"Marseillaise" seems suddenly to become terribly stupid. She can no longer conceal her anger and mortification; it is a wail of indignation, tears, and curses, with hands outstretched to Providence.
"Pas un pouce de notre terrain; pas une de nos forteresses."
But she is forced to sing in time with
"Mein lieber Augustin."
Her melody passes in a sort of foolish way into Augustin; she yields and dies away.
And only by snatches there is heard again: "Qu'un sang impur..." But at once it passes very offensively into the vulgar waltz.
She submits altogether. It is Jules Favre sobbing on Bismarck's bosom and surrendering every thing.... But at this point Augustin too grows fierce; hoarse sounds are heard; there is a suggestion of countless gallons of beer, of a frenzy of self-glorification, demands for millions, for fine cigars, champagne, and hostages.
Augustin passes into a wild yell.... "The Franco-Prussian War" is over.
Our circle applauded, Yulia Mihailovna smiled, and said,
"Now, how is one to turn him out?"
Peace was made.
The rascal really had talent.
Stepan Trofimovitch assured me on one occasion that the very highest artistic talents may exist in the most abominable blackguards, and that the one thing does not interfere with the other.
There was a rumour afterwards that Lyamshin had stolen this burlesque from a talented and modest young man of his acquaintance, whose name remained unknown. But this is beside the mark.
This worthless fellow who had hung about Stepan Trofimovitch for years, who used at his evening parties, when invited, to mimic Jews of various types, a deaf peasant woman making her confession, or the birth of a child, now at Yulia Mihailovna's caricatured Stepan Trofimovitch himself in a killing way, under the title of
"A Liberal of the Forties."
Everybody shook with laughter, so that in the end it was quite impossible to turn him out: he had become too necessary a person.
Besides he fawned upon Pyotr Stepanovitch in a slavish way, and he, in his turn, had obtained by this time a strange and unaccountable influence over Yulia Mihailovna.
I wouldn't have talked about this scoundrel, and, indeed, he would not be worth dwelling upon, but there was another revolting story, so people declare, in which he had a hand, and this story I cannot omit from my record.
One morning the news of a hideous and revolting sacrilege was all over the town.
At the entrance to our immense marketplace there stands the ancient church of Our Lady's Nativity, which was a remarkable antiquity in our ancient town.
At the gates of the precincts there is a large ikon of the Mother of God fixed behind a grating in the wall.
And behold, one night the ikon had been robbed, the glass of the case was broken, the grating was smashed and several stones and pearls (I don't know whether they were very precious ones) had been removed from the crown and the setting.
But what was worse, besides the theft a senseless, scoffing sacrilege had been perpetrated. Behind the broken glass of the ikon they found in the morning, so it was said, a live mouse.
Now, four months since, it has been established beyond doubt that the crime was committed by the convict Fedka, but for some reason it is added that Lyamshin took part in it.
At the time no one spoke of Lyamshin or had any suspicion of him. But now every one says it was he who put the mouse there.
I remember all our responsible officials were rather staggered.
A crowd thronged round the scene of the crime from early morning.
There was a crowd continually before it, not a very huge one, but always about a hundred people, some coming and some going.
As they approached they crossed themselves and bowed down to the ikon. They began to give offerings, and a church dish made its appearance, and with the dish a monk. But it was only about three o'clock in the afternoon it occurred to the authorities that it was possible to prohibit the crowds standing about, and to command them when they had prayed, bowed down and left their offerings, to pass on.
Upon Von Lembke this unfortunate incident made the gloomiest impression.
As I was told, Yulia Mihailovna said afterwards it was from this ill-omened morning that she first noticed in her husband that strange depression which persisted in him until he left our province on account of illness two months ago, and, I believe, haunts him still in Switzerland, where he has gone for a rest after his brief career amongst us.
I remember at one o'clock in the afternoon I crossed the marketplace; the crowd was silent and their faces solemn and gloomy.
A merchant, fat and sallow, drove up, got out of his carriage, made a bow to the ground, kissed the ikon, offered a rouble, sighing, got back into his carriage and drove off.
Another carriage drove up with two ladies accompanied by two of our scapegraces.
The young people (one of whom was not quite young) got out of their carriage too, and squeezed their way up to the ikon, pushing people aside rather carelessly.
Neither of the young men took off his hat, and one of them put a pince-nez on his nose.
In the crowd there was a murmur, vague but unfriendly.
The dandy with the pince-nez took out of his purse, which was stuffed full of bank-notes, a copper farthing and flung it into the dish. Both laughed, and, talking loudly, went back to their carriage.
At that moment Lizaveta Nikolaevna galloped up, escorted by Mavriky Nikolaevitch.
She jumped off her horse, flung the reins to her companion, who, at her bidding, remained on his horse, and approached the ikon at the very moment when the farthing had been flung down.
A flush of indignation suffused her cheeks; she took off her round hat and her gloves, fell straight on her knees before the ikon on the muddy pavement, and reverently bowed down three times to the earth.
Then she took out her purse, but as it appeared she had only a few small coins in it she instantly took off her diamond ear-rings and put them in the dish.
"May I? May I?
For the adornment of the setting?" she asked the monk.
"It is permitted," replied the latter, "every gift is good."
The crowd was silent, expressing neither dissent nor approval. Liza got on her horse again, in her muddy riding-habit, and galloped away.
II
Two days after the incident I have described I met her in a numerous company, who were driving out on some expedition in three coaches, surrounded by others on horseback.
She beckoned to me, stopped her carriage, and pressingly urged me to join their party.