At the same hour Maschenka stands before the clock in her room and counts the strokes--"One, two, three, four, five. It must be now," says she to herself. "It must be now."
It must be. Slowly but surely and overpoweringly has the conviction mastered her. At first it was only an uneasy anxiety, but then an iron command.
She has fought against it with all the wild, rebellious horror which a very young person feels at the thought of death. She will not--she will not! But at length despair and a daily increasing weariness have strengthened the decision. "Yes, it must be."
How shall she accomplish it? Poison? No; she will go out of the world some way so that no one shall ever find her who knew her. And in the short spring nights she matures a plan, slyly carried out as only such a romantic little brain could think of.
All is ready.
She has granted herself the respite until her father's return, and for this reason she is frightened instead of pleased to see him again. It seemed to her that the executioner appeared to her and said: "Come, it is time!"
How good he was to her! What a beautiful future he planned for her! A black wall towers before her--there is no future.
One, two, three, four, five, six! The hour is here. She undresses; not any garment which can be recognized as hers will she keep on, but changes everything for articles which she has gradually purchased.
If she is washed ashore, no one shall suspect that the girl in the plain working-clothes might be the petted daughter of Boris Lensky.
Then she takes her mother's pearls, which she has not worn for a long time, from her jewel box, and kisses them. She kneels down before her holy picture, and prays.
Now she rises; a last time she slowly looks round her pretty room. Her heart beats to bursting.
"Eliza, tell aunt that she need not expect me to dinner to-day," she calls to the maid through the closed door of the adjoining room. "I shall dine with papa."
"Très bien, mademoiselle!"
And Mascha goes. On the stairs she suddenly feels a burning thirst. She goes into the dining-room, takes acarafeof water from the side-board, and drinks with a kind of eagerness. A red pyramid of fine, fresh raspberries, Mascha's favorite fruit, is piled up on a glass dish. She reaches for the inviting fruit, takes two, three. Suddenly something chokes her, a kind of spasm overcomes her; she hurries out. She has already reached the house-door, she hesitates. It must be! But must it be now? To live one more week, a fortnight; to enjoy the sunshine; to be indulged by her father; to forget all; to be happy! Fourteen happy days are long!
A clock in the house strikes the quarter past six. In a few minutes her aunt will return. She goes.
Now she is on the street. The Avenue Wagram lies behind her. She is in the Champs Elysées. She beckons to an empty cab. "To the nearest landing of theSwallow," she says.
TheSwallow, the pleasure steamer which daily runs between Paris and St. Cloud, is about to start when Mascha reaches the landing. She will wait for the next boat. "Mais non, ma bonne fille," says a coal-blackened fireman. "Montez toujours," and he helps her on board.
Klip, klap, plash the waves on the ship's wooden sides. Maschenka watches everything very calmly. At times she forgets why she is here, but for not a moment is she free from a hateful cold weight on her mind. Occasionally she involuntarily makes plans for the morrow; then she shudders. To-morrow at this time--where will she be?
On glides the ship.
"Meudon--Meudon!" A little gray city nestling against a green hill.
Every time that the steamer stops, she says: "It must be now." Each time she will land, seek some place between the green, drooping willows, in order undisturbed to carry out what she has undertaken--once more kneel down in the tender spring grass, between the dear young blossoms, confide her weak, child-soul to her dead mother, and then-- Yes; at each station she wishes to land, and yet cannot, and remains sitting as if paralyzed with boundless anxiety of the fearful deed to which she would force herself, and against which every fibre of her warm young life rebels.
"Sèpres!"
All the beauty in this laughing, sunny world passes through her mind. In vain does she try to fix her mind on a glorified eternity, and with all her tormenting thoughts mingles a cowardly fear, not only of death, but of the physical torment which precedes death, of the horrible gasping for breath in the water.
"St. Cloud!" It is the last station. Some one of the ship officials asks her if she wishes to land. She rises. It grows black before her eyes. A cold sweat is on her forehead, dizzily she sinks back on the seat.
Slowly the boat works up the stream to Paris. Around its plump wooden body the waves plash sweetly and soothingly; between the whisper of the trees on the banks one hears the jubilant twittering of the birds who rejoice in the last sunbeams.
Weary, as after a severe illness, Mascha sits there. She no longer comprehends the situation. Why should she kill herself? Her father will pardon, his love is inexhaustible, that she knows; and the others--with something of her old childish defiance, she shrugs her shoulders. Ah! what does she care about the others?
Then, quite suddenly, a sharp wind springs up.
The people leave the deck, flee to the cabin. Only some young men who, smoking and talking, do not care about the storm, have remained above. Mascha observes that they notice her. One of them makes a jest, the others laugh.
Heaven knows what they are laughing at! Mascha imagines they have guessed----
Like a leaping flame she feels permeated from head to foot with newly awakened, consuming, despairing shame. She springs up, bursts open the door of the little gate in the ship's railing. She holds both hands to her eyes. "Mother!" she cries in her death agony.
It is done.
The evening was already far advanced. Lensky sat alone in his sitting-room, a prey to all sorts of feelings. A kind of rage chokes him. "Why did I tell him all that?" he asked himself. Yes, why? Because he has a hatred for all falseness, which amounts to exaggeration; because it seemed to him as if he expiated some of the disgracefulness of his behavior to Nita by the exposure of his own shame.
When he had so suddenly looked into Nita's pure eyes, it had seemed to him as if it had all at once grown unbearably light around him. He saw his whole life so plainly as he had never before seen it, and it was repulsive to him. A short time ago he had sent the waiter to announce to Nikolai that dinner was served. Nikolai had excused himself.
Then Lensky had not even taken his place at the table. As if he were capable of forcing down anything!
The waiter had asked if he should light the lamps, but Lensky had only impatiently motioned him away. What need had he of more light? He saw plainly enough.
A great uneasiness overcame him. If Nikolai should really leave, there was not much more time to delay. He heard Nikolai's trunk carried downstairs. "He will not even come to take leave of me! But I cannot let him go thus," he cried out, "not thus!" He went up to Nikolai's room. Nikolai stood before the fire-place and busied himself with tearing and burning some letters. A new, harsh, stiff expression hardens his features. When he perceives his father, his face expresses uneasiness and astonishment, so that Lensky's heart grows cold. For one moment they stand silently opposite each other. "Colia!" Lensky at length manages to say in an unrecognizable, half-suffocated voice: "You--surely would not leave without having said farewell to me!"
"No; naturally not," replies Colia, mechanically, while he continues to tear up letters.
"Colia!" The artist's voice trembles, he lays his hand on his son's sleeve, he notices that he shrinks at his touch. Then he clutches his temples and stamps on the ground. "That is not to be borne," cries he. "Have you, then, no penetration? Do you not understand how all this torments me--me, who would have brought down the stars from heaven for you? And now that I should be the obstacle to your happiness! What, obstacle! Be sensible, there is no obstacle at all. Nothing has happened. You need not give her up. And if she is at all afraid of meeting me again, I swear to you that she shall never meet me, that I will never burden you with my presence. I will bear everything, only not the thought of having disturbed your existence. Colia--do you not hear me, then?--Colia!" He shakes his son's shoulder; Nikolai turns toward him. His father is frightened at the dull, uninterested glance which falls on him from the eyes formerly so brilliant with enthusiasm of his child.
The waiter enters to announce that the carriage has arrived. Nikolai takes his hat, Lensky holds him back, and at the same time motions to the waiter to leave the room.
"You will write when you have arrived there?" he says.
"As soon as I am settled," replies Nikolai, with the same weary, dull voice.
"Why was not the boy angry, rough even to rudeness, repellent to him?" Lensky asked himself. A violent feeling would have yielded to time, but for what he saw before him there was no more cure. He understood that something in this young man was dead forever; the elasticity of his nature was gone, the sacred fire was extinguished.
"Farewell, Colia!" murmured Lensky, hoarsely. He took his son in his arms, held him convulsively to his breast, kissed him three times in accordance with the Russian custom. He might as well have embraced a corpse, so perfectly irresponsive did Colia remain to his tenderness. Only once before had his lips touched anything so cold, stiff, and that was--when he kissed Natalie in her coffin.
Then Nikolai went down-stairs. Lensky slunk after him to the house door, looked after the carriage which rolled away with him until it was lost in the crowd, whereupon he turned, and with heavy steps returned to his sitting-room.
Perhaps an hour had passed since Nikolai's departure, when there was a knock at Lensky's door. At first he did not hear it; the knocks grew louder, more urgent. Angrily he raised his head; he had left word down-stairs that he wished to receive no one.
"What is it?" he called out, angrily.
"A messenger from Madame Jeliagin."
"Come in! What is it?"
"He left this note for monsieur," said the waiter.
Lensky tore it open.
"A carriage!" he called out to the waiter, who had waited for an answer. "But quickly!"
The waiter left the room; Lensky once more glanced at the note.
"Come at once.Barbara."
Nothing further. What could have happened? He took his hat, followed quite on the waiter's heels, and sprang in the carriage.
"Avenue Wagram, No. ----," he called to the driver, "as fast as you can."
The cab stops, Lensky plunges out, the house door was open. An unpleasant smell of mire met him.
From the entrance, along the hall, he saw great drops of mud. He noticed it without thinking particularly of it. A feeling of painful discomfort grows in him with every step which he takes, and yet he could not have said what he feared.
He found no one to announce him, to tell him where his sister-in-law, where any one could be found. The whole household is in commotion. Uncertainly he stands still for a moment. Then he notices that these same large, black mud-drops which he has seen in the vestibule had soiled the linen stair-covering.
And suddenly he remembers how he had already seen such a train of muddy spots--in Moscow, on a hot summer night, when they carried a drowned person through the streets. He followed the drops, went up the stairs, still following them to one door; he knew in which room the door opened.
For one moment he hesitates, as if he could not face the horror which awaited him. Then he bursts open the door. The room is dimly lighted. A single candle flickers near the bed, from which the white curtains are remorselessly pushed back, and there on the bed lies something--he cannot exactly decide it. Trembling in her whole frame, Madame Jeliagin stands before it. Great, wet, black drops are on her dress, as if she had handled a mud-covered body.
"Mascha!" he groans, beside himself, seizing his sister-in-law by her thin arm and pushing her away from the bed.
Yes, there lies Mascha, waxy pale, with closed eyes and wet hair clinging to her cheeks.
"She is dead!" he gasps.
"No, no; she lives," assures Madame Jeliagin, but there is no joy in her voice, but uneasiness and discomfort.
Mascha opens her eyes, turns them away from her father, and shudders.
Lensky has seated himself on the edge of the bed near her. One of her little hands lies on the counterpane; he takes it in his, kisses and strokes it.
"How did it happen?" he asks, bent over the child.
"When I came home she was not here," declares Madame Jeliagin, hastily. There is something flattering, dog-like, whining in her tone, as if she feared being blamed. "She had left word with the maid that she would not return to dinner, as she was to dine with you and Nikolai. I sat calmly down to dinner--alone, Anna dines with friends--about half-past ten. I had just sent the servant for Anna; a carriage stopped before the door. I heard a heavy stamping in the vestibule; voices speaking together. The maid said they desired madame. I rush out; then I see two men who carry in the child. They told me--from a steamer--somewhere near Passy--a girl had been seen to fall into the water--Mascha--only at the right time they plunged after her--saved her. Fortunately, there was some one among the passengers who knew her, a servant who sometimes assists here, who brought her here, or else they would have taken her to the police station. It is fearful--an accident, a terrible accident, an imprudence--the gate of the steamer was badly secured she leaned against it--and----"
With deeply bent head Lensky has listened to the simple report. He still rubs and strokes his daughter's little hand. "What, accident!" murmured he. "How did she come on the ship? She wished to kill herself from grief. Poor little dove! What grief can one have at seventeen? Oh, my petulant, gay darling, my tender, defiant little curly head, who has grieved you so?" Then, again turning to his sister-in-law: "Have you, at least, sent for a physician?" he says, imperiously.
"I did not know," murmurs she, confusedly.
Mascha trembles from head to foot, and drawing her hand away from her father, she hides her face in the pillows and groans: "No--no--no doctor!"
Lensky looks at her more attentively; he has understood! It is no human sound; it is the cry of a wild animal which now escapes his breast; then he rushes upon his daughter, seizes her by the throat, strikes her in the face. "Shameless one!" he screams.
"Pas de violence, for God's sake!" stammers Madame Jeliagin, anxiously.
But he does not listen to her.
"Who was it?" he gasps. "Who was it?" he thunders at his sister-in-law.
"I do not know--I had no suspicion--I never noticed the slightest," stammers she.
"So! You never noticed anything," he repeats after her. "Noticed nothing! So! Did you, perhaps, pick up a lover on the streets?" he sneers at Mascha.
Then she opens her eyes, rests them on him with a touchingly sad, supplicating, humble, reproachful glance. It seems to him that something has snapped within him. The anger is gone; only a great pity yet lives in him, and he bends over the child and takes her in his arms, clasps her to his breast, sobs and covers her pale little face with kisses and tears. Meanwhile he notices that Madame Jeliagin still stands near him, that she watches him. He stands up. "What have you to do here now, you--you who did not know how to guard my child? Go!" And imperiously he points to the door.
Still murmuring, explaining, excusing herself, she vanishes.
The door has closed behind her.
"Mascha, how was it possible?" he asks, softly.
She is silent.
"Mascha, for God's sake, say it, or else I shall go mad," he implores. "There must be something which excuses you. How did it happen? who was it?"
"I will not say; it is no use. You will harm him; I do not wish that any harm should happen to him."
In vain does he urge her further; she gives him no answer. Her little face turned to the wall, she lies there motionless and silent, like a corpse. And at length he is weary of questioning her, and sits by her, weary, relaxed, with the confused expression of a man who has been struck on the head. His thoughts wander to indifferent things. He asks himself if he has taken the key out of his trunk; whether the waiter will post the letter which lies on his desk. Then he hears the house-door open, hears the rustle of a silk dress. Anna has returned. Cold shivers run down his back. Now she will hear it, the arrogant creature who has always looked down upon his darling. He would like to go out and close old Jeliagin's mouth, forbid her to speak.
Can he, indeed, close the mouth of all Paris? To-morrow the gossips will tell it to each other before the house-doors in the half light--it will be in all the newspapers.
And he sits there as if petrified, and does not move; listens--listens as if he could hear up-stairs what they say to each other. Sweat is on his brow, the blood burns in his cheeks, and now he really hears something, Anna's thin, icy voice, which cries out: "Quelle honte, quelle horreur!"
Mascha holds her hands over her ears. Lensky springs up, hurries to the door which Madame Jeliagin has neglected to close tight behind her. He closes it carefully, draws the portière over it, only that Mascha may not hear anything else offensive. Then he goes up to her bed again, and notices that she is glowing with fever. He passes his hand over her cheeks; she clutches his hand, presses it first to her mouth, and then holds it before her eyes.
"Shall I put out the light?" he asks, gently.
She nods. Then he sits by her in the dark. Ever stronger he has the feeling as if the despotic yoke of a misfortune to which he must bow because he is powerless against it, were weighing down upon him. In all his nerves trembles the fearful shock. It seems to him that he has seen something fall together before him--all that he clung to, the future of his child!
He thinks of his ambitious dreams; of the money he has saved for her--he, who formerly squandered everything. A boundless shame torments him; it is all over--all.
The whole night long, restless, without peace, he seeks only a hand-breadth of blue sky for his child, seeks no great, brilliant happiness such as he has dreamed of for Mascha; no, the most moderate, only a tolerable life--seeks a salvation--in vain--nothing--nothing! His mind is like a captive bird which wounds itself at every beat of its wings against the bars of a too small cage. And yet he is not weary of seeking, of tormenting himself.
The longest night has an end, and the nights in early June are not long. Morning dawns. In ruthlessly plain outlines, all the objects in Mascha's room meet Lensky's eyes. All looks soiled, everywhere the dark spots of mud; there the shawl in which the men had wrapped the suicide after they drew her from the water, there a heap of soiled, wet clothes. It goes to his heart. On that morning when he took leave of his darling, on the same spot lay a dress also, but as white, as pure, as fresh as spring blossoms.
The picture of the light, fragrant room, the dear picture which he had continually carried about in his heart during his last journey, rises in his mind. It is indeed the same room, the same girl. She sleeps as also at that time--no, not as at that time. Her cheeks are flushed with fever, her limbs twitch incessantly. Softly he draws the covers up over her uncovered shoulders. She murmurs something in her sleep; he listens; always the same word: "Mother--mother!"
In the fire-place of Nita's pretty little drawing-room crackles a gay wood fire. Everything in the room is attractive and pretty, as usual. In the midst of these cosey surroundings sits Sonia, shivering, with bent head. Nita enters the room, goes up to her, and lays a hand on her shoulder. Sonia looks up; her eyes meet those of her friend almost anxiously.
"Ah! you know it already?" murmurs she. Nita nods. For a moment they are both silent.
"It is horrible!" says Sonia, dully, and shuddering.
"Yes," says Nita, shortly. She sits down opposite Sonia. "Do they know who it was?" she asks after a while.
"No," replied Sonia. "She will not tell. My father has spoken to Barbara. Nothing can be gotten out of her. When they first asked her, she replied: 'It is no use, and they would harm him.' She does not wish that any harm should happen to him. Now she says nothing at all. She lies the whole time with her face to the wall, silent. Really, there is something generous in her silence."
"How does he bear it?" asks Nita, suddenly, quite startlingly.
"Barbara told papa that he--you mean Lensky?--was completely broken. At first, he could have almost killed Mascha from rage; since then, he sits near her, strokes her hands, her hair, and calls her little pet names. But she listens to nothing--lies there silently with set teeth."
Nita lowers her head; then she, absent-mindedly, throws a piece of wood on the fire.
"And we imagined that the child had a fancy for Bärenburg!" says Sonia. "Thus we explained her striking depression; but no, Bärenburg was betrothed. We were evidently on a false track. It must have been one of our exiles--a nihilist with revolutionary moral and political ideas."
"No, no!" Nita shakes her head, and looks thoughtfully before her. "It was Karl!" she cries out. "Do you remember how, that time, at the Jeliagins' reception, when Mrs. Joyce brought the news of Karl's betrothal, Mascha let a cup fall, and tottered out half swooning? It must be Karl!"
"It is not possible!" says Sonia. "He was betrothed. Do you then believe that a half-way respectable man would be capable of such an action? Ah, it is horrible, horrible! Poor Nikolai!"
Nita does not hear her.
"My father insists that I shall go to Vienna with him to-morrow," begins Sophie, whom nothing can long rob of her inward equipoise. "Will you let your maid help me pack?"
Nita does not hear.
After a while Sophie leaves the room,
Nita glows with burning heat. She cannot bear the warm room, and goes out on the terrace. A sharp breeze sobs in the trees of the park, and has a refreshing effect upon her.
Why can she not forget? She has emerged blameless from the trial. How can the affair further concern her? Another would have simply shaken off the remembrance of this unpleasant experience. But she was not like others. From childhood she had occupied one of those strange positions which cause in all young people left to themselves a tendency to strongly exaggerated feelings.
Her father died young. Her mother never ceased to mourn him, and after his death completely withdrew from the world. Except a few summer months which she regularly passed with her eldest brother, Karl Bärenburg's father, she lived year in and year out in a picturesque villa an hour's journey from Vienna.
Nita grew up solitary, under the influence of such a mother and the instruction of Miss Wilmot. The great passion of her youth was music. She secretly cherished the wish to become an artiste and astonish the world with her performances. Sunk in an enthusiastic study of the art, and reading all that is poetic and unworldly, she grew up without girl friends, without all childish amusements. The great wealth of her stormy young heart remained untouched.
The legendary fame of the devil's violinist penetrated even to her. She saw a picture of him--the strange face that was not handsome, and which one could never forget if one had once seen it, made a deep impression on her young mind. From that time she worshipped the strange musician, whom she had never heard and never seen; thought of him, dreamed of him, wrote enthusiastic childish letters to him--which she never sent--and sang his songs. Her mother, who was still more given to exaggeration than her daughter, and just as little worldly wise, smiled at this enthusiasm and gave Nita Lensky's picture for a birthday gift. Nita placed it on her writing-table and daily garlanded it with fresh flowers as long as she could find one out-doors.
She knew that he was married, and was proud for him that his wife was a princess, and a great beauty, and that she loved him idolatrously. Then she heard other things about him: that his distinguished wife had left him; that he wandered about the world, without rest or peace, bitter and desperate. A warm, deep compassion mingled with her enthusiasm.
Her whole family called her Senta, and did not ascribe the slightest importance to the matter.
Then it was announced that Lensky would give three concerts in Vienna, which he had avoided for some years. A true fever of excitement took possession of Nita. The Baroness Sankjéwitch did her utmost to fulfil her daughter's wish, to take her to one of the concerts. To go to Vienna and return by railroad was out of the question, as the concert took place late in the evening. She decided, therefore, to pass the night with Nita at a hotel.
At last came the concert. He appeared. He had never been handsome, and was no longer young. His hair was gray, and his fifty years were written plainly enough in deep furrows on his face. But he looked different from other men. There was something powerful and attractive in his personality, and a mysterious magnetism which could not be described or explained. Was Nita disappointed? No. She was more interested in him than ever. Only intensely musical natures could sympathize with the rapture amounting to pain with which she listened to the magic tones of his violin.
The next morning they were to return home. But on the same evening, after the concert, in the reading-room of the hotel, they made Madame Njikitjin's acquaintance. She was a still handsome elderly lady, with correct bearing and very charming manners. She won the Baroness' heart at once, and a few acquaintances gave her the best reports of the family of the stranger.
She laughed at Nita's enthusiasm, flattered the young girl, flattered the mother, and finally promised to take Nita with her to Lensky's two other concerts, for which no places were to be bad. The Baroness was boundlessly inexperienced. The day after the concert she left Vienna, leaving Nita under the Njikitjin's protection, who had promised to personally escort the young girl back to her mother.
The same day, Nita learned to know her great man at Madame Njikitjin's, who laughingly described to him the young girl's enthusiasm, and called her nothing but Senta. And Nita only looked at him with her clear, childish eyes, and could not say a word. He must have been of stone not to be touched by this pure and deep enthusiasm. He was not of stone. She pleased him--pleased him unusually. No one could be so charming as he if he wished.
With other great men, we have a stiff neck from looking up to their unapproachable loftiness. But nothing of the kind with him. The timidity which had at first oppressed her wholly vanished before the winning heartiness of his manner. How pleasantly he listened to her gay little anecdotes! Sometimes he leaned a little forward in the course of conversation, gazed into her eyes, then suddenly kissed her hand and laughed--laughed without her having the slightest suspicion of what had been so droll in her story. At coming and going he kissed her on the forehead; when he talked with her, he sometimes took her hand in his and stroked it kindly, paternally. She was proud of every little distinction. And while she felt a kind of reverence for him, Lensky's surrounders began to mock and laugh at her enthusiasm. She did not notice it at that time, but later, every significant look came back to her memory, and for a year sent the blood to her face.
When the day of farewell came, she was unspeakably sad and did not conceal it. Instead of calming her with a pleasant word, he smiled uneasily, constrainedly, at her emotion.
He promised to see her that evening at Njikitjin's, in the hotel. When he came, the Russian was not at home. It did not occur to Nita to ask herself if she should receive him under the circumstances. He was different from usual. He fell into brooding silence; now suddenly seized her hand, then freed it. He sprang up and walked uneasily about the room. Suddenly he sat down near her and took both her hands in his. Something in his face startled her and she drew them away. He seized them and kissed them. Then--then he said something which admitted of but one interpretation. He--to her!
Beside herself, she sprang up to leave the room. But before she had reached the door, he came up to her. Was that really he--the man with the red face and shining eyes? Even to-day the desperate cry of fear which she gave rings in her ears. Steps approached from without; he let her go.
Yes, that was the end of all the touching kindness, of all the heaven-aspiring enthusiasm.
The next day the Njikitjin was to have taken her back to her mother. She did not wait for that. By the earliest train, she secretly hurried from Vienna. A few hours later she lay in bed with a violent fever. When, six weeks later, still very weak, and holding to the furniture for support, she entered her little boudoir, dust lay everywhere thick and gray, even on his picture, so that it was quite unrecognizable. She took the picture and wished to burn it. She could not. As she held it over the coals, it seemed to her as if she would throw something living into the fire--and she only hid it and did nothing further.
For a full year after her recovery she could bear no music. She had liked to draw from childhood, without thinking much of this talent with her passion for music, but in her great depression it served to distract her thoughts. At her urgent request, her mother left Austria and settled in Paris with her daughter, who now devoted herself to painting.
When her mother died, the despair which Nita felt at this loss for the first time completely pushed the old recollection in the background. She had scarcely thought of it until the day when for love of Sonia she had let herself be persuaded to attend Lensky's concert. When she heard him play, when at those wonderful tones the old intoxication overpowered her, then also awoke a horror of the fascination which this man had for her, and with this horror the great hatred which she had felt for years, a boundless loathing. She wished him ill with all her heart; she, who formerly would not have hurt a hair of any one's head, could not think of anything that would be painful enough to sufficiently wound him.
She is revenged; the blow has fallen! But what is that? She looks back, the recollection of the fearful scene makes no impression on her, shrinks together, grows dim--it is gone. She seeks her hatred in her heart, and cannot find it.
The Jeliagins' trunks have already gone with the maid to the railway station. The carriage which is to take the two ladies already stands waiting. In vain has Barbara represented to her daughter how this precipitate flight will make Mascha's position much worse, how it will be almost impossible to conceal the misfortune.
Not an hour longer than was necessary to arrange her affairs would Anna consent to remain, and, as always, the mother had obeyed her daughter's command. But at the last moment, when she and Anna stood in the vestibule, she, so to speak, broke loose from the chain. "I--I have forgotten something--I must get something." With these words she rushes up the stairs, stumbling, treading on her dress at every step, and knocks at Mascha's door.
"What do you want?" calls out Lensky, harshly, while he comes out to her.
"I would like to see Mascha. I--I would like to give her a kiss before I go," murmured the old woman, and tears are on her wrinkled cheeks. "She was a good child--always very good to me. Please--please let me in to her."
He steps back, lets her in. She bends over the bed, over the girl glowing and trembling with fever. "Maschenka, good-by, my little soul. I love you. I will always love you," murmured she, and stroked the child and wished to kiss her; but Maschenka hid her face in the pillows, and half mad with shame, repulsed her aunt with an impatient shrug of her shoulders, and suppressed weeping.
"God keep you, Maschenka!" murmured the old woman.
"What shall he keep?" cried out Lensky, pointing to the bed, with horrible bitterness. Then, seizing her roughly by her thin arm, he pushed her out of the room.
Now she has gone; the house has been empty for an hour. He sits near Mascha's bed as he has sat there since yesterday, and she lies there silently, with her face to the wall. It is eight o'clock. The front door bell rings--rings again. It is so long before the door is opened. Who may it be? The kitchen maid knocks at the door.
"What is it?"
"A lady desires to speak with monsieur."
"No one can see me."
"I told her that, but she would not be denied; she desires to see monsieur. It is about something very important, she said."
"Did she, at least, give her name?"
"No, she would not; but she is certainly a distinguished lady."
"So! And she would not be denied." He draws down his mouth, scornfully. "Where is she waiting?"
"In the drawing-room."
"Well, stay here until I come back. Do not leave the room an instant! Do you hear? I will be back immediately."
With that he goes down-stairs.
With an angry, repellent word on his lips, he enters the drawing-room, where the chairs are disarranged and the dust lies untouched on the furniture.
A tall, slender figure comes to meet him, quickly, and at the same time hesitatingly, evidently urged forward by hearty compassion, and yet held back by that oppressing timidity and reverence with which noble natures approach a great pain. Now he sees her more distinctly, starts. "You here?" he cries out. "What do you wish?"
"To help you," says she, simply.
"You?" He looks at her, astonished. At first he would like to deny the affair, to bring forward the fable of contagious illness which Kasin has promised to spread as the cause of the Jeliagins' flight. But Nita's face teaches him that here no deception can avail. "You know?" he murmurs, scarcely audibly, without looking at her.
"Yes."
"And you wish to help me--you?"
The blood rushes to her cheeks. The situation is unbearable for a girl of delicate feelings; but who would be influenced by foolish prudery when it is a question of caring for a sick one whom no one else will care for?
"Has Mascha confessed to you?" she asks, softly.
"No."
"Is she perfectly conscious?"
"I do not know. She has not spoken a word since yesterday; she lies there with her face to the wall. She has a strong fever, but the doctor says it is of no importance; she will recover in two or three days.And I have not the courage to give her an opiate." He says all this in an unnatural, choked voice. "You wish to help me? How will you help me?" he groans defiantly and bitterly.
"Let me speak with her," begs Nita. "We have always loved each other, she and I."
"Yes, you were very good to her, I know; she has spoken to me of you; but you will only needlessly torment her--she will not speak. And of what use is it? Nothing can be done--nothing." He stamps his foot.
"Let me go to her--I have a suspicion, a clew. It sounds trite and foolish to say so, but if any one can help you, it is I."
For a moment he hesitates; then turning to go, he cries out: "Well, come then."
She follows him across the hall, up the mud-covered stairs, to Mascha's room.
"Leave me alone with her," she begs.
And he leaves her alone; meanwhile walks up and down the corridor. Sometimes he stops and listens. At first he hears nothing but a soft, coaxing, persuasive voice; then a sharp, involuntary cry--another----
"She will not speak, why torture her so?" he says to himself. He turns the knob of the door. Then he hears violent weeping, opens the door, sees Nita sitting on the low bed and holding the head of the sobbing child in her lap. She motions to him to withdraw; he does it. He stands before the door and listens as one listens for the heart-beats of a person to convince one's self whether he still lives. He can hear nothing plainly, but still he listens. At first he hears nothing but the same pitiful sobs, hears a calm, caressing voice, soft, sad, compassionate. Now she is silent; he hears hoarse, unrecognizable sounds. Is that Mascha's voice? How long she speaks--at first in short, broken sentences, then fluently; if he could only understand a word of what she says! He still listens--nothing more. Now it is Nita again who speaks, then follows a long pause, a hearty kiss, and Nita comes out in the corridor to him, very tearful, very pale.
"Well, did she confess to you?" asks Lensky, anxiously.
"Yes, but I must swear to her not to betray anything to you. Do not ask, do not torment the child. To-day is Wednesday; next Monday you shall hear from me. Until then she has promised me to make no new attempt to take her life. She will keep her word."
Herewith Nita turns to go. Suddenly she hesitates, turns once more to him: "I will only tell you it was a misfortune, it was very little her fault. I am astonished at the magnanimity which is betrayed in every word of her confession."
"It is very noble of you to think of telling me that," murmured he. "I know it was not her fault, it is only I who am to blame. That does not make the affair better."
"I hope for a good result," murmured Nita embarrassedly.
"I do not," said he, harshly; then detaining her, he adds: "But it was good in you to come. The others have run away, all, as if the pest had broken out in the house; and you, you have come--you! I thank you!"
Mascha's confession had more deeply shocked Nita than she thought. So much touching, childish simplicity spoke from every sad word. Another would have excused herself, would have ascribed her sin to circumstances, to her seducer. This poor little sinner took all upon herself. It had happened, she did not know how; she had lost her head from anxiety and remorse on his account.
Especially the conclusion of the confession had gone to Nita's heart. "Do you see," Maschenka had whispered still more softly than before, "formerly I knew nothing of all this; I had no suspicion; I was quite--quite stupid. But since then I have listened when the 'big people'"--she is still so childish that she speaks of adults as big people---"spoke, and I have read the newspapers and all sorts of books in the endless nights in which I could not sleep. And now I know that I am what people call--an abandoned woman." And as Nita, with consoling caresses, assured her:
"He will do his duty to you--he will--he must!" Mascha had only sobbed more violently, and murmured:
"What duty has one to a girl who runs after one, who throws herself at his head? He was so kind to me--I thought it was love, and I thought love was something so grand, beautiful. It was no love with him; it was only pity at first, and then it was scorn. Why was I so foolish? It is past. Let me put my life out of the world, and everything go on in its usual course. It was fearfully hard for me to jump into the water that time; how long ago is it? Yesterday--really yesterday! I was so afraid of death, and life seemed so beautiful to me in spite of everything. Now that is over too; I no longer understand life."
Nita must promise her not to betray Bärenburg's name to her father. "Of what use? He saved Colia's life. Colia is weaponless against him; but father--he--he would kill him. I do not wish him to be harmed; why should I? Ah, Nita, you dear, good angel! if I had only found you at home that time!"
Thus closed the little confession.
Nita has long forgotten that at first Mascha's case had caused her disgust. She no longer thinks of Lensky's horrible behavior; her whole heart is filled with pity and the strong, urgent desire to help.
She must go to London, speak with Karl, that is certain. But how to do it? It needs some pondering, but before she retires that evening her plan is ready. She knows that if Mascha's good name is to be restored at all as she plans, the work must proceed as quietly as possible, and no one must suspect the levers which set it in motion. She must travel alone, without her maid. The thought disturbs her not a little. Strange!
She is ready to go through fire for Mascha, to enter into the most painful explanation with her cousin; but to pass a night in a London hotel without sufficient protection, she is not ready.
At last she finds a way. She begs Miss Wilmot to telegraph her arrival to the former's sister-in-law in London, and to claim shelter in her house for her. She knows that she can count on Mrs. Wilmot's hospitality, all the more as Nita had entertained her for a fortnight the past autumn.
The telegram will arrive three or four hours before her; that is sufficient. Then she makes her little travelling preparations, goes to bed, and sleeps as soundly as we sleep when we are wearied by a great moral shock.
About six in the morning she rises, fresh and courageous, with a hopeful heart. Sonia, somewhat pale and tearful, but calm and obliging as usual, gives her her tea, and with great care packs sandwiches in her travelling bag.
"Shall you come back to me when you have had enough of Vichy--you and your father?" Nita asks her friend in the course of conversation.
"In any case I will visit you, to take leave of you, dear; but our dear comrade-life I must, alas! give up," replies Sonia. "Papa is tired of his bachelor-life, and wishes to have a home. I must naturally do as he wishes. It is hard, but what can I do?" She sighs, and at the same time carefully ties up her package of sandwiches.
"And your art?" asks Nita, smiling.
"Ah, my art," repeats Sophie. "That is the most indifferent part of the matter for me. I have not worked by your side for a year in vain, my heart. Less time would have sufficed to teach me how great is the difference between my mediocre skill and your truly great talent. That is over, Nita; I will miss my art a little, but the being with you very painfully."
"I shall also miss you very much, faithless one, but your room shall be ready for you at any time. Another shall never take your place, that I promise you; and when you wish to pass a few weeks in Paris, you know who will receive you with open arms."
"Oh, you dear love! How often I shall remember you. The time I have spent with you will always be the most beautiful part of my life!" sighs Sonia.
"So! Do you think so? We will hope not; I foresee very much happiness for you." And stroking Sophie's hand, Nita adds in a softer tone: "It will all turn out as you wish and as you deserve, you brave little thing, you!"
Meanwhile the carriage was announced.
"I may, at least, accompany you to the station?" begs Sophie. On the steps of the coupé, with the last embrace, she murmurs to her friend, who has concealed the true reason of her sudden departure under a trivial pretext: "I know why you are going to England; I have guessed. God bless you and your undertaking. Farewell!"
As soon as Nita has arrived in London, and going to the light, roomy, comfortable chamber prepared for her, has removed some of the dust of travel, she writes the following note to Bärenburg: