In Bersenyev’s room there was a piano, small,
and by no means new, but of a soft and sweet tone,
though not perfectly in tune. Bersenyev sat down
to it, and began to strike some chords. Like all
Russians of good birth, he had studied music in his
childhood, and like almost all Russian gentlemen,
he played very badly; but he loved music passionately.
Strictly speaking, he did not love the art, the forms
in which music is expressed (symphonies and sonatas,
even operas wearied him), but he loved the poetry
of music: he loved those vague and sweet, shapeless,
and all-embracing emotions which are stirred in the
soul by the combinations and successions of sounds.
For more than an hour, he did not move from the piano,
repeating many times the same chords, awkwardly picking
out new ones, pausing and melting over the minor sevenths.
His heart ached, and his eyes more than once filled
with tears. He was not ashamed of them; he let
them flow in the darkness. ‘Pavel was right,’
he thought, ’I feel it; this evening will not
come again.’ At last he got up, lighted
a candle, put on his dressing-gown, took down from
the bookshelf the second volume of Raumer’s
History of the Hohenstaufen, and sighing twice,
he set to work diligently to read it.
VI
Meanwhile, Elena had gone to her room, and sat down
at the open window, her head resting on her hands.
To spend about a quarter of an hour every evening
at her bedroom window had become a habit with her.
At this time she held converse with herself, and passed
in review the preceding day. She had not long
reached her twentieth year. She was tall, and
had a pale and dark face, large grey eyes under arching
brows, covered with tiny freckles, a perfectly regular
forehead and nose, tightly compressed lips, and a
rather sharp chin. Her hair, of a chestnut shade,
fell low on her slender neck. In her whole personality,
in the expression of her face, intent and a little
timorous, in her clear but changing glance, in her
smile, which was, as it were, intense, in her soft
and uneven voice, there was something nervous, electric,
something impulsive and hurried, something, in fact,
which could never be attractive to every one, which
even repelled some.
Her hands were slender and rosy, with long fingers;
her feet were slender; she walked swiftly, almost
impetuously, her figure bent a little forward.
She had grown up very strangely; first she idolised
her father, then she became passionately devoted to
her mother, and had grown cold to both of them, especially
to her father. Of late years she had behaved
to her mother as to a sick grandmother; while her
father, who had been proud of her while she had been
regarded as an exceptional child, had come to be afraid
of her when she was grown up, and said of her that
she was a sort of enthusiastic republican—no
one could say where she got it from. Weakness
revolted her, stupidity made her angry, and deceit
she could never, never pardon. She was exacting
beyond all bounds, even her prayers had more than once
been mingled with reproaches. When once a person
had lost her respect—and she passed judgment
quickly, often too quickly—he ceased to
exist for her. All impressions cut deeply into
her heart; life was bitter earnest for her.
