Part 4

"I know that I was in the wrong," says he, in a changed, indescribably gentle voice. "I do not deserve any children such as you are. If you had both turned out quite badly, I still could not have wondered. But you have but another's blood in your veins, and--and--" [....than you] and lays his hand over his eyes, then he [...e her, a ...] foot. "I have neglected you, that is true [... ..u] must not imagine--" Again he pauses, [...] after awhile he continues: "As regards Mascha, God knows I should like to have my little lark about me, but with me it is really somewhat different than with--well, with Kasin. Kasin has his brilliant position and lives in St. Petersburg; but I--to-day I am in Paris, to-morrow in Berlin, the next day in Vienna. How, then, can I take a young girl about with me?"

"Is it, then, necessary that you should still so torment yourself?" remarks Nikolai gently, quite pleadingly.

Lensky is silent.

And Nikolai, who, in spite of his early knowledge of life, is still an inexperienced idealist, thinks he has persuaded his father, hopes to win him entirely to the plan laid out for him. "You could certainly settle down now," says he. "I have planned that so finely. You could have an old relative, Marie Dimitrievna, for instance, mamma's cousin, who is sympathetic to you, to keep house for you; and under the united influence of your fame and Mascha's charm, your home in St. Petersburg or Moscow would become a true paradise. You could be so gay and happy, so petted and honored in your old age, if you only would not grudge yourself rest!"

"Not grudge myself rest?" groaned Lensky. "Yes, if I could [en.. ...] rest." And with a gesture peculiar to him, [...] this back his thick hair with both hands from h[...] and [...], he adds: "Ask what you will of me, [only ...rer dev...] I should sit still; that I can do no more [..." ...bli...] is silent for awhile, then, with hoarse, hollow voice, as if in a dream, he begins anew: "Yes, if they had left me your mother, perhaps it would have been different; just at that time, before our separation, I began to be weary of the dancing-bear life: with her, I perhaps could have led a respectable old age. But you knew better what was suited to her than she herself. You pointed out to her what would never have occurred to her of herself, poor angel!--that it was a shame to have patience with me. Please yourself with the result! You have killed her and me. But of what use to bring up again the old grief, what use to reproach others? It is all my fault. Now nothing can be changed. I am what I am; I can no longer subdue myself. I cannot be without women and applause," says he, brutally. "Be as horrified as you will, I cannot, I cannot. I will some time die with my bow in my hand, and can be happy if I am not hissed before that!"

His breath fails him. He is silent. They stand opposite each other, father and son, gazing into each other's eyes. Never before has Nikolai seen a face which expresses a more incurable sadness. Why does he understand now, just now, in spite of the inconsolable confession which his father has just made to him, the unescapable charm which he exercises on all men not fish-blooded?

Something of his thoughts are mirrored in his features. The polite mask has disappeared, and for the first time Lensky feels that it is his own flesh and blood that stands before him; for the first time he sees not only a young diplomat, dressed in the most correct English style, but his son, and in the features of the grown young man he finds something of the dear little face of the boy who used to spring joyfully out to meet him when he came home, who was so proud if he could show his father the slightest service, who boasted so imposingly to his playmates of his father's fame. He thinks of the tall, pale youth whose ideal he was until the day when Nikolai began to understand, and his bright eyes suddenly saddened with the hardest suffering that a young man can experience, the pain of being obliged to see a flaw in the one who is highest to him.

And from that time it was like an illness to the boy. He had learned to understand life so soon that it had made him old before his time. From his sixteenth year, and before that, he had carried about with him the grief of his poor, idolized mother. And Lensky reproached him for having lost his freshness.

Suddenly he takes his son by both shoulders and draws him to his breast--for the first time in years.

VII.

A little later, Nikolai and his father are rolling along the boulevard to see Mascha. The cab stops before a pretty private residence in the Avenue Wagram.

"Is Madame Jeliagin at home?" asks Lensky, while his son pays the cabman. Lensky never carries a groschen of money about with him.

"Madame cannot be seen," replies the servant at the house-door. Then a charming figure in a short, dark blue dress rushes down four, five steps at a time to the virtuoso.

"Ah!"

How often the little cry of joy with which his little daughter throws her soft, warm arms round his neck will ring in the ears of the artist as he grows older. And the kiss of her dewy, fresh, innocent lips--will he ever forget it? Mascha has lips like a four-year-old child.

"Papa! Colia! How lovely that you are both here, but how late!" says she, taking the hand of each and leading them into the hall. "Yes, how late! I have been standing at the window since ten o'clock, and looking to see if you were coming."

"You have lost much time, little one," says Lensky, and laughs.

"I had nothing to do but be happy with you, papa," replies she, and rubs her delicate, flower-like face against his hand.

They are now in the hall. One can scarcely think of anything more attractive than this room, with its old Flemish tapestry hangings, and in the background the heavy oaken stairs leading to the upper stories.

"It is pretty here, is it not, papa?" says Mascha, as she notices Lensky's glance slowly wandering over every object. "The colors all harmonize so charmingly," she continues; and with the important consciousness of saying something wise, she adds: "I call that eye music."

"A highly descriptive word. I will write it down," jests Lensky. "I had no suspicion that the Jeliagins lived so well," he adds, and seeks Nikolai's glance. How could he have asserted that Barbara Alexandrovna was in bad circumstances?

"Yes, the whole house is pretty, all the rooms," says Mascha. "I have been all over it already, in the stable and in the attic. But sit down here near the chimney, papa; and you here, Colia. Ah! how nice to have you both together. Only poor mamma is missing!"

And the tender-hearted child, with whom joy and pain are always near together, rubs the tears from her eyes. Then she gives herself a little shake--this is not the day to be sad. "Only think, papa!"

"Well, what then, my angel?"

"When one comes in here, one imagines that aunt is very wealthy; but she is quite, quite poor." Maschenka's voice sinks tragically. "Early this morning some one came with a bill from the dressmaker, I think. At first aunt denied herself; and then there was such a noise that she came out to quiet the people. Poor aunt had to beg the people to wait. How horrible! But the worst of all was"--Maschenka whispers quite mysteriously to him--"the worst of it was that then, afterward, Anna scolded poor aunt; the daughter scolded her mother. '_Vous manquez de dignite maman!_' cried she. 'You behave like a baker-woman. Never would these dirty loafers'--yes, she expressed herself so, '_ces sales canailles_'--'permit themselves such insolence if you knew how to act like a lady.' And poor aunt only replied quite humbly: 'Don't be vexed, my heart. I will be wiser another time. Have patience with me.' That went to my heart. I would have liked to fall on poor aunt's neck, but I dared not let her perceive that I had heard anything. She is very nice and good to me. Except Anna, they are all good to me." She throws her arms round Lensky's neck, and drawing his head down to her, she whispers in his ear: "What has Nikolai against me, papa? He does not look at me to-day."

"He is dissatisfied with you."

"With me?" Mascha springs up. "What have I done to you, Colia? I have noticed the whole time that you have not laughed a single time. Please say it, so that it will be over."

Nikolai stands there like the picture of an earnest young mentor who prepares himself for a lecture that will not cross his lips.

Mascha loses patience. "Don't cough incessantly; open your mouth and speak!" calls out she, and the energetic little person stamps her foot violently.

"Do not be so angry," says Nikolai, good-naturedly. Then he takes his sister's hand in his, and looking down at her very lovingly, he says: "Yes, Mascha, I am dissatisfied with you; you have guessed rightly. Every one who really loves you must be dissatisfied with the imprudent self-will which you showed by your yesterday's prank."

"H-m! were you dissatisfied?" asks Maschenka, turning to her father, defiantly.

To her great astonishment, Lensky remains silent. She pouts, and Nikolai continues: "Father was so touched by your tenderness that he forgot everything else, but I assure you that the thought that you could a second time go about in the world so unprotected is just as fearful to him as to me."

"God knows it," Lensky assures her emphatically.

Maschenka's childish self-sufficiency diminishes considerably; she lowers her head and bites her under lip; she fights back tears. She had been so proud of her stroke of genius, and now----

"I do not want to quarrel with you," continues Nikolai, kindly, "only warn you. You imagine that I am displeased with you for worldly reasons, which you despise. Oh! we know that. But this time I have nothing to say of the gossip to which you expose yourself. The principal thing with me is, that by such wrong precipitation as your flight from Arcachon you run the risk of dangers and embarrassments of which you have no suspicion, and which could destroy all happiness in your existence for you. Therefore, Maschenka, be wise, give me your hand upon it, and your word of honor that you will never again run away from home secretly and unprotected."

The tender tone in which Nikolai has delivered his little lecture has evidently gone to Mascha's heart.

"Well, Maschenka, darling, will you give me your word of honor?" asks Nikolai, earnestly.

She is just about to stretch out her hand to him to seal the solemn promise he has asked; then suddenly her manner changes, she throws back her head. "I will promise nothing," says she, looking at her brother out of her dark blue eyes with tender roguishness--"nothing at all."

"But, Mascha!"

"No, no, no," says she. "Why should I? It would be no use, Nikolai. For, do you see, if I should ever be in a similar fit of anxiety about you, then, then, Colia, I should lose my head again, and not only run away a second time, but, if it was necessary, break my word of honor." And laughing, but with eyes full of tears, she throws both arms around Nikolai's neck and says: "Now be angry, very angry, quickly!"

Lensky laughs his good-natured, deep laugh, and repeats mockingly: "So, please be angry, Colia, really." And Nikolai draws himself up, wishes to once more explain to his sister more emphatically and severely how perfectly unsuitable he has found her behavior, and instead of that--yes, instead of that--he only kisses her tenderly, and murmurs: "Ah! you dear, good-for-nothing little witch, you, if you were only half so wise as you are good and charming--or, or if one could always be with you to protect you!"

At these loving words, Maschenka bursts into tears. "What is the matter, darling?" asks Nikolai.

"But, my little dove!" says Lensky, quite amazed.

She turns from one to the other. "You are both too good to me, and I am too happy," sobs she. While father and brother are still occupied in calming her with jests and caresses, the rustle of a silk dress causes them to turn their heads.

Down the broad oak stairs came two ladies, Madame Jeliagin and her daughter Anna; the first, her hair arranged in the fashion of twenty years ago, in a faded violet silk dress; the second, a brilliant apparition in faultless morning dress, tall, blonde, with regular features, which, alas! are disfigured by an expression of great arrogance.

Barbara Jeliagin throws herself upon Lensky, and kisses him on both cheeks. Anna scarcely gives him her finger-tips. She cannot bear these barbarous caresses which are repeated at all Russian family scenes. Lensky himself feels a little surprised at his sister-in-law's affectionateness; he looks at her in astonishment. Is it possible that this withered old woman in the faded dress is really the Barbe Jeliagin formerly celebrated for the luxuriance of her toilets, the exotic unusualness of her entertainments, his wife's sister, the arrogant "Princess Barbe," who had never ceased to regard her sister's marriage to the violinist as a _mesalliance_?

"My poor sister! You know that she refused Pierre Trubezkoy. We were horrified at her marriage. Lensky is really a great genius!" He knew that she used to say this to all her distinguished acquaintances. He had heard her say it himself once, and now----

* * * * *

"Was I right with regard to the Jeliagins?" Nikolai asks his father, when, an hour later, they leave the pretty house.

"Yes," replied Lensky, thoughtfully. He did not tell his son that Barbara had made use of the first moment when she was alone with him to ask him for money, but he murmured frequently to himself: "Things have gone down with Barbe. Who would have thought it? Life has not used her tenderly!" He remembered his son's words, who had boldly asserted that Mascha could nowhere be worse taken care of than with this good-natured, characterless woman, who turned with the wind, and who was completely without will opposed to her daughter's arrogance. "Not worse!" repeated Lensky. Now that was exaggeration. Still he must try to seek another home for Mascha. But where, then, where? On the whole, Colia's plan was not so bad. In spite of the extravagant generosity which he had always shown to his family, in spite of the unlimited benevolence which would have put many princes to shame, his means sufficed to make Mascha's life as happy, as comfortable as the vain little thing could wish. And how delightful it would be to have this charming little being always about him, to be able to pet her from morning to evening! That was his manner of loving a child! But that would be all the same if it did not happen to-day or to-morrow. No; only this one more last time would he loose the reins, satiate himself with the mad, gipsy life.

The virtuoso tour which Herr Braun had planned for him lasted into June. That was not much longer, scarcely six months. With that he would finish, in order to then found a calm, quiet home somewhere.

VIII.

If any one had ventured to tell Nikolai that he would fall in love at first sight with a girl with whom he had not exchanged a word, he would really have laughed in the person's face.

In love with an unknown, he, Nikolai, the prudent Nikolai Lensky, doubly prudent from opposition to his easily excited father, giving way unresistingly to every momentary impression? Nonsense! And still he could not deny it. For a week he had thought of nothing but Nita.

Besides, it must be said that fortune seemed to have given herself the task of exciting into uproar his power of imagination, of fanning into a flame the slight fire within him, by continually letting her appear before him like a lovely _Fata Morgana_, without granting him an opportunity of meeting her.

The day after the concert he had presented himself at the two young ladies' studio, to inquire after Nita's health. He had not seen Nita, only Sophie, who told him that her friend had kept her room on account of a severe headache.

Dear, good Sophie! How glad she was to see him, so heartily, so truly. She had grown much prettier in this last year; he told her so to her face, at which she blushed charmingly. Then he asked about all kinds of things: how she liked the modern Babylon, where she had learned to know her friend, what kind of a person she was. That he naturally did only in the interest of his little adopted sister. He must convince himself whether association with the young Austrian was desirable for her.

Sophie did not need to be urged to tell him of her idolized friend. The harshness, and at the same time the boundless goodness, of her nature she described to him, the strange mixture of man-like strength of decision and the charming loveliness with which she could make good her vexing roughness. She repeated to him Nita's gay _traits d'esprit_, she showed him Nita's studies.

An hour, an hour and a half he remained in the studio. Sophie made him a cup of tea, told him of Nita's family, that she had a cousin in Paris whose name was Count Baerenburg, _attache_ to the Russian embassy, a very good-looking man, and very amusing in conversation, without much depth. He often visited Nita in the studio. Nikolai must know him.

Yes, Nikolai said he knew him, and Sophie talked on until at length twilight fell. Nikolai accompanied her to the house-door in the Rue Murillo, and assured her that for a long time nothing had so truly pleased him as to see her again.

What conclusions Sonia might draw from this unusual warmth of her cousin he did not for a moment consider.

Two days later, at the opera--he sat in the parquet--he heard some Paris dandies whispering of the beauty of a new apparition. These young men's opera-glasses all aimed at the same front row box. He looked up. There, near an old lady whom he had seen as a child in St. Petersburg with his mother, and had recently met again in Raris, Lady Baerenburg, he saw Nita. She wore a white low-neck dress, and a few red roses on her breast.

Meanwhile the representation of "L'Africaine" went on with all the effect which is given to a Meyerbeer opera in Paris. Nikolai scarcely noticed it. Unchangedly he looked up and observed the young girl, each characteristic movement, the incessantly changing expression of her face, on which light and shade seemed to chase each other.

She attracted him as everything mysterious attracts one. Why did she affect this mocking coldness? he asked himself. Why did she conceal the most beautiful part of herself?

At the close of the performance, he stood at the edge of the broad stairs to see her pass by. From afar he discovered her gold-lit hair. Now she came by him. She was leaning on Baerenburg's arm. She was wrapped in a white wrap whose fur border came up to her ear tips and concealed half her face.

His look met that of the young girl. Before he had time to remove his hat Nita had turned away her head with a short, repellant gesture.

The sweetness of fresh roses passed by him with her. He stood there as if rooted to the ground. Why had she avoided his greeting? What had he done? Rage gnawed at his heart; no longer would he trouble himself about this arrogant girl; it was indeed scarcely worth the trouble to rack his brains as to what secret lay hidden in her cold gray eyes.

The next day he met her again unexpectedly on the Boulevard de Courcelles. She wore the same simple dress in which he had seen her the first time at the concert, and walked very quickly without looking to the right or the left, like some one who has a significant aim and a fixed time before her.

A little child, frightened by a large dog, slipped and fell down on the sidewalk, crying loudly. Nikolai wished to pick it up. Nita was before him. She picked up the child and asked if she had hurt herself. She had only scratched her hands and chin a little, but she was very dirty. She soiled Nita's dress while she leaned close up to her in her four-year-old sobbing, childish fear. But Nita did not seem to notice that, or, at least, to pay any attention to it, and calmed her with all kinds of caressing talk. Then she wiped the child's face with her handkerchief, kissed her, and finally she took one of her hands, red with cold, in hers, and quite unembarrassed, pursued her way with the poorly dressed little thing to a cake-shop.

There she seated the child at a table. The child drank chocolate from a large, thick cup which she had to hold with both hands; then she set down the cup with a sigh of deep satisfaction, and consumed a cake with the thoughtful slowness of a child unaccustomed to the enjoyment of such luxuries, who seeks to prolong it as long as possible, while Nita looks at her pleasantly, nothing less than sentimental.

Nikolai's heart beat loud. He left his post as listener from fear that she would discover him at his lover's watch. For he was in love, that he now knew himself; he no longer denied it, for he knew better; he knew very well that the girl with the pale face and the brilliant eyes held the happiness of his life in her hands, that great, warm happiness for which his care-laden youth longed in vain.

IX.

There is a great uneasiness in the ladies' studio in the Avenue Frochot. In spite of its being merely the beginning of December, already many of the students have begun to think of the great yearly exhibition of sending to the Salon.

Nita's sanctum has not caught the fever of acute striving for effect in the adjoining room.

Sophie still paints with the same conscientious industry and touching lack of skill at a skull, and Nita--Nita is quite sunk in the study of a new model, over which she is unusually enthusiastic. The model is none other than the brown-curled child whose acquaintance she recently made on the sidewalk when Nikolai watched her. Just now she has gone to look at the different attempts in the adjoining school, when she hears a short scream, and a rattling, banging noise in her room.

"Pardon me, ladies," says she, while she turns her head and listens; "if I am not mistaken something has come to grief in my room, probably my little Lucca della Robbia. What is it?" says she, opening the door of her studio. A memorable sight meets her eyes then. In the middle of the studio, her little hands clutching her temples with horror, stands a young girl with the face of Ribera's Maria Egyptiaca, and stares down at a skull which, broken in two pieces, lies at her feet.

"It is only my Cousin Mascha, who is afraid of the skull; she even threw it on the floor," says Sophie, in her wonderfully phlegmatic manner, and with that she stoops down for the pieces to fit them together and put them in their place again.

"Oh! how can you touch the horrid thing?" says Mascha, holding her hands over her eyes, and tapping her foot. "Oh, oh!"

"Poor little thing, how she trembles!" says Nita, compassionately, while she goes up to Mascha. "Throw your stupid skull in the fire, Sophie. You see that the child cannot bear the sight of it."

"That is very foolish; one should be over that at seventeen. It is very hard to get skulls," replies Sophie, vexedly.

But Nita does not notice that. She has taken Mascha in her arms, and caresses her like a mother who would calm an excited child. "So, dear heart, the ugly thing is gone. You can open your pretty eyes. Poor little soul!"

"Fraeulein von Sankjewitch is very good to you," now calls a young man's voice.

Nita looks up and perceives Nikolai. Evidently the little beauty is his sister. He bows, and turning to Mascha once more, he says: "And now tell Fraeulein von Sankjewitch that you are sorry to have been so ill-bred."