blue, you are frozen. Liza ! do you hear? we will go.' ' Where ? '
' Home; we will go back to town to-day.' ' What for ? ' she asked bewildered. 'What for? autumn is coming on; we are the only people left in the country.'
' Oh, dear !' she said, ' it will be nice here even in the winter; let us stop.'
' So that's your plan ! Enough, enough, let us go.' c * Wait a little ! ' she said in imploring tones, ' fine days will come back even now.'
' Listen !' replied her father, tapping her on the cheek and pointing to the spot where her friends used to fish; 'they won't come back.'
' They won't—come back!' she repeated in mournful, questioning tones, then she dropped her father's hand, and slowly with bent head walked home, from time to time turning to look back.
Adouev and Kostyakoff for a long time past had fished on the side furthest from that place.
CHAPTER XI
By degrees Alexandr succeeded in forgetting Liza and also the disagreeable scene with her father. He became calm again and even cheerful, and often laughed at KostyakofFs feeble jokes. He was amused by the man's point of view of life. They even made plans to go away somewhere further, to put up a hut on the river's bank where there were plenty of fish, and to pass the remainder of their days there. Alexandras soul again grew accustomed to grovelling in the mud of narrow ideas and material existence. But fate did not slumber, and he was not permitted to grovel there for ever.
In the autumn he received a note from his aunt with an urgent request that he would escort her to a concert since his uncle was not quite well. A musician was in Petersburg, of European celebrity.
' What ? a concert!' said Alexandr, greatly disturbed, ' go to a concert, into the world, into the tinsel show of lies and hypocrisy—no, I will not go.'
' It would cost five roubles too, I shouldn't wonder,' remarked Kostyakoff who was present.
'The ticket costs fifteen roubles,' said Alexandr, 'but I would gladly give fifty not to go.'
14 Fifteen!' cried Kostyakoff, clasping his hands, 'what swindlers ! to come here to cheat and plunder us! Confound the lazy beggars ! Don't go, Alexandr Fedoritch, don't you be taken in ! If it were something or other worth having; if you could take it home, set it on the table or eat it; but only to listen and nothing to show for it; pay fifteen roubles ! One can get a pony for fifteen roubles!'
' Men will sometimes pay even more to spend an evening pleasantly,' observed Alexandr.
' Spend an evening pleasantly! I'll tell you what! let's go to the baths, we shall spend an evening gloriously! Every time I feel bored I go there—and it's capital; you go at six o'clock and you leave at twelve and you warm your body and get scrubbed, and often you make some agreeable acquaintance; some priest, a merchant or an officer will come in; they will begin a conversation about trade, maybe, or the end of the world—and you won't come away! and all
for sixpence each ! They don't know where to spend the evening!'
But Alexandr did go. With a sigh he pulled out his evening suit of bygone years, which he had not put on for so long, and drew on a pair of white gloves.
'Gloves at five roubles brings it to twenty ! ' Kostyakoff calculated up, as he was assisting at Adouev's toilet. 'Twenty roubles wasted on one evening! Just for listening; as if that were something so wonderful! '
Adouev had got out of the way of dressing suitably. In the morning he went to the office in his comfortable official dress, in the evening he wore an old surtout or greatcoat. He felt ill at ease in his evening dress. Here it was too narrow, there too short; his neck felt too hot swathed in a silk handkerchief.
His aunt met him cordially, with a sense of gratitude to him for having determined for her sake to lay aside his misanthropy for once, but no word was spoken of his way of life and occupations. Having found a place in the hall for Lizaveta Alexandrovna, Adouev leaned against a column, under the shelter of a kindof broad-shouldered musical maniac and began to bd^Jorecfc He softly yawned behind his hand, but before he nacTtime to shut his mouth, an outburst of deafening applause announced the appearance of the musician. Alexandr did not even look at him.
They began to play the.prelude. In a few minutes the orchestra began to die away. Its last notes mingled indistinctly with another strain, at first sportive, playful, like a reminiscence of the sport of childhood; it seemed as though children's voices, ringing and merry, were heard in it; then it grew more glowing, more manly, and seemed to express the restlessness of youth, and its hardihood and overflow of life and energy. Then it flowed more slowly and softly, and seemed to be translating the outpourings of love, the language of the soul, and, sinking, fell slowly to the whisper of passion and died gradually away into silence
No one dared to stir. The mass of people sat in breathless stillness. At last a simultaneous 'Ah ! ' of admiration broke from all, and a whisper passed through the concert-hall. The crowd were just beginning to stir, but suddenly the music awoke again, and rushed along in a crescendo torrent, then broke into a thousand leaping cascades,
224 A COMMON STORY
thwarting and crushing one another in their course. They seemed to be thundering the reproaches of jealousy, and boiling with the frenzy of passion ; the ear had not time to catch them—and suddenly they broke off, as though the instrument had not strength, not voice left. Then a dim broken sound began to escape from under the violinist's bow, then sounds of weeping, of beseechings were heard, and all ceased in a long-drawn sigh of pain. The heart was torn by it; the music seemed to tell of love betrayed and hopeless pain. Every suffering, every pang of the human soul was heard in it.
Alexandr was trembling. He stood with downcast head and looked through his tears over his neighbour's shoulder. A lean German, bent over his instrument, was standing before the crowd which he swayed so completely. He had finished, and was wiping his brow and hands on his handkerchief. From the hall rose a roar and enthusiastic clapping. And suddenly the musician in his turn bowed before the crowd and began humbly to express his respect and gratitude.
' Even he bows before it,' thought Alexandr, looking with awe at the many-headed monster, ' even he who stands so high above it!'
The musician took his bow; and all were instantaneously silence. The crowd, which had begun to be restless, settled down again into a single motionless mass. A different strain was sounding, solemn, majestic; the listener straightened his back as he heard it, raised his head and drew himself up; it stirred pride in the heart and called up dreams of glory. The orchestra began indistinctly to chime in, like the echo of the crowd in the distance, of renown in the world
Alexandr stood pale and downcast. The music, as though of design, told him clearly of the past, of all his life, bitter and betrayed.
' Look at that fellow's face!' said some one, pointing towards Alexandr; ' I can't think how he can make such an exhibition of himself; I have heard Paganini without stirring a muscle.'
'' Alexandrcursed both his aunt's invitation and the musician, and above all destiny for not allowing him to forget
' What for ? with what object ? ' he thought; ' what does
it want from me ? why remind me of the weakness, the use-lessness of the past, which cannot be recalled ? '
After escorting his aunt to her door, he was just about to leave her, but she held his hand.
' Do you really mean you won't come in ?' she asked in reproachful tones.
'No, I won't/'
' Half an hour, Alexandr, do you understand ; no longer. If you refuse, I must think that you never had the least scrap of affection for me.'
She made the request with such feeling, so persuasively, that Alexandr had not the heart to refuse, and with bent head he went in after her. Piotr Ivanitch was alone in his study.
'Have I deserved nothing but neglect from you, Alexandr?' asked Lizaveta Alexandrovna, making him sit down by the fire.
' You are mistaken; it is not neglect,' he answered.
' What does that mean ? how am I to understand it ? how many times have I written to you and invited you to come to me; you never came; at last you even gave up answering my letters.'
