeck, but never a caress. This child was Boris Lensky. His heart languished for tenderness, like that of all repulsed ones. Then the devil met him, and allured him with splendid temptations. He would lay the whole world at his feet, if the boy would give him his soul for his own in exchange.

But the boy felt a terror at this h.e.l.lish slavery and said: 'No.' Then the devil at first went his way, and gnashed his teeth that he had not succeeded in capturing a human soul. But suddenly he turned back and called to the boy: 'I desire nothing of you; keep your soul; but you shall accept a present from me--a gift. In your art shall dwell a charm which no one can resist.'

"Then the boy was astonished at the devil's generosity, and accepted the gift. But the devil rejoiced, for he said to himself: 'If I have lost one soul, I have taken ten thousand others for it.' But the violinist soon noticed what a curse had fallen to his share.

"Denying all n.o.bility, and still feeling a horror of the degrading power within him, he now goes through the world, restless, joyless, and without power over his own demoniac art--a resisting tool in the devil's hand. And he longs despairingly to find a being who could resist the fiendish charm, but he finds none.

"Thus the Russian tale.

"Now Lensky has grown old and gray in the service of the devil. His friends with fright notice in him the evermore plainly noticeable signs of physical decay. In his art he stands greater than ever, and from his violin sounds out to the public a wild, triumphing, and despairing swan song!"

This somewhat exaggerated production an old lady read aloud with declamatory emphasis, in whom at the first glance one perceived the Englishwoman and the spinster. She sits in a pretty, charming room, furnished with all kinds of rarities, by the hearth, and refreshes herself by turns with the newspaper and with tea.

It is in Paris.

The newspaper in which the old Englishwoman revels is _Figaro_, and the windows of the pretty little room look out on the Parc Monceau.

Already dressed to go out, a second, much younger lady in the same room busies herself in hastily, and to all appearance disapprovingly, looking through a just-opened package of books.

Somewhat vexed that her reading has called forth no remark from her listener, the old Englishwoman now says:

"Well, what do you say to this legend?"

"What shall I say?" replies the young lady, without looking up from the package of books, with blameless English accent, but in a decidedly un-English deep, soft voice--"that the French write much nonsense, if it is to raise the price of concert tickets."

"Nita!" said the Englishwoman, angrily; "you surely will not a.s.sert that this article is a common advertis.e.m.e.nt?"

"Certainly I a.s.sert it, Miss Wilmot," is the calm answer. "I am firmly convinced that Lensky's impressario has had the article printed."

"Well, I say, Nita, a strange change has taken place in you!" says Miss Wilmot, astonished and discontented, while she at the same time let her wrinkled hands sink down on her cinnamon-colored dress. "But, advertis.e.m.e.nt or not, Nita, Lensky's results speak for themselves. The Parisians run like mad to his concerts; recently there was such a crowd before the doors of the Salle Erard that the police had to interfere!"

"Bah!" replied she addressed as Nita. "Reliable musicians have told me that Lensky has gone very far back in his art. The animation with which the French do him homage is only a new proof of their immoderate worship of all that is Russian. This tasteless idolatry makes me furious. Then, see here!" And Nita, for the first time in the course of the above conversation, turned her face to the old lady, while at the same time she drew a number of yellow books out from the package which she had been busy glancing over. Piling these up on each other, she said: "Three, five, seven books, translated from the Russian and mere trash, not a sensible line in the whole! What does that matter? The mere circ.u.mstance that 'from the Russian' stands upon it a.s.sures the worst Galimathias in Paris a publisher and a circle of readers. It is odious."

"Well, Nita, it seems to me that you least of all have the right to wonder over any Russian worship," remarks the old Englishwoman phlegmatically. "You yourself, in my recollection, have accomplished considerable in this respect."

"Who has not some youthful folly to reproach one's self for?" said Nita, shrugging her shoulders. "Fortunately, only in politics is one sentenced to never perceive one's errors. I also once had a violent pa.s.sion for Russia leather, and I have gotten over that. Nothing in the world is now more unbearable than too much Russia leather, especially in a small room."

"A strange change has taken place in you, Nita," repeated the Englishwoman, who, as if petrified with astonishment, sat there motionless in the position of an a.s.syrian G.o.ddess, still with a hand on each knee. "You not only raved over the Russians, you raved over Boris Lensky; and how you raved!"

A dark blush rose in Nita's pale cheeks; at the same time her eyes darkened. "Good-by, Miss Wilmot," said she, without replying anything to the remarks of the old lady, and turned to the door.

"Will you not take a cup of tea before you go, Nita?" the Englishwoman calls after her.

"No, Miss Wilmot; I must hurry a great deal without that in order to reach the studio before twilight. I have promised Sonia to come; so once more adieu; and I beg of you, send all this plunder"--pointing to the books---"back to Calman Levy, and send him word he need no longer disturb me with his Russian stories." With that Nita vanished.

"A strange change, a very strange change," says Miss Wilmot to herself, while she still stares with the same abashed, astonished expression at the door which has just closed behind her young friend. Then she wishes to again take up _Figaro_ in order to translate the article on the devil's violinist into German, for which language she has for twenty years had a love. In vain--the paper is nowhere to be found.

II.

Nita von Sankjewitch is a young Austrian who lives perfectly independent on her income in Paris. Miss Wilmot, her former governess, now serves as chaperon in her little home.

If Miss Wilmot can be described in brief as an English old maid who reminds one of David's Marie Antoinette on the poor sinner's car, it would, on the contrary, have been quite difficult to give in as few words a half-way significant and life-like description of Nita.

Her figure, tall and slender, with very delicate limbs and long, slender hands and feet, has in carriage and movements something of the harsh, so to say, repellant charm with which the Greeks loved to characterize their Diana statues. Her abundant hair, which is cut straight across her forehead and gathered up in a heavy knot on her neck, is of a light-brown color with reddish lights; her face, long but prettily rounded, is pale, with regular features, finely arched little nose, and full, somewhat arrogantly curved little mouth.

But the most remarkable in her face, the most remarkable in her whole appearance, are the eyes--large, brilliant gray eyes with greenish and bluish lights in them, eyes which suddenly darken, and then become strangely and unfathomably deep, as if she had tasted all the bitterness of creation, and in the next moment look out upon the world again as challengingly bright and cold as if they did not believe there could be a heart-ache that could not be overcome by a gay jest.

In her family Nita was called the "melancholy scamp." Her age was difficult to decide. Just as her nature completely lacked that unrestrained, youthful exuberance, so her face, in spite of the ivory smoothness of the skin, was without all freshness. From her manner she might be forty.

She is the daughter of a born Countess Barenburg and a Baron Sankjewitch, who obtained the Theresien cross and the t.i.tle of Freiherr on the battlefield. Both parents are dead. On her father's side she has no relatives; with her mother's numerous relatives she stands on the best footing, without letting herself be much influenced by them. "It would be very uncomfortable to me to be obliged to be as distinguished as the clan Barenburg," she used frequently to say, and preferred to say it to the face of the clan Barenburg. The clan Barenburg shook its head sadly at that, and regretted her peculiarities, without losing its respect, or even its sympathy, for her. The sharpest judgment which the family had ever p.r.o.nounced upon her was: "Nita is an original."

Even the sun has spots, the most charming being has her unlovely peculiarities--Nita von Sankjewitch is an artist! She has her independent studio in the rear of a building in a little court adorned with a pleasure ground, in the Avenue Frochot. Since some months she has shared it with a friend, a young Russian, of whom she is very fond.

Nita's studio has two doors: one which leads directly out on the little court, and one which connects Nita's own sanctum with the great painting school of which Monsieur Sylvain is at the head. She has the key of her art nest in her pocket. Before she has yet had time to put it in the key-hole, the door is opened from within. A pretty, blonde young girl comes to meet her, and embraces her as if they had been separated for two years. It is Sonia--_i.e_., Sophia Dimitrievna Kasin.

"Do I come too late?" asks Nita. "Has Monsieur Sylvain already been?"

"No," replied Sophie, "we are about to give him up. Will you have tea?"

Nita laughs. "Tea, and yet again tea! At home Miss Wilmot has already pursued me with offers of tea; that comes of it if one lives between an Englishwoman and a Russian. Well, give me a cup of your nectar, Sonia.

I am a little out of tune to-day; perhaps it will do me good."

"You must wait a moment; if is not yet ready," replies Sonia, and bends listening over the copper tea-kettle, which stands on a little table delicately set with all kinds of tea things.