Part 14

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."

XXXI.

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!"

XXXII.

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 Baerenburg. 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 Baerenburg 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, Baerenburg 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 Baerenburg 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. Baerenburg 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.

Baerenburg 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 the _declasse_; 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 Baerenburg 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 Baerenburg.

"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."