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.