The next morning she makes a great scene for her aunt and cousin,
reproaches them violently and with bitter tears for that she is
unlovingly pushed about and repressed, that she plays the _role_ of a
Cinderella in their house; that she cannot endure living with people
who do not love her, etc.
Barbara Alexandrovna bows her head with shame at these reproofs. Anna,
on the contrary, opposes the anger of her passionate, excited cousin
with icy calm.
"Before all," she begins, "I would beg to remark to you that we are not
at all obliged to put up with your rudeness. I do not condescend to
answer your ill-bred accusations, for I think without that you will be
ashamed of them in a calmer frame of mind. But for the rest, I tell you
very plainly, if life with us does not suit you, you can take refuge in
a boarding-school."
If Mascha had possessed shrewdness enough to declare herself agreed
with the plan of boarding-school, it would have placed the Jeliagins in
great embarrassment, on account of the pecuniary aid which they
received from Mascha's stay with them. But she did not think of that. A
boarding-school is for her something horrible--a prison, where she must
give up all possibility of seeing Baerenburg again. And so she submits,
shyly, shame-facedly.
When they tell her that, for the third time this week, she is to dine
alone, she takes it with such sad, helpless submission that it pains
her aunt, and she proposes to ask Nikolai to share her solitary meal;
perhaps he may be disengaged.
"Yes, that would be nice," says Mascha. And completely reconciled with
her fate, she sends a message to her brother, forms the most delightful
plans--then comes her brother's answer.
"Dear Heart:--Just received a despatch from Aunt Katherine. Uncle
Sergei is ill, desires me urgently. I must leave by the 3.25 train.
Have not even time to take leave of you. Unfortunate for our cosey
evening. God keep you, my little dove; be brave and prudent for love of
me, and also for your own sake. Write me all that is on your heart,
every little annoyance which weighs upon you. If you ever need
immediate advice, go to Sonia and Fraeulein von Sankjewitch, who both
love you. I kiss and embrace you.
"Your faithful brother,
"Colia."
"Is there nothing but unpleasantness in the world?" sighs Mascha, upon
receiving this note. "But still, what use to torment one's self?"
After she has devoted perhaps fifteen minutes to the deepest sorrow,
she runs singing about the house, and makes gay little jokes.
Now it is evening, and they stand in the vestibule and await the
carriage--Anna and aunt; Anna with her regal bearing and carelessly
trailing draperies; Barbara with her nervous anxiety and scant, short
dress.
"What lace is that around your neck?" calls out Anna, angrily, looking
at her mother through her _lorgnon_. "Did you buy that fichu on the
Campo dei Fiori? It is grotesque! You look like a stage mother."
Barbara pulls uneasily at her fichu and drops her purse.
"Wait, auntie, I have such wonderful lace of mamma's up-stairs," says
Mascha, who until now has been sunk in childish admiration of Anna's
ice-cold blond beauty and white _crepe de Chine_ splendor. "Only a
moment, auntie, I will bring it immediately." And she rushes up-stairs
and returns in a minute with sewing utensils and a box smelling of
_Peau d'Espagne_. "See, you must put on this scarf, auntie."
"We will call the maid," proposes Madame Jeliagin.
"Ah, no! I will do it myself. You will be beautiful at once, now,
auntie," says Mascha, while she removes the shabby ornament condemned
by Anna and replaces it with splendid old point lace.
"See, so; mamma wore it so. No, not the old mosaic brooch; here, take
my pin." And Mascha drags it from her neck. "Oh, how that becomes you!
Look in the glass, and see how pretty you are. Only a few stitches to
make it firm. Is it not nice so, Anna?"
"_Mais oui, tres bien_," Anna lets fall from her thin lips.
The servant announces the carriage. Madame Jeliagin becomes uneasy.
"Now we are ready." And Mascha springs up from the floor, where she has
knelt to fasten one end of the lace to her aunt's girdle. Then the
servant gives them their wraps, Anna's red embroidered one, another of
the unpaid-for articles which her mother has begged from the dressmaker
with tears, and Barbara's old-fashioned shabby mantle, and they go.
But at the door Barbara turns round. Her flabby, wrinkled, painted face
twitches a little, and taking Maschenka's head between both hands she
kisses the girl on the forehead.
"My good child!" murmurs she, "my dear good child, I am very sorry that
you must pass your evening alone. We will try to come home soon."
"How you smell of benzine, mamma!" Maschenka hears Anna say, as they
get into the carriage.
Maschenka had taken no further notice that the hands which had caressed
her were incased in cleaned gloves. It was so lovely to be a little bit
caressed.
Mascha has eaten her solitary dinner. Afterward she played a little,
improvised all sorts of droll, charming nonsense. About ten
o'clock--they have just brought the tea to her--she hears the
house-door open. Have they returned already? No; that is a visitor, a
well-known voice--he. How unpleasant, just to-day, when no one is at
home! Then the maid--a new one who has been engaged for Mascha and
works for Anna--opens the door. "Count Baerenburg," she announces, with
her insinuating, theatrical smile. "Does mademoiselle receive?"