Short Fiction, Vladimir Korolenko [finding audrey TXT] 📗

uplifted as if he were listening. Mingled emotions chased one another like billows through his heart. He had been uplifted by the tide of a new life⁠—even as a boat, after a long and peaceful rest upon the sandy shore, is suddenly tossed upward by the waves. Question, surprise, and unwonted excitement filled his mind. The blind eyes dilating, alternately sparkled and grew dim. For a moment one might imagine that he had not found within his soul the response for which he so eagerly listened; but all at once, with the same eager face, as though he could no longer wait, he started, touched the keys, and upborne by new waves of emotion surrendered himself to the tide that swept onward in full, resonant, and tumultuous chords. They gave voice to the countless memories of his past life which had thronged upon him, as with drooping head he sat there listening. The multitudinous voices of Nature, the moaning of the wind, the whispering of the forest, the ripple of the river, and that indefinite murmur which is lost in the remote distance could be heard, intermingling, forming a sort of background for the deep and inscrutable agitation that swells the heart and leaps up in the soul at the bidding of Nature’s mysterious whisper⁠—a feeling not easily defined. Sadness?⁠—why then is it so sweet? Joy?⁠—then why is it so profoundly, so inexplicably sad?

All this was evoked by the blind musician’s fingers, in low soft tones, at first hesitating and vague. His imagination strove as it were to gain control over this flood of chaotic images, and without success. Those powerful and depressing influences of an impetuous and passionate nature, confused and vague though they were, had taken full possession of the musician, but were as yet wholly beyond his control. From time to time the sounds grew in volume and power. One felt that the player must presently combine them into a melodious and perfect flood of harmony, and his audience listened in breathless expectation, Maxim wondering all the while as to the cause of the unusual depth of feeling displayed. But before the flood had time to rise to its full height, it suddenly subsided into a plaintive murmur, like a wave breaking into foam and spray; and again nothing was heard but the sad lingering notes, that rang like questions in the air.

The blind man paused for a moment, but the silence in the drawing-room remained uninterrupted, save by the rustling noise of the leaves in the garden. The fascination which had transported his listeners far beyond these walls suddenly vanished, and until the musician again struck the keys of the instrument they realized that they were seated in a small room, with the dark night peering in at the windows. Again the sounds rose and fell as if vainly seeking after the unknown. Charming folk-songs were interwoven with the vague harmony of the chords⁠—songs telling of love and sorrow, or reminiscences of the glories and sufferings of bygone days, or the eager impetuosity of youth and hope⁠—the blind man thus striving to express his feelings by embodying them in forms already familiar to his imagination. But the song too ended with the same minor note⁠—like an unanswered question echoing through the silence of the little drawing-room.

Then for the third time Peter began to play a piece which he had once learned by heart⁠—and again broke off.

Possibly he had hoped to find the musical genius of the composer in sympathy with his mood.

VIII

It is a very difficult matter for a blind man to play by note. These are printed in relief like the letters which they use; each note has its special sign, and stands in a row like the lines of a book. To designate the notes that form the chords, raised points are placed between them. It is of course a difficult and complicated task for a blind person to learn these by heart, each hand separately; but in Peter’s case the labor was lightened by his love for the integral parts of the work. Memorizing a few chords for one hand at a time, he would place himself at the piano; and when, from the combining of these hieroglyphics in relief, all of a sudden surprising harmonies resulted, it gave him a delight keen enough to enliven the otherwise dull work, and render it fascinating.

Yet even so, there still remained a weary way between the printed sheets of music and the execution of the same; for in order that the signs might be embodied in melody, the hands had first to transmit them to the memory, and the memory in its turn to send them back to the fingers. Meanwhile, however, Peter’s strongly developed musical instinct and imagination, that had already taken a definite form, began to play a part in the complicated labor of memorizing, and to stamp the work of the composer with the distinct impress of the player’s own individuality. Thus far the form which his musical feeling had taken, was for the most part derived from his mother’s playing. All Nature spoke to his soul in the language and music of the folk-songs of his native land.

While with beating heart and soul overflowing with emotion, Peter now played this piece, from the very first resonant chords there was such brilliancy, animation, and genuine feeling, and at the same time something so characteristic of the player, that an expression of wonder was mingled with delight on the faces of the listeners. The next moment, however, the wonder was wholly merged in delight; and the elder Stavruchènko’s son, a professional musician, as he listened, strove for a long time to follow the familiar piece, and at the same time to analyze the peculiar “style” of the pianist.

Music recognizes no party; it stands aloof from the clashing of opinions. If the eyes of the young people sparkled and their faces flushed, and daring conceptions of future life and happiness