Except for a few trifles, the dinner is prettily served, abundant and
good. The mood prevailing leaves so much the more to be desired.
Lensky, who is vexed that Maschenka has made a scene before the
"stupid, arrogant Austrian," says nothing. Old Madame Jeliagin is
consumed with anxiety lest the service be broken. Mascha is awkward and
shy as an eight-year-old child who is ashamed of her naughtiness. Only
Anna feels thoroughly at ease, for it always has an exhilarating effect
upon her to sit between two handsome and polite young men, as to-day
between Nikolai and Baerenburg; but the latter looks quite
uninterruptedly over at Mascha.
"A charming creature, this Mascha," he thinks to himself. It pleases
him to repeat her strange name to himself. "Yes, a charming creature.
What a complexion, what a charming little mouth, and what a delightful
expression, changing incessantly from petulance to moving tenderness,
in her eyes! What shoulders! What a shame!"
Yes, what a shame to marry Marie Lensky. He could not think of it,
but--why should he not be a little pleasant to her? What Count
Baerenburg understands as being "a little pleasant," others would
describe as paying desperate court to a girl. But he sees nothing of
the sort, but takes the situation poetically.
"If only this silly Anna would not be so unbearably attentive!" thinks
he, and still looks secretly over at Mascha.
She now stands near Lensky, before the mantel, pale, and with a
treacherous redness of the heavy eyelids. With a kind but very earnest
face, bending down to her, holding one of her small hands between his
large ones, her father speaks very gently but impressively to her,
evidently reproves her, and in a strange, melodious language, which
goes to Baerenburg's heart, although he understands not a word of it,
the wonderful Russian tongue which, like no other, contains and
reflects the whole character of the people for whom it serves as
expression.
After Lensky has finished his admonition, Maschenka, innocently
unembarrassed, stretches out her arms to her father, and kisses him.
Baerenburg is thrilled.
Meanwhile, Lensky, gently reproving her, says in French: "And now
behave like a sensible being, Mascha. So! Sit up straight, and play
something for us, now, before the people come."
"But papa!"
"Yes, no evasions, only play. Rely on me, you may venture it," says
Lensky. "I have been enough ashamed of you to-day, and, for a change,
would like to be proud of you. Sit down--my heart--I take the risk; it
will go!" And with that he raised the piano lid himself. "The A minor
rondo of Mozart!"
For one instant she hesitated, then the wish to distinguish herself
before Baerenburg, to please her father, comes to her. She plays, and
how beautifully she plays!
As if electrified, Baerenburg rises and goes up to the piano. He has a
great love for good music. The A minor rondo is his express favorite.
In this composition of universal sadness, in which the purest artist
soul which ever came down to us from heaven weeps over the frivolity of
an entire century, Mascha's still immature but always tender and
delicately shaded mastery is especially noticeable.
"That was entrancing," calls out Baerenburg, with true enthusiasm. "You
are a God-gifted artist!"
"That is she; I heard her without," suddenly a deep, old woman's voice
joins energetically in his praise.
The first of the ladies invited for the evening has appeared.
She is a very handsome old lady, an old lady with gay, mocking, and
still good-natured, sparkling blue eyes which betray her Irish
origin--a woman whom calumny has never ventured to touch, although she
has for thirty years been one of the "influentials" of Europe, one of
the two or three women for whom Lensky feels respect, Lady Banbury.
"I congratulate you on your daughter, Lensky," says she, greeting the
artist cordially. "So this is the fat little baby whom I used to carry
about in St. Petersburg. I am very glad to see you again, my child."
And Lady Banbury gives her hand to Mascha. But when Mascha, with a shy
courtesy, wishes to draw it to her lips, the old lady says: "I grudge
the leather your fresh lips; let me embrace you, that is, if it is not
unpleasant for you to kiss an old woman who loved your mother very
dearly. Ah! good evening, Nickolai. You here also, Charley?" to
Baerenburg. Then, at length, remembering the circumstance that she is
really not Lensky's but his sister-in-law's guest, she turns to the
latter.
Strange, all the truly distinguished ladies who are present this
evening commit the same, perhaps somewhat voluntary, error--they have
all come on Lensky's account merely; they come early, in simple
toilets. All have a pleasant word for Mascha, tease Lensky with some
ancient reminiscence, and Mascha is pleased with their charm, with the
gay mood which they have brought with them, with the great respect
which they show her father. Sonia comes, but not Nita. It is a great
disappointment for Nikolai. He has not yet ceased to inquire of Sophie
for her friend's health, when a large, stout, handsome, painted blonde
enters, a woman with too bare shoulders and too long train, a woman the
sight of whom has the effect of the Medusa's head upon all the other
women.
"How does she come here?" ask the other ladies. "How does she come
here?" they ask each other oftener and oftener, as, one after the
other, a procession of brilliant social ambiguities file in--a
cosmopolitan battalion of Lensky enthusiasts, recruited from the
highest circles.
Men appear sparsely. They form scarcely a third part of the numerous
guests.
Lensky has been playing for more than an hour. The women crowd around
him so that he has scarcely room to move his arm. His eyes wander
about him. He sees a confusion of bare necks, of brilliant eyes, of
half-parted lips. The sight goes to his head. The most insane
flatteries are repeated to him. He feels twenty years younger; a
triumphant insolence overpowers him.
In a concert hall, where the resonance is better, where the public is
more critical, he exerts himself with all the force of his powerful
nature; but here, in this narrow room, where nothing can be distinctly
heard, surrounded by an audience of musically ignorant women, he plays
like an intoxicated person. The air becomes ever more oppressive.
One person is boundlessly unhappy this evening. It is Mascha. Totally
ignorant of what her duties as hostess may prescribe, she is
incessantly corrected by her cousin, pushed about, has the feeling of
being in every one's way, and while she, quite unknown as she is,
creeps through the crowd assembled in the adjoining rooms, she hears
remarks about her father, his playing, his relations to women, which
send the blood to her cheeks, although she only half understands the
most.
At length Lensky has laid down his violin. All the respectable women
have withdrawn. Maschenka has helped them find their wraps. Most of
them were very pleasant; some kissed her good-by, some even asked
Nikolai to bring his sister to see them--but not very urgently.
If dear Natalie were still alive, why then they would be delighted to
see this charming Mascha, but to be forced to take these unbearable
Jeliagins into the bargain--that one must consider!
The Lensky enthusiasts have remained. Madame Jeliagin has invited them
to partake of light refreshments. Mascha tried to help her, and had the
misfortune to upset a cup of tea, whereupon, for the tenth time this
evening, she is bidden to "get out of the way."
Depressed and namelessly unhappy, she stands among the guests, not
knowing where to turn, when Baerenburg, coming up to her, remarks: "How
pale you look! It must be frightfully fatiguing to be hostess on such
occasions, especially if one is not accustomed to the task. Come into
the adjoining room, it is cooler there, and rest a little."
He gives her his arm and leads her into the adjacent drawing-room. Many
guests have already found the way here; it is not especially secluded
here, but enough so that the sympathetic pair can talk apart and
undisturbed, if not unobserved.
He leads her to a divan which is partly concealed by a miniature
thicket of palms and ferns.
"Will you not have an ice? It will refresh you," says he, and beckons a
servant.
Maschenka takes an ice, tastes it, and pushes it away.
"You are evidently very tired," remarks Baerenburg compassionately.
"It is my first evening in society," sighs Mascha. "I looked forward to
it so, but if society is always as tedious as to-day--" She sighs
inconsolably.
"Great assemblies of people are always disagreeable," he answers. "One
can at first not find among the crowd the people one seeks, and must
not stay long with them when one has at length found them. At such
routs I mostly spend my whole energy in keeping from treading on
ladies' trains and being discovered yawning by the hostess. But this
evening an exceptional pleasure has been afforded us----"
"Do not speak of it," says Mascha. "My father's playing has given you
no pleasure this evening."
Baerenburg pulls his mustache.
"Your father's playing is almost too grand; it has a paralyzing effect
in a drawing-room," he murmurs.
"Ah, no, it is not that. You should only hear him play when we are
quite alone in the same room. Oh! then it is beautiful enough to move
one to tears; but this evening I scarcely recognize him." Maschenka
interrupts herself and lowers her head.
He is very sorry for her in her wounded, childish pride. He feels the
necessity of distracting her in some manner. A brilliant thought comes
to him. "Before I forget it," says he, "would the skin of the identical
bear in whose arms Nikolai almost perished, give you any pleasure? I
possess it."
"Oh!" says Mascha, jubilant, "an indescribable pleasure!" She gives him
her hand. Just then Anna, with two very beautiful and elegant
Englishwomen, goes through the room. Baerenburg rises and goes up to
them. Mascha waits for him to return to her. No; he gives his arm to
one of the Englishwomen, and escorts them out with Anna. Mascha creeps
away. She seeks her father, Colia--any one who really cares for her.
She looks through the portiere into the smoking-room. The whole room is
full of smoke; suddenly she hears a laugh which she does not know,
rough, harsh.
She looks through the smoke. There sits Lensky in a low chair. Now she
sees him plainly, sees him as she had never seen him before. His face
is very red. He laughs to himself and strikes his knee with a coarse
gesture. He is telling some racy story, and with an unpleasant glance
presses the hand of a woman who sits near him. How they all crowd round
him!
Mascha turns away.
When Nikolai, who has been very busy assisting his aunt all the evening
to do the honors, resting from his labors, stands with Sonia in the
vestibule, he hears the light rustle of a silk dress. He looks up.
There, up the stairs, with dragging feet, deeply lowered head, and hand
resting heavily on the balustrade, goes a little white figure.
"Maschenka," calls Nikolai in Russian, "is anything the matter?"
"No!" answers a voice choked with defiance and grief.
"Will you not at least wait until father goes?" asks Colia.
The little form quivers, a half-suppressed sob escapes her, then she
says shortly, violently: "No."
A half-hour later all is quiet, the last guests have vanished, the
servants extinguish the lights.