"Dear Karl:--I beg you to have the kindness to call upon me in the course of the morning at Oakley Lodge, No. 7 Holland Lane. I have something important to speak to you about. If you cannot come in the morning, be so good as to fix an hour at which I can expect you with certainty.
"Your old cousin,
"Nita."
Twenty-four hours have passed since her arrival in London. A sleepless night in which she has with difficulty prepared what she will say to her cousin, and never could find the right words, lies behind her. Breakfast is over--lunch. Afternoon begins to lose itself in evening. Bärenburg has not appeared. That he might stay away, might not notice her letter, had never occurred to her.
She had always stood on the best footing with her cousin. From youth he had had a weakness for his charming, talented, only, alas! so "deplorably eccentric, cousin." Never had he refused her any favor she had asked him, and if she had sent for him, he had always come sooner than she expected him. No, never for an instant had she doubted that he would come. If she had felt excited and anxious the whole morning, it was only from dislike of the unpleasant explanation with him. Now she knew very well what she would say to him. She need only describe Mascha's grief to him, her touching fear of exposing him, her eagerness for death.
Hour by hour passes; he does not appear. Then there is a knock at her door. "A letter for you, m'm," says the maid, and hands her a little note. She recognizes Bärenburg's writing; hastily she unfolds it and reads:
"Dear Nita:--I am very sorry that I could not come today. I will do my utmost to visit you to-morrow. I cannot, alas! say positively, as I leave London to-morrow afternoon, and before then have a fearful amount of business."With the truest regret,"Your faithful cousin,"Karl."
"Dear Nita:--I am very sorry that I could not come today. I will do my utmost to visit you to-morrow. I cannot, alas! say positively, as I leave London to-morrow afternoon, and before then have a fearful amount of business.
"With the truest regret,
"Your faithful cousin,
"Karl."
The note falls from her hands.
He has guessed what it is--he evades her. That is plain from every stiff, awkward line of this forced note. How he could guess it she does not know, but she knows that it has all been lost by her hesitating, prudish delay. She should have appeared before him unexpectedly, before he had had time to steel himself against her.
His fear of meeting her already betrays his irresoluteness. She knows that he is idle, pleasure-loving, and selfish, but yet kind-hearted, easily moved to pity, almost morbidly sensitive. She knows that as long as he can he will avoid an unpleasant situation, but she also knows that he is as--yes, more susceptible to good influences than bad. But all will fail from her pitiful smallness.
Half mad with rage at herself, she would now be ready to defy all prejudices to attain her aim. But one thought holds her back from going to his hotel. At this hour she probably will not find him home, and if she does, as he is evidently suspicious, he will deny himself. She seats herself at her writing-table. The words which she had in vain sought yesterday crowd upon her now--burning, impressive words with which she describes Mascha's position, the inexcusable conduct of the Jeliagins, who, instead of allaying gossip and concealing the affair, cost what it might, rather confirm the worst rumors by their flight; touching words in which she speaks of Mascha's generosity, her fear lest he should be harmed. "This fear of the poor child is the reason that I have turned to you," she concludes. "That the part I take is unpleasant, you have certainly guessed. At first it was not only unpleasant but tormenting. But I will carry it out, and I will attain my aim. I have not only the unfortunate girl's grief, I have your conscience on my side. I know that you are in a hard position. I pity you with all my heart; but together with Mascha's life, all the inward peace of your future existence is at stake. Is it possible that you have no heart for this poor, weak, touching being? I can never forget how, her charming little face hidden in the folds of my dress, she sobbed out her painful confession to me. Her weak, weary, tormented, childish voice will not leave my ears!"
After she had addressed the letter, from fear that the post might not deliver it quickly enough, she gave it to a messenger with the order to deliver it immediately.
The following night she did not close her eyes. She was dressed at six o'clock. She still hoped that he would come, but it struck eleven--twelve. He did not come.
Then suddenly an idea occurred to her. Lady Banbury! If any one could help her it was she. She might be back in London, although her last letter was dated from Mortimar Castle. Nita dons hat and gloves and hurries out on the street, while she takes the first hansom she sees.
"Manchester Square, No. 34, and make haste!" she cries. She knows Lady Banbury's strong character, knows she can count on her in case she is in London.
The hansom stops; with beating heart Nita asks the servant who opens the door: "Lady Banbury at home?"
The servant answers he does not know, he will see. Nita scratches a few words on her card, and he vanishes.
A few moments she waits, and then he returns and conducts her up-stairs into a large, comfortable room. Here sits Lady Banbury. At Nita's entrance she rises and goes to meet the girl with open arms. "My dear child, what a surprise! How glad I am! What brings you to London--yes, what is it? You are deathly pale. You are struggling against tears."
"Ah, dear Lady Banbury," says Nita, "I come to you in a desperate emergency in which your assistance alone can avail. Please--do not refuse me!"
"Tell me--but first come to yourself, dear child!"
Nita sits down. A load has fallen from her heart. There in the Rembrandt half-light of the old lady's pretty boudoir she unburdens her overflowing heart to Lady Banbury. At first hesitatingly, then more fluently and impressively, she tells the old lady Mascha's story, does what she can to win her for the poor little girl, forgets none of the many little features which are proofs of Mascha's incomparable goodness of heart, and of the blind innocence which led her to her misfortune. Then, as she suddenly, in her enthusiasm, looks up at Lady Banbury, and perceives that her face has grown stiff and stern, in her great despair she throws herself down on the carpet before her, and clasping her knees, she cries: "Oh, I beg you, do not look so severe. I know that it is all horrible. I am no more lenient than you; but one must be sorry for Mascha. I have not found the right words to describe it to you, or else----"
"You misunderstand me," says Lady Banbury, very earnestly. "My severity is not for the child. I am older than you. I know how easily, with such neglect as the poor daughter of my friend Natalie experienced, the like can occur. One has such a crowd of theories--that innocence is the best protection, etc. One lets girls of the best families run about the streets alone, and at the same time they are not permitted to read a modern novel. My hair stands on end when I hear of such insensateness. I am heartily sorry for the poor child. I saw her last winter; she was a charming little thing. Lensky is inexcusable--he and his sister-in-law."
"Yes, certainly," says, shyly, Nita, who has slowly risen. "But that does not alter Maschenka's unhappiness. Do you think that it is still possible to save her?"
Lady Banbury shrugs her shoulders.
"Is there no hope?" sobs Nita.
"I will do what I can to arrange it," says Lady Banbury, "but it is a very unfortunate affair. Men are curious beings; they pardon most hardly the sins which one has committed for their sake."
In the Jeliagins' little sandy garden behind the house sits Lensky with his daughter. It is Sunday afternoon. Upon his gentle, loving persuasion, she has left her bed for the first time. As the maid had left the house with the Jeliagins, the kitchen maid, with her red, swollen, awkward, but kind hands, has dressed her, slowly, as one dresses an invalid who will not or cannot help herself. When she was ready, they could not at first induce her to leave the room. With little steps, trembling and tottering, she dragged herself to the door, leaning on her father's arm; but then she suddenly turned round, and clinging with a wild gesture to the bed-posts, she declared with rigid obstinacy: "No--no--no!" until she at length, half exhausted by opposition, half calmed by her father's tender assurances that she would certainly see no one, with her head hidden on his shoulder, let him carry her down-stairs.
The sight of every object which reminded her of her past life, of the outer world, is indescribably painful to her.
Now they sit together on a hard green bench in the warm summer afternoon. The little garden is quite filled with transparent gray shadows. It is very quiet--Sunday quiet. Lensky's eyes fasten on his child. He uneasily seeks something which he may tell her without humiliating her, without paining her.
"Maschenka!"
"Papa!"
"Listen! do you hear how prettily that bird sings? I would not have thought that a city bird could have such a sweet voice."
She looks up. "Yes, papa," murmurs she, and bows her head anew.
Compassionately his eyes follow every movement of the poor child. They have put a white morning dress on her. She is sallow, her cheeks are sunken. Still her little face is unspeakably, touchingly attractive.
"As soon as you are better, we will play a great deal together," he begins, after awhile.
Mascha does not answer. He repeats his words. Then she looks up, confused, distracted. "What did you say? I--I did not hear," murmured she.
"Of what are you thinking, then, Mascha?"
"Of what? I--I only thought how all will be now," stammered she, and stares at the ground.
Yes, how will it be? He also thinks of that. He does not believe in the success of Nita's undertaking; he would not have let himself be forced to marry in such a case. And what then? Suppose he marries Mascha to some philosopher who surrenders himself for her few groschen? The present would at least be covered thus, but what of the future? Humiliation--ill treatment! No, he will not give his child to that--no, no! He alone will care for her, be all in all to her, recompense her for everything with his love. His pride will not permit him to return to his fatherland with his dishonored child, but he will make a home for her in the most beautiful place in the world, in Sorrento, or somewhere in southern France. He will keep her like a princess, distract her by his art, read with her, teach her, surround her with lovely flowers, with all beautiful objects before which she need not lower her eyes.
With fearful bitterness, he suddenly breaks off this air-castle building. That is all nonsense--sentimental dotage. A moment will yet come when longing for companions will overcome her. Those with whom his daughter should associate will not have anything to do with her; but others, women who are lenient from eccentricity, and others again who have their reasons for it, an hysterically mad, or amusing, dissolute crowd, without every moral restraint, will assemble round the child. And then--Mascha has his blood in her veins; without any healthy amusement, without good examples in her associates, without any urgent reason longer to restrain herself, she will give the reins to her temperament. He will see her sink--she, his darling, his white lamb--sink, sink!
All at once she shudders, springs up. "What is it, Mascha?" he asks, lovingly, holding her back by the hand.
"I heard a window open--there in the house in the rear; people see me from there. I--I want to go back to the house. I cannot bear it, father," whimpers she. She wishes to free herself from him by force. Then there is a ring of the door-bell. Mascha stands still. Who is it? Is not that Nita who asks for her?
Yes! The door leading into the garden opens; Nita enters, pale, weary, but with beaming eyes. She catches the child in her arms. "Maschenka," whispers she, "all is well. I have only come before to prepare you; in a few minutes he is here and begs you for forgiveness."
Maschenka's eyes grow staring. She clutches her temples with both hands.
"Do not faint, my darling; there is no time now for that," whispers Nita, anxiously.
"No--no." Mascha looks shamefacedly at her white wrapper.
Nita unties a black lace fichu from her neck, and binds it round the child's neck; then she smooths her hair.
The house-door opens; a cry, the old, soft bird-cry which Lensky loved so, only stronger than formerly, full of piercing, painful sweetness, with wide, outstretched arms, Mascha rushes past Nita, past her father, into the house.
Nita wishes to go. Lensky holds her back. "You have done that--you--for me," said he, "and you will not even give me time to thank you?"
"I do not deserve any thanks--it all arranged itself!" murmurs she.
"So!" he smiled bitterly. "I know how it would have arranged itself without you."
His voice is warmer, but she steps back from him.
"I understand you," he murmurs. "Go!"
She goes a few steps toward the door; then she suddenly turns, goes up to him, and reaches him her hand.
He looks her full in the eyes. "May I?" he asks.
As she nods affirmatively, he presses her hand, but not to his lips, but lets it sink. He kneels down before the young girl, and kisses the hem of her dress. A wonderfully relieved feeling has come over him. It seems to him that he is freed from a burden--a burden of oppressive scorn of mankind, which, with a breath of relief, he has laid down at the feet of this young, pure, warm-hearted being.
"You are a saint," he murmured. "God pay you my debt!"
Thus they part.
The rescue is accomplished; Mascha is saved.
For a while Lensky remains alone in the garden, then he goes in the house. Fear of disturbing his daughter in her happiness, longing to rejoice in the sight of this happiness, alike agitate him.
From the drawing-room sound voices--very softly, interrupted with long pauses.
The drawing-room door is not tightly closed; Lensky looks through the crack.
Happiness? Where is the happiness? They sit near each other, hand in hand; he embarrassed; she humiliated, shy.
"That cannot remain thus; it is not possible that it should remain thus," Lensky's warm, wild heart cries out. "Take her in your arms," he would like to call to the young man; "bury her shame in your tenderness, raise her broken self-respect by your love!"
It must still happen thus, he must clasp her to his breast, kiss and console her.
Lensky waits, waits breathlessly, fairly spying for a change of affairs; but nothing changes. And suppressing a deep sigh, he turns away.
"That is a rehabilitation, but no happiness!"
A November day--a November day in Venice, and what weather! The plaster wet, the wall smoking with dampness, the water in the canals cloudy, the atmosphere gray and cold, filled with gray mist, and nowhere a sunbeam.
In a large, desolate room, with picturesque bow-windows, sets Mascha at a writing-table. She is reckoning, evidently racking her brains over the great problem how to make ten francs pay for a hundred francs' worth. Sometimes she pauses thoughtfully. Then she pushes the account-book from her, and begins to write a letter. The letter will not come to an end.
She lays aside the pen, and with a quick, angry gesture crumples the sheet. "No, I cannot--I cannot inflict that upon you, father!" she murmurs to herself. She leans her head on her hand; the pen lies unused beside-her.
More than four years have passed since Mascha's marriage to Karl Bärenburg. When at that time the news had first circulated in Austria of the distinguished marriage which the daughter of the Russian violinist was to make, many envious, malicious words fell from the lips of ambitious maidens. But in initiated circles it was known that the existence of the young Countess Bärenburg offered little that was enviable. Her husband's parents denied their daughter-in-law, and cut off all subsidies from their son. Mascha's very large dowry from Lensky made the whole material basis of the young household. Shortly after his marriage, Bärenburg had had himself transferred to Japan; from there to Rio. Now, for almost two years, he had been without a post; led with his family--now in Pau, now in Nice, at length in Venice--the unsteady, incessantly striving for something better, wandering existence of a man who is no longer at ease in his social relations.
Mascha has cares enough. Three or four photographs of her father, all those which Natalie had formerly loved to have about her, stand on Mascha's writing-desk. She picks up one and looks at it lovingly. How long it is since she has seen him--not since her wedding-day--and how she longs for him! And then she is worried about him; she knows too little of him. He was never a minute letter-writer. Now he writes more seldom than ever. The few lines which he sends her at long intervals are very kind and loving, but he writes nothing of himself. What little she knows of him, she knows through strangers. She knows that for four years he has wholly retired from the world, that he has resumed anew his creative activity, written very much, but published nothing; that of late a fanatic Russian national enthusiasm has developed in him, a passion for hunting up all sort of Sclavonian musical chimeras. She knows also that he who was accounted the most atheistic of the men of his time has become more and more wrapped up in that insane and pessimistic mysticism into which the greatest Russians fall on the threshhold of old age, while they, instead of calmly accepting the incomprehensibility of creation, drive themselves mad in explaining the inexplicable.
She knows all that; but how he is, whether he is well, happy, she does not know. She would like to have him near her, care for him, pet him, alleviate the feebleness and thousand bitternesses of his age by tender arts; would like to warm herself on his strong heart; find healing for her wounded, weary soul in his tenderness. How plainly she sees him before her! "Why does he not come?" She has so often begged him. Ah, why does he not come?
Through the plashing of the waves which sob at the feet of the old palace is heard the creaking of an approaching gondola. Mascha listens. In her solitary life a visit is an event and seldom a pleasant one. The gondola stops. A rough, deep voice speaks a few words below. Mascha starts up. Is it possible? Surely not; it is a foolish fancy which deceives her. A heavy, awkward step approaches the door. "Father!" cries Mascha, and throws herself on his breast. "Father, how do you come here?--but no, do not answer; what does it matter why you are here, when only I have you! Ah, what happiness!" And she laughs and cries and kisses his deeply furrowed cheeks again and again, and strokes his rough hair.
"Really, really, still the old joy, my soul, my little dove! How dear you are! Do not be so foolish, my angel!" he says. "It is not suitable for a young wife to rejoice so in her old father." He wipes the tears from her cheeks with his handkerchief, and pushing her a little from him, he looks at her with a long, tender, scrutinizing glance. "So!" says he. "Now I can more easily imagine how you look in your normal condition, without eyes red from weeping. You have changed greatly, my angel; you have grown and are stouter, and the old round-cheeked, childish face is no more--you have become a beautiful woman, very beautiful." His glance wanders proudly over her tall, superb figure. "Your husband may be satisfied with you."
"He is always very good to me," assures Mascha, blushing slightly.
"Good to you!" repeats Lensky, bending forward, while his glance becomes more piercing, more attentive. "Yes, yes; you have always praised him greatly in your letters, and you often write me of your happiness. Still, I wished to convince myself of it----"
"I must be the most unthankful woman in the world if I complained," Mascha quickly assured him; "and I think you have long owed us your visit," she adds. "I--that is, both of us, Karl and I--had often begged you to come. You cannot have longed to see us much."
"So, do you think so, little dove?" says Lensky, smiling, and strokes her hair. "Shall I tell you the truth, child? Well, your husband embarrasses me. I am not suited to him. How should such a Russian bear be to such a polished western European dandy? But do not fear, Maschenka; I will put up with him on your account----"
"You will still stay with us, father?" she urges, without further noticing his remark.
"No; I have my quarters in the Europa," replies he. "I will not cause you any inconvenience."
"Inconvenience! How can you speak so?" says Mascha, angrily. "No, you shall not deprive me of the pleasure. We have room enough, that is the cheapest thing in Venice. Ah! what would it be if you lived in a hotel, and would come to me as guest in an especially well-brushed coat, in the afternoons? I must have you the whole day, from the moment you open your eyes. I must bring the children in their night-dresses to your bed. They are so cunning when they rub the sleep out of their eyes. I must show you Natascha in her bath. I must pour you your tea at breakfast, and butter your bread--that is--" The young wife suddenly grows confused. "How foolish I am! Perhaps you do not wish all that? You are much more independent in a hotel. It might be a burden----"
"You foolish Mascha," he interrupts her, touched. "If it really causes you no disturbance, have my luggage fetched immediately from the Europa, and I will spend the few days with you. But now show me my grandchildren; the little pictures of them which you sent me were very nice."
"Harry has gone with the servant to hear the music on the St. Mark's Place, and the little one is asleep. Come and see her."
She took him by the hand and led him through one or two bare and immense rooms to a very neat little chamber, in which stood a cradle, and an Italian nurse in a red dress busied herself with sewing. "There!" whispered Mascha, pushing back the white tulle curtains of the cradle. "Is she not charming?"
A child of perhaps nine months lay among the pillows. It was no longer asleep, but its blue eyes were wide open. When it perceived its mother, it gave a short, clear cry of joy; Mascha raised it from the pillows. It looked very charming in its white night-dress, with its delicate blond head where one could yet see the skin under the golden-brown curls.
"Give grandpa a kiss, Natascha--that is, if you are not afraid of a wet little mouth, papa," said Mascha.
"She is very large for her age," said Lensky, after he had taken the child, who did not show the slightest fear of him, in his arms.
"I believe you," replies Mascha, proudly. "But give her to the nurse. She will bore you, and, besides, she must be dressed."
When the child saw her mother leave the room, she began to cry loudly. Mascha started a little, but meanwhile closed the door behind her.
"She does that every time that I leave her," says Mascha, "and I am so foolish that it always goes to my heart. You do not know how hard it is not to turn back, but I must not spoil her too much."
In the drawing-room Bärenburg came to meet them, his little son beside him. Lensky's face immediately grew gloomy, and even Mascha's looks betokened uneasiness. "A great surprise," she cried out to her husband.
"Oh, no, Marie; I have already heard of it," he replies with the friendly courtesy which was peculiar to him. "Heartily welcome to us, papa." And with that he stretched out his hand to the virtuoso.
Lensky gave him his silently. In vain did he try to force a polite word from his lips. He did not succeed. Bärenburg kissed his young wife, straightened her hair somewhat, raised his little son on his knee, made a few superficial remarks; Lensky answered in monosyllables. With increasing discomfort, Mascha watched the two--her husband, whose condescension was unmistakable; her father, who could not succeed in concealing his hatred. Lensky was right when he asserted that he was ill suited to his son-in-law. Two men could not be worse suited to each other than the old, retired artist and the young, unengaged diplomat.
Bärenburg had not improved in the last years. He had lost the good-for-nothing charm of former days with the frivolity which was the foundation of this charm. His manner betrayed the uneasiness of thedéclassé; he spoke more rapidly than formerly, while he coughed incessantly, repeated phrases, and incessantly reached out his hands for some near-by object. Still he always had a distinguished look and was particular to dandyism about his dress. And Lensky?
In Mascha's eyes her father had grown wonderfully handsome, now, when the intellectual expression so powerfully predominated in his magnificent old face, and was at the same time united with a trace of sad kindness. What did it matter to her that his hair was still longer and more luxuriant, his clothes shabbier and more slovenly than formerly? The sensual expression which had then disfigured his mouth had wholly disappeared; his lips were thinner, the mouth sunken; in the near-sighted eyes, which only with difficulty perceived the nearest objects, was a look which seemed to gaze into a distance unattainable to us other ordinary mortals.
For Mascha he was something far above the ordinary, almost a God. For Bärenburg he was a badly combed, badly, brushed, badly cared for barbarian, an old violinist whom the world began to forget, a shabby celebrity.
He nevertheless tried evidently to be agreeable to his father-in-law. He commanded his little son, of whose uncommon and aristocratic beauty he was evidently proud, and whom he openly spoiled, to kiss his hand to grandpapa, and when the capricious little fellow refused--yes, even staring distrustfully at the old artist, murmured: "Gipsy!"--he gave him a slap, and sent him to kneel in the corner; a punishment to which the droll little mite immediately submitted with a humorous shrug of the shoulders.
Mascha frowned. "You will dine with us?" she turned to Bärenburg.
"I am, alas! already engaged," replied he. "I promised Pistasch Kamenz----"
"I know," said Mascha; "but still, as we for the first time have the pleasure of entertaining papa in our house----"
"Naturally, I will immediately send a regret to Kamenz. After dinner I must certainly go to the Hotel Britannia to take leave of him. But at least I will stay at home to dinner."
His glance turned to the virtuoso, while it involuntarily remained fixed on his not sufficiently clean hands. Lensky noticed it, and with a mixture of embarrassment and anger, he hid his hand.
"For heaven's sake, do not force yourself to anything on my account!" cried he, sharply.
The situation had become painful, and would certainly have led to rough words, if Harry, who had meanwhile begun to weary of his corner, had not suddenly sprung up, in order to now voluntarily offer to his grandfather the caresses which, with the same capriciousness, he had formerly refused him. With such nimbleness did he hop up on the old man's knee, embraced him so tenderly, offered him with such triumphant roguery his fresh lips for a kiss, that Lensky could not but forget his vexation, and yield to the advances of the petted little prince.
It was not an especially good dinner that Mascha set before her father, and still she had evidently taken pains with it. But the cooking was of that extemporaneous, not well-organized kind which betrays the household where cooking is done for the wife and children only, in consequence of which no especial care is taken, and every culinary luxury forms an exception. The wines, on the contrary, were excellent; the service strikingly correct. Bärenburg appeared in a dress coat, and Mascha also wore evening dress.
In every particular was betrayed the unhomelike one-sidedness of a household in which everything revolves round a spoiled, discontented man who mostly seeks his amusements out of the house.
Bärenburg tried to show his best side. He had all sorts of attentions as host, for his father-in-law, and called Mascha jesting pet names. But still he treated her with the uncertain, tentative tenderness of a man who feels himself in the wrong to his wife, which did not escape Lensky.
About an hour after dinner Bärenburg excused himself after he had offered his father-in-law an especially good cigar, and had kissed his wife's hand and forehead.
Mascha invited her father to play bezique with her. He consented. But they were both so absentminded, played so foolishly, marked so confusedly, that they very soon, teasing each other with their mutual faults, lay down the cards.
Now Lensky absently builds card-houses on the table; Mascha crochets diligently on a child's dress.
"H-m! Your husband goes out often in the evening?" he asks, after a long, thoughtful silence.
"Yes," Mascha answers, calmly.
"And you? Do you go out much?"
"I? I am occupied with the baby."
"The child claims much of your time?"
"Yes," whispers Mascha, and a particularly tender expression creeps over her mouth. "But she is charming--or does she only seem so to me?"
"To me also," assures Lensky. "Just as you looked at her age."
"I hope that she will fare better than I." The young wife lowers her head, blushing deeply, still more over her work, and draws the little dress destined for Natascha to her lips.
Lensky overthrows all his card-houses with an impatient gesture. "You prefer her to Harry?" he asks.
"Yes--I think--she is so loving, so tender, and looks so entirely like our family. I certainly love the boy also, but I cling to the little one, as to Colia and the remembrance of my dead mother."
Lensky drums in silence on the table for a while, then he begins: "Yes, yes, that is all very beautiful; but you are becoming one-sided, Mascha. The consequence is that your husband is too emancipated from you. You will rue that later."
Mascha does not answer a word. Ever more diligently her active fingers busy themselves with the white wool.
"You trouble yourself too little about him," says he, and looks at her sharply.
She crochets and is silent.
"Or"--with a burst of his old, untamable violence, Lensky strikes the table--"or he troubles himself too little about you."
There must have been some mistake in Mascha's work. She unravels a great piece of it. Her father draws the crochet work from her hand. "Leave that stupid stuff," cries he, angrily. "You cannot deceive me with your awkward, helpless comedy. I will see clearly into this affair. What position do you really occupy with your husband?"
Mascha passes her hand wearily over forehead and temples. Lensky is frightened at the unspeakable sadness which he reads on her pale face, now, when the brilliance of joy at seeing him again is gone from the large eyes.
"What position?" murmured she. "The position of a woman who must be thankful for her life long to her husband, for that he has saved her with the protection of his personality from a horrible shame."
"He ill-treats you?"
"No, no! All roughness is foreign to his nature. I have never had to complain of a harsh word from him since we were married; yes, he is even very tender to me." She pauses. "I am not disagreeable to him--" Then she continues, slowly, with more evident bitterness at every word: "But--but he is ashamed of me."
She rises, and pulls at the lamp-shade. Her father confusedly strokes her hand, then suddenly springing up, he cries out: "You poor child!" and clasps her to his breast. She bursts into fierce, not to be quieted sobs, and yet is happy as she had not been for years. What a feeling of warm security in these strong arms! What happiness to thus lean on a man whose caresses are not embittered for us by their compassionate graciousness, who loves us without criticism, blindly.
"Mascha, it is not to be borne that you torment yourself so," says he. "I will not consent. Leave him, and come to me."
But then she slips out of his arms, and says, firmly: "No, father; I will stay at my post."
She smooths her hair mechanically. After a short pause, she continues: "I often felt urged to tell you what makes my life so sad. Ah! how I longed for your compassion! And I wrote long letters to you, in which I confessed all, and then tore them up again, because, in the last moment, fear of saddening you conquered everything. But now, as you have guessed it, I will once--once--complain of my grief. What I have suffered in my married life, I cannot describe to you. I thought at first it would be better if I had a child. When Harry came I was glad that my husband was proud of him, but I felt that I was not necessary to the child. Sometimes I told myself that I was in my husband's way, that my death would bring about a reconciliation between him and his parents. And once I was so restless and inconsolable that I was within a hair's breadth of running away from him. I would even have left him the boy. But--it was not the moment to run away, and when baby came I knew that I must bear it, that no one could guard my treasure as I. No one can replace a mother to her daughter, and even if Karl left her to me, a separated wife is still only a discredited mother--a mother without authority. And what is the position of the daughter of a separated wife?--and a separated wife in my circumstances? I would rather bear all the bitterness in the world than risk the future of my child."
For a moment he is silent; then he takes her hand and draws it to his lips. "You are right, Mascha!" said he. "Bear your cross patiently. Nothing weighs more heavily upon one than the consciousness to have forfeited the happiness of those whom one loves. All else is only a trifle--all!"
Now he was in his room, the room which Mascha had prepared for him with such loving care. For the first time in years he was in a home. Everything about him was simple but home-like; a few flowers, a few tasteful ornaments, several photographs in pretty little frames. Every article of furniture had a physiognomy which bade him welcome. A feeling of home-like warmth and satisfaction overcame him. He looked about him with emotion. She had taken such pains, poor Mascha! There stood a picture of Colia as a four-year-old boy; there she was herself, as a baby, with bare little arms; and there, everywhere, pictures of Natalie. She had collected everything that could please him. He could have felt so happy if--if--ah! He held his hand before his eyes. How beautiful it might have been, and how horrible it all was! His son he had not seen since that fearful farewell evening in the Hôtel Westminster; all tenderness had vanished from their relations. At regular intervals he received stiff, formal letters from Nikolai, in which the young diplomat related the most important events of his life--that was all. Lensky knew that Nikolai advanced rapidly and brilliantly in his career; he guessed that his son, in spite of all, felt dissatisfied, and his heart remained closed to his father.
Mascha? That was quite different; she had never found anything to criticise in him, her love had ever remained the same. But she was unhappy, miserably unhappy--she, his darling, his idol. And whose fault was it, then?
With the manner of a being weighed down by a burden, he sinks into an arm-chair. What had he done? how was it, really? He had loved them all so boundlessly--Natalie and the children--and still, what had really driven him into this desolate, restless existence which resolved itself into disgust and misery? It had always been the same, even in these last years it had sometimes come over him; but now it was over, his nature had entered upon a new phase, the wild thirst for pleasure was quenched; he was weary--weary unto death.
He sought something supernatural to support him. A mysterious longing tormented him. From without sounded the plashing of the waves, monotonous, sad, hopeless, like the sobs of a rejected human being driven out into the cold.
Had no one knocked on the window? He sprang up, flung open the window. He trembled in every limb, cold sweat stood on his brow. The lamp threw long, trembling, wavering rays of light on the rippling water. As if built of shadows, like the ghosts of a city long dead, rose the palaces in the moonlight, dimmed by drifting clouds. The sirocco brooded over the lagunes. A soft breeze, the gentle warmth of a passing caress, blew over his cheek. He heard the tender sound of a sympathetic human voice close to his ear; it was Natalie's voice, but she spoke a strange language. He did not understand her. His heart stopped beating in breathless listening; he stretched out his arms--it was over, all vanished, all was vacancy!
He closed his lips tightly and groped for a chair. For years, at times, the same alluring, incomprehensible fancy pervaded him. The first time, he had fought against it with the whole strength of his intellect, had ascribed it all to an overexcitement of his nerves; now he firmly believed in a supernatural apparition. She came ever nearer, but he could never reach her. He tried to think of other things. He sought a book, a newspaper, which he might read to distract his mind, but found none. He remembered that he had left a new romance by Daudet, which he had glanced over before dinner, when Mascha had left him to dress, in the drawing-room. With a light in his hand, he went to get the book. He fancied that Mascha had long since retired. To his great astonishment, he heard voices in the drawing-room. He opened the door. There sat the young couple. Bärenburg was very pale. His head was bowed. An expression of deep shame lay on his finely cut face. One saw plainly that this was no bad man, but only a weak one, who, torn from his natural condition of life, could not thrive in strange ground. A thick necklace of pearls lay on the table.
At Lensky's entrance, Mascha, as well as her husband, turned her head. She had evidently been crying, but still tried to take on a pleasant, indifferent expression. It went to Lensky's heart to see how she restrained herself to spare him a pang.
"Do not force yourself to smile," said he, going straight up to her. "It is of no use." He seized the pearl necklace and looked at it with peculiar emotion. "I have understood!"
For a moment there was utter silence, then Bärenburg began, constrainedly: "You must not take the situation so desperately--it is only an inconvenient moment--naturally very painful to me, very----"
Lensky interrupted him. "It is better that we do not speak of it," cried he, crimson with restrained rage, and with hoarse, quite gasping voice; "if I once begin, I would say things to you which a nobleman could not pardon me, and I do not wish to quarrel with you--not on account of my child--but--but--" He grasped his throat with both hands. "No, I shall suffocate; it must out!"
"Father, hush, for God's sake!" cried Mascha. "You do him an injustice. Think how hard it was for him--another in his position--" She leaned against her father, pleadingly, tearfully.
"She is right," he murmured. "Who knows, another would have perhaps been still worse, still worse! But now leave me alone with my child; it would be better."
Bärenburg left the room. "He gambles!" said Lensky, looking Mascha straight in the eyes.
Mascha lowered her eyes. "Only since our marriage," murmured she.
"The miserable fellow!" burst out Lensky.
"Do not be too severe with him," said Mascha. "He is indeed almost as much to be pitied as I. Ah, father, father!" She wrung her hands, then suddenly, with a gesture of unspeakable despair, pushing back the hair from her temples, she cried: "If I only had the courage to hold my Natascha close to my heart and kiss her for a last time, and spring down into the water with her--there--" She points to a window; she has evidently already busied herself with the thought. "But how can I have the courage when she smiles at me, and twitches her little limbs so gayly, and so rejoices in life!"
Lensky laid his arm round the young wife and leaned the head of the unhappy woman on his shoulder. "It will be better; he will change in time. You only must not yield too much to him; you must take the reins in your hand, must have head and character for two. Forget the old story, demand your right of him; then all will go well, believe me. As for your pecuniary affairs, I will take counsel. Only this--" He took the pearl necklace which had remained on the table and let it slide caressingly through his fingers. "Do not give this away; that you must not inflict upon me--only not that. I will take counsel, do not worry yourself."