Two or three days after the elder Lensky's departure, Mascha, who is
busy dressing for dinner, is told that a large package has been left
for her. Immediately suspecting what it is, she summons the maid to
bring it to her.
"It is a huge package," the maid sighs while she drags it in and lays
it down before the chimney in Mascha's room.
"Where are the scissors, Lis, please?" Mascha dances with excitement
while she cuts the string in all directions. Her suspicion has not
deceived her: the skin of a remarkable bear, with immense head and
mighty paws, comes to view. In his horrible open jaws the monster holds
a bouquet of white roses and a note as follows:
"A disarmed enemy, Fraeulein Marie Lensky, for friendly remembrance of
an adventure in Katerinowskoe, and
"Your humble servant,
"K. Baerenburg."
Beside herself with delight, Mascha immediately hurries into Anna's
room, and with sparkling eyes calls out:
"Anna, Anna, please come--see--Count Baerenburg--he has----"
"Well, what about him?" asks Anna, indifferently.
"He has sent me the bear-skin, you know, the skin of the bear which
almost strangled Colia. It must have been a splendid bear. It has a
head--a head----"
"Ah! that is very nice," replies Anna, without moving. "But I beg you,
hurry a little with your dressing, and another time do not run into the
hall with floating hair and in your dressing-sack, like a prima donna
in the fifth act."
"H-m, she is jealous!" thinks Mascha. And shrugging her shoulders, with
a triumphant smile on her fresh lips, she returns to her room, where
she first completes her interrupted toilet, then crouches on the floor
and sinks herself in contemplation of the bear.
Then Anna comes in to her--Anna, with quite a changed, sweet face.
"Vinegar with sugar, we know that," thinks Mascha to herself, without
rising from her strange position.
"Ah! that is the skin," says Anna, with condescending interest.
"Yes," says Mascha, slowly rising, with a humorous, quite childish
impertinence, which would have forced a laugh from every unprejudiced
spectator. "That is the skin, those are the flowers, there is the
note."
"And you, indeed, take that for a proof of great admiration?" lisps
Anna.
Mascha nods defiantly.
"You are very inexperienced, my little Mascha," says Anna. "You always
have such a hostile manner to me that it is unusually hard for me
to--h-m! how shall I express myself?--give you the enlightenment which
in a certain manner, as your relative, I owe you. You do not know men
as I do, dear child."
"Have you had very sad experience in this direction, poor Anna?" sighs
Mascha, compassionately.
"I have had no experience, but I have observed," says Anna. "Baerenburg
is a man from whom one must guard one's self. He has a new flame every
moment, whom he overwhelms with the most poetic attentions until--one
day he no longer greets her on the street. I am very sorry to diminish
your pleasure, but I must warn you."
"H-m!" says Mascha, in the same tone of humorous impertinence; and
copying Anna's glance with photographic exactness, she says: "My dear
Anna, would you like very much to marry Count Baerenburg yourself?
_Seniores, priores_--I withdraw."
"One cannot speak to you," says Anna, and rises, blushing with anger.
But Maschenka holds her back; her impertinence suddenly truly pains
her. How indelicate it was to reproach Anna with her age! As if she
could help it! "Anna," says she, cordially, "I did not mean badly; I
only wanted to laugh. But tell me, I will not repeat it, do you like
Count Baerenburg? I will certainly not stand in your way."
Instead of being touched by this childish sacrifice, Anna stares
arrogantly at her cousin from head to foot. "I can, perhaps, put up
with your rivalry," says she. "Calm yourself, _moutarde apres diner, ma
chere_! If I had wished to marry Baerenburg, I could have had him this
autumn in Spaa. He is as indifferent to me as that"--with a snap of her
fingers. "But show me your hands; _comme vous avez les ongles
canailles_. I always tell you you should not practise so much; you
already have nails like a professional pianist--_c'est tres mal
porte_."
* * * * *
The Jeliagins have paid Mascha a little attention. To-day, at lunch,
she found on her plate a box-ticket for the Porte St. Martin. It has
long been her most ardent wish to go to the theatre.
"You can invite Sonia and Fraeulein von Sankjewitch. Nikolai will
accompany you. It would be better that you dine with Fraeulein von
Sankjewitch," proposes her aunt, "if that suits you."
"Oh, it suits, naturally it suits!" cries Mascha, and springs up to
embrace her aunt.
"Do not make so much of this trifle," says Madame Jeliagin, a trifle
ashamed. "It is not worth the trouble. I rack my brains often enough to
think how one can amuse you. But with girls like you, who are too old
to play with dolls, too young to go into society, it is hard."
"Am I, then, really too young, auntie? I was seventeen the fifth of
last December," says Mascha, looking longingly and coaxingly at
Barbara.
Barbara Jeliagin is silent with embarrassment, but Anna speaks. "Your
age alone is not the thing. You have no _tenue_, are not sufficiently
lady-like. You must accustom yourself to more repose and self-command
before one can think of taking you into society without fearing to be
embarrassed by you."
This kind remark Mascha receives silently, but with burning cheeks.
Madame Jeliagin, who has learned quite against her will to love Mascha,
perhaps because Mascha's obliging lovability is the only bit of
sunshine which has warmed her for years, pats her kindly on the
shoulder, and says: "It is not so dreadful. To be old and sedate is no
art; that comes of itself."
And Mascha wipes the tears from her eyes, and again is happy over her
ticket, inquires what she shall wear in honor of this festive occasion,
and is only sorry that one visits the Porte St. Martin in street
costume.
The box ticket is for the next evening. All arranges itself splendidly.
Nita and Sonia dine with the brother and sister in the Avenue Murillo.
The little dinner is excellent and Colia happy. But after the meal,
when they are about to break up, Mascha notices that she has left her
opera-glass at home. Great despair! Sonia has none, and Nita's is
really not enough for three shortsighted persons. They decide to take
the roundabout way through the Avenue Wagram and get the glass.
"I will come immediately; I will not keep you waiting a moment," says
Mascha, gayly. But scarcely has she entered the hall when she perceives
that something unusual is going on. The vestibule is brilliantly
lighted, several ladies' wraps and men's overcoats are there. Mascha's
large eyes become gloomy. "And I thought they wished to give me a
pleasure," thinks she, angrily. "They only got me out of the way
because they were ashamed of me." Then, turning to the servant who
appears, she asks ruthlessly, directly:
"Who is dining here?"
"The Ladies Anthropos, Count Baerenburg, Monsieur d'Eblis, Prince
Trubetzkoy----"
But Maschenka hears no more. "Baerenburg!" her passionate heart beats
loudly. "_Moutarde apres diner_ it may be; but, in any case, Anna seems
not to so lowly estimate my insignificant youthfulness as rival, as she
acts thus," thinks she to herself. "But we will see, Anna, we will
see!" And Maschenka sets her teeth and clenches her tiny fist.