Boris Lensky

run into the foyer after

ing of it," Sop

that you are one of hi

I have never been in sympathy with him; he treated my dear cousin, his wife, much too badly for me to ever pardon him. But as an artist--as artist--he s

they were forced from her in a magnetic sleep. She looks pale, and her eyes again have their mysterious look. After much coaxing and pleading from

. The first number is a trio of Schumann; then his accompanist plays a couple of little things; then comes a saraband, by Bach; someth

hat also?" asks

y heard him play

rs ago," replies Nita

know of nothing that goes to one's heart more than this

"If you really do not want to go to the concert, if you were r

loomily. "I have s

rattling fiacre, roll out of the quiet Rue Murillo into the noisy heart of the city. All at onc

hman. The horses stop. Nita also looks out. "What a tumult!" says she.

brellas of the pedestrians, who remorselessly push each other forward on the sidewalks. The

eps. Sonia looks at her watch. Four o'clock! With a start, she remembers Lensky's fabulo

een the muddy carriage wheels, crowd on the slippery sidewalk between piano teachers with waterproofs and overshoes, musicians wit

rather are pushed forward by the crowd, through an e

prices, still continues to keep hundreds of free tickets for his personal disposal. In consequence, all kinds of people are crowded together on the stage--ladies

asks Sophie, looking round a

s a gentle, good-n

r something of his true Russian bearishness is betrayed, with an oval, rather yellow, unusually regular face, sympathetic, almond-shaped eyes, and thick brown hair, come

aced. It was so nice in you to think

ve forgotten you!" Suddenly his glance res

uce me, Sonitschka," asks he

ie, in a tone which betrays that this

natorily. "But what is the matter, my heart

ll pass off," murmurs

d him? She looks unusually attractive to-day, besides. The weary fever which quite weighs her down to the ground takes from her appearance the harshness which often makes her somewhat cold. The outline of her face is

me a vinaigrette, Colia?

ures remind one of an Egyptian Sphinx, a face with an indescribable expression of gloomy sadness, austere pride, and touching kindness; a face that is not handsome, but which one never forgets when one ha

le, and a very long mustache, which he had inherited from an exiled Polish martyr; the pianist, a pupil o

ently, in all directions; t

nts, the silvery sweet tones of t

s brought her the vinaigrette which Sophie had asked for. She

ver heard these silvery violin tones, in a thousand caressing shadings, oppressive, sad, alluring. She had p

s vexed at the cold playing of the Parisian 'cellist, at

a luxuriant fulness of sound, an inimitable softness and satiety of tone which none of the other violinists have ever attained. His playing is

ge. Ever more fiercely he draws the bow across his violin; it is n

t the close of the number, abundant applause falls to the share of the artists. It is the fashion to rave over the "devil's violinist." What

s," sighs Sophie, "or it

ow, recalled by the audience with loud cries of applause,

shadows under his eyes, the chin has no longer the firm, marked outline of formerl

efully and intrusively than formerly, when the whole charm of fiery manhood gl

has become quiet; t

ne of Chopin, an étude of Thalberg, and a Liszt tarentella with b

hing effect on the nerves, and without reckoning to what phenomenon to ascribe the effect, the public breathes freely, breaks out in storm

use, and at length Lensky on

bers that Albert Perfection exists. Whatever music

charm flows from his violin? It is now no longer a violin; it is a human heart which spreads out all its treasures before the crowd, exposes its holiest of holies to it, and in a wonderful, mysteri

eared, and has given place to an inconsolably melancholy expression; his lips are half parted; he breathes with difficulty, sometimes something like a gasp interrupts his performance. The

eagerly. In the middle of the powerful, striking melody of the piece something like a sob and the wearily fluttering

p, rejoice, clap their hands, stamp their fee

ounds from all sid

head falls forward. With difficulty Sophie holds her for one moment upright in her arms

passionately, looks short-sightedly squinting after his son. A splendid fellow! How easily he carries the dark form