He denied every religion, even that of duty. He only lived for enjoyment; but enjoyment died when he touched it, pleasure was in his arms a cold, stiff corpse.
The only thing which could still rouse him was his art; and he was about to lose his power in this. His compositions--that of his art which really was dear to his heart--had more and more become a group of contrasts seeking after effect. The inner voice which had formerly sung him such sweet songs was--not strong enough to be heard in the noisy confusion of his life--wearily silent. His creative power was paralyzed, and his playing--the Parisians might clap as loud as they wished; he knew best of all that it went downward.
For more than forty years he had given concerts, and for twenty years he had played over the same _répertoire_--an immense one, but, with a few little exceptions, still the same. It bored him. He no longer listened to himself when he played, only sometimes, half unconsciously, all that wounded head and heart slipped into his fingers, and then he sobbed himself out in tones; and what so powerfully moved his listeners was not what they suspected--it was compassion for a great man who despairingly tries to find in art what he has wasted in life.
How slowly time passes! He had not suspected that it would be so unpleasant for him to stay alone.
More, yet more, of those strange faces! There are princesses of blood royal among them; then, again, beauties for whose favor potentates have sued in vain; famous artists, and, finally, pale, poor girls whom a moment of morbid enthusiasm had robbed of their senses. They nodded to him, smiled confidentially, all the same smile of secret understanding.
"One just like the others," he calls out, and stamps on the floor, as if he would stamp upon the whole crowd. "One just like the other----"
Then one form separated itself from the throng, and stepped up to him.
He stretches out his arms to her. "Natalie," he calls. She vanishes. It was his wife; how plainly he had seen her!
She was not like the others. How had he ventured to name this angel in the same breath with the others? He had loved her passionately, however immoderately he had offended against her.
Her name was Natalie--yes, Natalie. And when he led her to the altar she was a charming, petted young girl, a Princess Assanow, who had married him against the wishes of her family. He had worshipped her, and strewn flowers at her feet, and she had been happy, and he with her. The children had come--how delightful all that was! Those were the golden years in his life--five, six years. Then--then the demon had begun to weary of Paradise. His gipsy nature had demanded its rights. He had left home, only for a time, and to let his passions have their sway; then oftener, ever oftener.