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.