The sunbeam which wakes Mascha every morning lies broad and full on the
carpet in her bedroom, creeps caressingly on her pillow, strokes her
round white cheeks, but she sleeps soundly and sweetly, like a very
young child who sleeps heavily after a great grief.
There is a knock at her door, first gentle, then louder. "Maschenka, my
little dove, it is I," calls a dear, well-known voice. She does not
hear. Softly Lensky turns the knob, hesitates a moment on the sill. He
approaches the little white bed; there she lies sleeping so innocently,
so peacefully. A touchingly sad expression is on her slightly swollen
eyelids, her red lips. How long and thick are the black lashes resting
on her cheeks!
"Maschenka--sluggard--lazy-bones!" calls he, teasingly, and strokes her
cheeks.
"Ah!" with the short, soft cry of a bird frightened out of its sleep,
she starts up. "You, papa!"
"Yes, I--who else? I have knocked twice at your door without any
answer. If one sleeps as soundly as you, my little witch, one should
certainly bolt one's door."
"Ah! I am not afraid of thieves, only of ghosts, and they creep through
key-holes," says Maschenka, laughing, and he laughs and strokes her
cheeks.
"Childish one!" murmurs he.
"How dear, how beautiful that you came!" says she, tenderly, and
presses her lips to his hand.
"And did you think that I would go away without taking leave of you?"
asked he.
She turns her head slightly away from him. "Ah! I did not know,"
murmured she. "How should I? Yesterday I no longer knew whether you
really loved me. You were so busy with all those insolent women who
swarmed around you. Ah! papa, how can you associate with that rabble?"
"That does not concern you at all," says he, looking at her quite
harshly, while he this time, as his old custom was, conceals his
embarrassment behind defiant obstinacy. Then he notices the significant
traces of the difficultly vanquished sadness of the past night in the
little childish face, and when Maschenka, frightened at her father's
roughness, starts anxiously and shyly, the greatest anxiety overcomes
him. "How pale you are, my angel; is anything the matter?"
"No, papa--no--only--I was ragingly unhappy yesterday, and then I
dreamed so horribly."
"What then?"
"It was oppressive; and I was followed by a horrible monster, and when
I called to you, you were busy with--with other strange men, and did
not look round--and in my mortal fear I called to mother--in my dream I
had forgotten that she is dead--and then I awoke."
"My poor little dove, my poor, orphaned little dove!" murmurs he. "Who
can replace your mother to you? That was a fearful loss. There is no
second mother like her."
For a while both are silent, then Mascha asks:
"How long shall you be away?"
"I shall come back to Paris in June."
"Then--then you will be unendingly loving to me again for two days; and
after that leave me alone again?"
"No, no; then I give up the wandering life, Mascha. It is the last
time. It is only to win a princely dowry for you that I go about the
world."
"Father, if you knew how willingly I would resign your wealth!" said
she, very softly.
He laughs somewhat constrainedly. "No, no; you must be wealthy. For
this time all must remain so; do not make my heart heavy; for believe
me that I long greatly for a calm, comfortable home, that it pains me
to part with you. You have grown fearfully into my heart, you defiant,
tender little curly-head, you! But how long will you stay with me, my
little white lamb? Who knows? When I return I will find a dreamy,
sentimental Mascha, a quite different----"
"Papa, you will be late!" now calls Nikolai from below.
"Is it time?"
"High time. You will miss the train."
"Adieu, papa!"
He bends over her. She throws both arms round his neck, kisses him,
sobbing violently. "Farewell!"
"My heart, my soul," murmurs he. "Write to me very, very often."
He has kissed her again and again; at last he has left her. At the door
he turns round to her once more, sees her in the snow-white bed, with
her tender, tearful face, with her sun-kissed hair, breathes once more
the atmosphere of the room slightly perfumed with violets. Carrying
away with him an impression of childish purity and innocence, he goes
out.
[Illustration]