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                                   Albert

                           by Leo Tolstoy (1858)

                   Translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude

                     Distributed by The Tolstoy Library

                 http://users.aol.com/Tolstoy28/tolstoy.htm

                                     I

Five wealthy young men had come, after two in the morning, to amuse
themselves at a small Petersburg party.

Much champagne had been drunk, most of the men were very young, the girls
were pretty, the piano and violin indefatigably played one polka after
another, and dancing and noise went on unceasingly: yet for some reason it
was dull and awkward, and, as often happens, everybody felt that it was all
unnecessary and was not the thing.

Several times they tried to get things going, but forced merriment was
worse even than boredom.

One of the five young men, more dissatisfied than the others with himself,
with the others, and with the whole evening, rose with a feeling of
disgust, found his had, and went out quietly, intending to go home.

There was no one in the ante-room, but in the adjoining room he heard two
voices disputing. The young man stopped to listen.

"You can't, there are guests there," said a woman's voice.

"Let me in, please. I'm all right!" a man's weak voice entreated.

"No, I won't let you in without Madame's permission," said the woman.
"Where are you going? Ah! What a man you are!"

The door burst open and a strange figure of a man appeared on the
threshold. The servant on seeing a visitor no longer protested, and the
strange figure, bowing timidly, entered the room, swaying on his bent legs.
He was of medium height, with a narrow, stooping back, and long tangled
hair. He wore a short overcoat, and narrow torn trousers over a pair of
rough uncleaned boots. A necktie, twisted into a cord, was fastened round
his long white neck. A dirty shirt showed from under his coat and hung over
his thin hands. Yet despite the extreme emaciation of his body, his face
was white and delicate, and freshness and colour played on his cheeks above
his scanty black beard and whiskers. His unkempt hair, thrown back,
revealed a rather low and extremely clear forehead. His dark languid eyes
looked softly, imploringly, and yet with dignity, before him. Their
expression corresponded alluringly with that of the fresh lips, curved at
the corners, which showed from under his thin moustache.

Having advanced a few steps he stopped, turned to the young man, and
smiled. He seemed to smile with difficulty, but when the smile lit up his
face the young man - without knowing why - smiled too.

"Who is that?" he whispered to the servant, when the strange figure had
passed into the room from which came the sounds of a dance.

"A crazy musician from the theatre," replied the maid. "He comes sometimes
to see the mistress."

"Where have you been, Delesov?" someone just then called out, and the young
man, who was named Delesov, returned to the ballroom.

The musician was standing at the door and, looking at the dancers, showed
by his smile, his look, and the tapping of his foot, the satisfaction the
spectacle afforded him.

"Come in and dance yourself," said one of the visitors to him.

The musician bowed and looked inquiringly at the hostess.

"Go, go ... Why not, when the gentlemen ask you to?" she said.

The thin, weak limbs of the musician suddenly came into active motion, and
winking, smiling, and twitching, he began to prance awkwardly and heavily
about the room. In the middle of the quadrille a merry officer, who danced
very vivaciously and well, accidentally bumped into the musician with his
back. The latter's weak and weary legs did not maintain their balance and
after a few stumbling steps aside, he fell full length on the floor.
Notwithstanding the dull thud produced by his fall, at first nearly
everyone burst out laughing.

But the musician did not get up. The visitors grew silent and even the
piano ceased. Delesov and the hostess were the first to run up to the
fallen man. He was lying on his elbow, staring with dull eyes at the floor.
When they lifted him and seated him on a chair, he brushed the hair back
from his forehead with a quick movement of his bony hand and began to smile
without answering their questions.

"Mr. Albert! Mr. Albert!" said the hostess. "Have you hurt yourself? Where?
There now, I said you ought not to dance. He is so weak," she continued,
addressing her guests, " -- he can hardly walk. How could he dance?"

"Who is he?" they asked her.

"A poor man -- an artist. A very good fellow, but pitiable, as you see."

She said this unembarrassed by the presence of the musician. He suddenly
came to himself and, as if afraid of something, shrank into a heap and
pushed those around him away.

"It's all nothing!" he suddenly said, rising from his chair with an obvious
effort.

And to show that he was not at all hurt he went into the middle of the room
and tried to jump about, but staggered and would have fallen down again had
someone not supported him.

Everyone felt awkward, and looking at him they all became silent.

The musician's eyes again grew dim, and evidently oblivious of everyone he
began rubbing his knee with his hand. Suddenly he raised his head, advanced
a trembling leg, threw back his hair with the same heedless movement as
before, and going up to the violinist took his violin from him.

"It's nothing!" he said once more, flourishing the violin. "Gentlemen,
let's have some music!"

"What a strange person!" the visitors remarked to one another.

"Perhaps a fine talent is perishing in this unfortunate creature," said one
of the guests.

"Yes, he's pitiable, pitiable!" said a third.

"What a beautiful face! ... There is something extraordinary about him,"
said Delesov. "Let us see ... "

                                     II

Albert meanwhile, paying no attention to anyone, pressed the violin to his
shoulder and paced slowly up and down by the piano tuning it. His lips took
on an impassive expression, his eyes could not be seen, but his narrow bony
back, his long white neck, his crooked legs and shaggy black head,
presented a queer -- but for some reason not at all ridiculous --
spectacle. Having tuned the violin he briskly struck a chord, and throwing
back his head turned to the pianist who was preparing to accompany him.

"Melancolie G-dur!" he said, addressing the pianist with a gesture of
command.

Then, as if begging forgiveness for that gesture, he smiled meekly, and
glanced around at the audience with that same smile. Having pushed back his
hair with the hand in which he held the bow, he stopped at the corner of
the piano, and with a smooth and easy movement drew the bow across the
strings. A clear melodious sound was borne through the room and complete
silence ensued.

After that first note the theme flowed freely and elegantly, suddenly
illumining the inner world of every listener with an unexpectedly clear and
tranquillizing light. Not one false or exaggerated sound impaired the
acquiescence of the listeners: the notes were all clear, elegant, and
significant. Everyone silently followed their development with tremulous
expectation. From the state of dullness, noisy distraction and mental
torpor in which they had been, these people were suddenly and imperceptibly
carried into another quite different world that they had forgotten. Now a
calm contemplation of the past arose in their souls, now an impassioned
memory of some past happiness, now a boundless desire for power and
splendour, now a feeling of resignation, of unsatisfied love and sadness.
Sounds now tenderly sad, now vehemently despairing, mingled freely, flowing
and flowing one after the other so elegantly, so strongly, and so
unconsciously, that the sounds themselves were not noticed, but there
flowed of itself into the soul a beautiful torrent of poetry, long familiar
but only now expressed. At each note Albert grew taller and taller. He was
far from appearing misshapen or strange. Pressing the violin with his chin
and listening to his notes with an expression of passionate attention, he
convulsively moved his feet. Now he straightened himself to his full
height, now he strenuously bent his back. His left arm seemed to have
become set in the bent position to which he had strained it and only the
bony fingers moved convulsively: the right arm moved smoothly, elegantly,
and almost imperceptibly. His face shone with uninterrupted, ecstatic joy;
his eyes burnt with a bright, dry brilliance, his nostrils expanded, his
red lips opened with delight.

Sometimes his head bent closer to the violin, his eyes closed, and his
face, half covered by his hair, lit up with a smile of mild rapture.
Sometimes he drew himself up rapidly, advancing one foot, and his clear
brow and the beaming look he cast round the room gleamed with pride,
dignity, and a consciousness of power. Once the pianist blundered and
struck a wrong chord. Physical suffering was apparent in the whole face and
figure of the musician. He paused for an instant and stamping his foot with
an expression of childish anger, cried: "Moll, ce moll!" The Pianist
recovered himself. Albert closed his eyes, smiled, and again forgetting
himself, the others, and the whole world, gave himself up rapturously to
his task.

All who were in the room preserved a submissive silence while Albert was
playing, and seemed to live and breathe only in his music.

The merry officer sat motionless on a chair by a window, directing a
lifeless gaze upon the floor and breathing slowly and heavily. The girls
sat in complete silence along the walls, and only occasionally threw
approving and bewildered glances at one another. The hostess's fat smiling
face expanded with pleasure. The pianist riveted his eyes on Albert's face
and, with a fear of blundering which expressed itself in his whole taut
figure, tried to keep up with him. One of the visitors who had drunk more
than the others lay prone on the sofa, trying not to move for fear of
betraying his agitation. Delesov experienced an unaccustomed sensation. It
was as if a cold circle, now expanding, now contracting, held his head in a
vice. The roots of his hair became sensitive, cold shivers ran up his
spine, something rising higher and higher in his throat pricked his nose
and palate as if with fine needles, and tears involuntarily wetted his
cheeks. He shook himself, tried to restrain them and wipe them unperceived,
but others rose and ran down his cheeks. By some strange concatenation of
impressions the first sounds of Albert's violin carried Delesov back to his
early youth. Now no longer very young, tired of life and exhausted, he
suddenly felt himself a self-satisfied, good-looking, blissfully foolish
and unconsciously happy lad of seventeen. He remembered his first love -
for his cousin in a little pink dress; remembered his first declaration of
love made in a linden avenue; remembered the warmth and incomprehensible
delight of a spontaneous kiss, and the magic and undivined mystery of the
Nature that then surrounded him. In the memories that returned to him she
shone out amid a mist of vague hopes, uncomprehended desires, and
questioning faith in the possibility of impossible happiness. All the
unappreciated moments of that time arose before him one after another, not
as insignificant moments of a fleeting present, but as arrested, growing,
reproachful images of the past. He contemplated them with joy, and wept -
wept not because the time was past that he might have spent better (if he
had it again he would not have undertaken to employ it better), but merely
because it was past and would never return. Memories rose up of themselves,
and Albert's violin repeated again and again: "For you that time of vigour,
love, and happiness has passed for ever, and will not return. Weep for it,
shed all your tears, die weeping for that time -- that is the best
happiness left for you."

Towards the end of the last variation Albert's face grew red, his eyes
burnt and glowed, and large drops of perspiration ran down his cheeks. The
veins of his forehead swelled up, his whole body came more and more into
motion, his pale lips no longer closed, and his whole figure expressed
ecstatic eagerness for enjoyment.

Passionately swaying his whole body and tossing back his hair he lowered
the violin, and with a smile of proud dignity and happiness surveyed the
audience. Then his back sagged, his head hung down, his lips closed, his
eyes grew dim, and he timidly glanced round as if ashamed of himself, and
made his way stumblingly into the other room.

                                    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 Delesov, 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 Delesov offered to hand to Albert.

Moreover it had occurred to Delesov, 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 for 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.

Delesov brought some wine, and the musician eagerly drank two glasses.

"What excellent wine!" he said.

"What a delightful thing that Melancolie is!" said Delesov.

"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."

Delesov 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.

Delesov 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 Delesov and now at his hostess who had entered the
room.

"Allow me to offer you my services," continued Delesov. "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 Delesov
and shaking her head disapprovingly.

"I am very grateful to you!" said Albert, pressing Delesov'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 Delesov.

When Delesov 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 softheartedness and imprudence.
Besides, everything Albert said was so stupid and trivial, and the fresh
air suddenly made him so disgustingly drunk that Delesov 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.

Delesov 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 Delesov 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, Delesov, 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, Delesov 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
Melancolie, 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
Delesov involuntarily.

"Please go to Boryuzovski 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 Delesov 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 Delesov. "Why did you let him go,
Zakhar?"

Zakhar was a Petersburg valet who had been in Delesov's service for eight
years. Delesov, being a lonely bachelor, could not help confiding his
intentions to him, and liked to know his opinions about all his
undertakings.

"How could I dare not to let him?" Zakhar 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?"

Zakhar smiled.

"One can well call him an 'artist', sir. [Footnote: In addition to its
proper meaning, the word "artist" was used in Russian to denote a thief, or
a man dextrous at anything, good or bad.] 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 night-shirt of yours and put my own paletot on
him. A man like that is worth helping - he really is a dear fellow!" Zakhar
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," Zakhar interjected. "He is evidently feeble; our old master
had a clerk like that..."

But Delesov who had long known the story of the clerk who took hopelessly
to drink, did not let Zakhar 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 awhile, 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 bed 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 Zakhar entered.

"A pitiable man, sir," said Zakhar, 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 tomorrow be
sure not to let him leave the house on any account."

But before Zakhar 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 Ivanovna'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. Zakhar'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 Delesov's bed and looked at him silently with a happy and
grateful smile. Delesov 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
Zakhar 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."

Zakhar, 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 Delesov 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," Delesov 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 Delesov.

"The one who bumped against me when we were dancing. He must be an
excellent fellow."

"No, he's a shallow fellow," Delesov 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 Delesov, 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, and the finale of Lucia, and
Chopin, and Robert! [Footnote: Sonnambula, opera by Bellini, produced in
1831. Lucia di Lammermoor, opera by Donizetti, produced in 1835. Robert the
Devil, opera by Meyerbeer, produced in 1831; or possibly the allusion may
be to Roberto Devereux, by Donizetti.] I often think -- " he paused,
evidently collecting his thoughts -- "that if Beethoven were alive he would
weep with joy listening to Sonnambula for the first time when Viardot and
Rubini were here. [Footnote: Pauline Viardot-Garcia, the celebrated
operatic singer with whom Turgenev had a close friendship for many years.
Rubini, an Italian tenor who had great success in Russia in the 'forties of
the last century.] 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 Delesov.

"Bosio is good, very good," [Footnote: Angidina Bosio, an Italian singer,
who was in Petersburg in 1856-9.] 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?" [Footnote: Luigi Lablache. He was regarded as the
chief basso of modern times.]

"I heard him in Paris in the Barbier de Seville. 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
Delesov, 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 exclaims. "Don't you know Petrov, the artist?"

"No, I don't," Delesov 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
Ivanovna'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?" Delesov 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, Petrov 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?" Delesov 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 Delesov 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 Delesov.

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.

Delesov 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 Delesov's bed.

Delesov looked at Albert, not taking his eyes off him. Occasionally Albert
smiled, and so did Delesov. They were both silent; but their looks and
smiles created more and more affectionate relations between them. Delesov
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 Delusive 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 a while 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 Ivanovna 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."

He got up and leaned over to Delusive'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 head.
"How happy I was!"

"Yes? And did you often go to her house?" Delusive 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.
Petrov 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 Delusive.

"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. Petrov 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 Delusive.

"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 Delusive with downcast eyes. "What was it?" he asked.

"It is strange!" said Delusive.

"No, wait, wait!" he continued, whispering in Delusive'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 spendidly. 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 verhullen

Die Sonne bleibt doch ewig klar."

[Footnote: "And even if the clouds do hide it/The sun remains for ever
clear."] Albert sand with a soft smile. "Is not that so?" he added.

"Ich auch habe gelebt und genossen..."

[Footnote: I, too, have lived and enjoyed."

"Ah, how well old Petrov would have explained it all to you!"

Delusive 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 flourished
the violin.

"I am going," he said, after sitting silently for a while -- "won't you
come with me?"

"Where to?" Delusive asked in surprise.

"Let's go to Anna Ivanovna's again. It's gay there -- noise, people,
music!"

At first Delusive 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 goodnight
and left the room.

Delusive rang.

"See that you don't let Mr. Albert go anywhere without my permission," he
said to Zakhar.

                                     VI

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

Zakhar 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.

Zakhar again went into the dining-room, and Delusive could hear his kindly
voice and Albert's weak, entreating one.

"Well?" he asked, when Zakhar 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 Delusive 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, Delusive 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 Delusive,
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 Delusive 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. Delusive 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 Delusive.

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

"I spoke to the director of the theatre about you today," 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 very 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
Delusive he placed the violin on a chair and disappeared again.

Delusive 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 Zakhar, 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," Zakhar 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."

Delusive went into his study and chose several French books and a German
Bible. "Put these books in his room tomorrow, and see that you don't let
him out," he said to Zakhar.

Next morning Zakhar 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 (Zakhar) 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
Delusive, 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 Delusive 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 Zakhar, who told him of Albert's sad
plight. "Tomorrow 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," Delusive 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 listed in
surprise.

"Wait a bit. I'll tell my master," Zakhar was saying; Albert's voice
muttered something incoherently and heatedly. Delusive jumped up and ran
into the hall with the candle. Zakhar 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 [Footnote: To be free to go from
place to place it was necessary to have a properly stamped passport from
the police.], and have taken nothing of yours. You may search me. I shall
go to the chief of police!..."

"Excuse me, sir!" Zakhar said, addressing his master while continuing to
guard the door with his back. "He go 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 Delusive Albert made for Zakhar still more excitedly.

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

"Step aside, Zakhar!" said Delusive. 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 Zakhar alone and not looking at Delusive.
"Help!" he suddenly screamed in a furious voice.

"What are you screaming like that for? Nobody is keeping you!" said Zakhar,
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 galoshes. Without
taking leave, and continuing to mutter incoherently, he went out. Zakhar
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..."

Delusive 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
Zakhar after him, but it was too late.

"Is it cold outside?" he inquired.

"A hard frost, sir," replied Zakhar. "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 Delusive'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 Ivanovna's house. Strange,
incoherent thoughts passed through his mind. Now he remembered his last
altercation with Zakhar, 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 Morskaya 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
slit 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 Petrov. "How strange that he
should be here!" thought he. "No, brothers!" Petrov 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.

But another voice came mildly from the opposite corner of the hall: "I do
not wish to bow my knees before him," said the voice, which Albert
immediately recognized as Delusive's. "Wherein is he great? Why should we
bow before him? Did he behave honourably and justly? Has he been of any use
to society? Don't we know how he borrowed money and did not return it, and
how he carried away his fellow-artist's violin and pawned it? ..." ("Oh
God, how does he know all that?" thought Albert, hanging his head still
lower.) "Do we not know how he flattered the most insignificant people,
flattered them for the sake of money?" Delusive continued -- "Don't we know
how he was expelled from the theatre? And how Anna Ivanovna wanted to send
him to the police?" ("O God! That is all true, but defend me, Thou who
alone knowest why I did it!" muttered Albert.)

"Cease, for shame!" Petrov's voice began again. "What right have you to
accuse him? Have you lived his life? Have you experienced his rapture?
("True, true!" whispered Albert.) "Art is the highest manifestation of
power in man. It is given to a few of the elect, and raises the chosen one
to such a height as turns the head and makes it difficult for him to remain
sane. In Art, as in every struggle, there are heroes who have devoted
themselves entirely to its service and have perished without having reached
the goal." Petrov stopped, and Albert raised his head and cried out: "True,
true!" but his voice died away without a sound.

"It does not concern you," said the artist Petrov, turning to him severely.
"Yes, humiliate and despise him," he continued, "but yet he is the best and
happiest of you all."

Albert, who had listened to these words with rapture in his soul, could not
restrain himself, and went up to his friend wishing to kiss him.

"Go away! I do not know you!" Petrov said, "Go your way, or you won't get
there."

"Just see how the drink's got hold of you! You won't get there," shouted a
policeman at the crossroad.

Albert stopped, collected his strength and, trying not to stagger, turned
into the side street.

Only a few more steps were left to anna Ivanovna's door. From the hall of
her house the light fell on the snow in the courtyard, and sledges and
carriages stood at the gate.

Holding onto the banister with his numbed hands, he ran up the steps and
rang. The sleepy face of a maid appeared in the opening of the doorway, and
she looked angrily at Albert. "You can't!" she cried. "The orders are not
to let you in," and she lammed the door to. The sound of music and of
women's voices reached the steps. Albert sat down, leaned his head against
the wall, and closed his eyes. Immediately a throng of disconnected but
kindred visions beset him with renewed force, engulfed him in their waves,
and bore him away into the free and beautiful realm of dreams. "Yes, ye was
the best and happiest!" ran involuntarily through his imagination. The
sounds of a polka came through the door. These sounds also told him that he
was the best and happiest. The bells in the nearest church rang out for
early service, and these bells also said: "Yes, he is the best and
happiest!" ... "I will go back to the hall," thought Albert. "Petrov must
tell me much more." But there was no one in the hall now, and instead of
the artist Petrov, Albert himself stood on the platform and played on the
violin all that the voice had said before. But the violin was of strange
construction; it was made of glass and it had to be held in both hands and
slowly pressed to the breast to make it produce sounds. The sounds were the
most delicate and delightful Albert had ever heard. The closer he pressed
the violin to his breast the more joyful and tender he felt. The louder the
sounds grew the faster the shadows dispersed and the brighter the walls of
the hall were lit up by transparent light. But it was necessary to play the
violin very warily so as not to break it. He played the glass instrument
very carefully and well. He played such things as he felt no one would ever
hear again. He was beginning to grow tired when another distant, muffled
sound distracted his attention. It was the sound of a bell, but it spoke
words: "Yes," said the bell, droning somewhere high up and far away, "he
seems to you pitiful, you despise him, yet he is the best and happiest of
men! No one will ever again play that instrument."

These familiar words suddenly seemed so wise, no new, and so true, to
Albert that he stopped playing and, trying not to move, raised his arms and
eyes to heaven. He felt that he was beautiful and happy. Although there was
no one else in the hall he expanded his chest and stood on the platform
with head proudly erect so that all might see him. Suddenly someone's hand
lightly touched his shoulder; he turned and saw a woman in the faint light.
She looked at him sadly and shook her head deprecatingly. He immediately
realized that what he was doing was bad, and felt ashamed of himself.
"Whither?" he asked her. She again gave him a long fixed look and sadly
inclined her head. It was she -- none other than she whom he loved, and her
garments were the same; on her full white neck a string of pearls, and her
superb arms bare to above the elbow. She took his hand and led him out of
the hall. "The exit is on the other side," said Albert, but without
replying she smiled and led him out. At the threshold of the hall Albert
saw the moon and some water. But the water was not below as it usually is,
nor was the moon a white circle in one place up above as it usually is.
Moon and water were together and everywhere -- above, below, at the sides,
and all around them both. Albert threw himself with her into the moon and
the water, and realized that he could now embrace her, whom he loved more
than anything in the world. He embraced her and felt unutterable happiness.
"Is this not a dream?" he asked himself. But no! It was more than reality:
it was reality and recollection combined. Then he felt that the unutterable
bliss he had at that moment enjoyed had passed and would never return.
"What am I weeping for?" he asked her. She looked at him silently and
sadly. Albert understood what she meant by that. "But how can it be, since
I am alive?" he muttered. Without replying or moving she looked straight
before her. "This is terrible! How can I explain to her that I am alive?"
he thought with horror. "O Lord! I am alive, do understand me!" he
whispered.

"He is the best and happiest!" a voice was saying. But something was
pressing more and more heavily on Albert. Whether it was the moon and the
water, her embraces, or his tears, he did not know, but he felt he would
not be able to say all that was necessary, and that soon all would be over.

Two visitors, leaving Anna Ivanovna's house, stumbled over Albert, who lay
stretched out on the threshold. One of them went back and called the
hostess.

"Why, this is inhuman!" he said. "You might let a man freeze like that!"

"Ah, that is Albert! I'm sick to death of him!" replied the hostess.
"Annushka, lay him down somewhere in a room," she said to the maid.

"But I am alive -- why bury me?" muttered Albert, as they carried him
insensible into the room.