"Oh, my God!" she cries out, and then is silent, as if petrified by
pain.
His eyes rest on her in indescribable surprise.
"Did you come on that account?" murmurs he, warmly, and kisses her
hands again and again. "Oh, you dear, lovely being; and you have
forgotten the whole world from anxiety for me! I know no second girl
who would be capable of such generosity!"
But she scarcely notices these words, which would once have filled her
with pride. "So it is true," she murmurs to herself, "it is true! But
it shall not happen. You must give up the duel!"
"That is impossible," replies he, and smiles as one smiles at a pretty
child who desires the moon. "My life is at your disposal, but not my
honor."
"Oh, heavens! And if you fall it is my fault!" cries she, violently.
"But no; I must save your life. Now, how foolish it was of me to turn
to you. I must go to Orbanoff. I will write to him, I will beg-- When
is the duel?"
The affair begins to be unpleasant for Baerenburg. He had not considered
of what such a warm-hearted little barbarian is capable when he told
her that he should fight for her. Why had he told her? It was
overhasty--it was more, was tactless, tasteless. He had not even tried
to resist the temptation to excite her tender despair to the utmost. He
had succeeded. She is beside herself; she does not know what she is
about. At the same time her overstrained nerves give way, she trembles
in her whole frame, and with a tottering movement she passes her hand
over her temples. Her little fur cap falls from her head. How very
beautiful she is!
She staggers.
"Drink a drop of wine," says he, really anxious And taking a silver
goblet from the sideboard, he fills it with champagne. Thirsting with
inward fever, she places it to her lips, without knowing in her
excitement whether she drinks water or wine. He lays his arm round her
to support her; he does not as yet think of misusing her confidence.
Then he hears a whispering in the adjoining room, then a quick
succession of steps; the entrance door opens and closes. His friends
have withdrawn discreetly.
His blood burns in every finger-tip. He has forgotten Sylvia Anthropos,
all clear idea of life and its duties has left him.
"Mascha, oh, my sweet little angel! Do you suspect how I love you?"
whispers he. "Do not reproach yourself, even if I should die for you;
it seems to me beautiful to be able to surrender my life for you. But
Mascha, my angel, my treasure, do not grudge me one more happy moment
before I die. Maschenka, my darling, my love--one kiss!"
Without hesitating, sobbing, beside herself, with a passionate
vehemence of which a few minutes before she had had no suspicion, she
throws both arms round his neck.
* * * * *
The Jeliagins had gone when Mascha came home. With deeply lowered head,
hurriedly, without looking to the right or left, she went up to her
room.
The lamp burned. The young Russian's glance was gloomy and defiant. She
held her head high. What had happened had happened, she would not be
ashamed of it. She loved him, indeed, and he was in mortal danger.
Why did her heart beat so loudly? Why did the light pain her so? Why
was it as if she could never raise her eyes to any one? Aimlessly, with
weary steps, she crept about her room. She put out the light and got
into bed and turned her face to the wall.
And the hours dragged on and would not end. How long the night was!
Toward morning she fell asleep. She dreamed that her mother came to her
bed, in a white dress and with large, beautiful wings, and whispered to
her:
"Wake up, wake up, long sleeper; have you forgotten that to-day is your
wedding-day? I have come down from heaven to dress you and to bless
you!" And then she sprung out of her bed, and her mother dressed her.
Ah! how sweet it was to feel the soft, delicate hands once more about
her as formerly! All at once her mother grew uneasy. "I cannot find
your wreath," she murmured, and wandered round the room seeking the
wreath, and wept bitterly.
"Here it is, little mother, there," cried Mascha, and handed her the
wreath which she had worn to the ball. Then the mother was frightened
and said:
"Oh, no, that is not your wreath, it is torn and red with shame; hide
it, Maschenka, hide it. Your wreath must be white as my wings, and like
a crown, so round and firm, a crown of thorns concealed under roses;
that is the bridal wreath, thus we bind it for you poor mortals in
heaven. I will bring you one from above, and will break out all the
thorns for you, my treasure, my darling!" And her mother wished to
spread out her wings and ascend, but she could not, her wings were
broken. And she looked at Mascha with such large, helpless, sad,
deathly, frightened eyes, and then turned away.
"Mother!" cries Mascha, in her sleep; "mother!" She awoke. The sunbeam
which waked her every morning penetrated the curtains of her bed.
She hid her face in the pillow and wept.
* * * * *
If it had seemed to Baerenburg, on the evening before the duel, that
there could be no more endurable hours for him without Mascha, and as
if the betrothal with Sylvia Anthropos, which had been forced upon him,
must be broken off at the cost of the roughest brutality even, on the
day after the duel, when he lay in bed with a wounded shoulder, he had
other views.
The recollection of his adventure with Mascha filled him with vexation,
almost with rage. If Mascha had formerly been for him the most
peculiarly charming being whom he had ever met, she was now in his eyes
nothing more than a pretty, badly watched, badly brought up being, whom
in his magisterial Austrian manner he described as a true Russian.
The thought of his astonishing experiences with "young girls" in St.
Petersburg came to his mind, and did its share in throwing a distorting
light on Mascha's exaltation.
He is vexed at what has happened; more than that, he is ashamed of it;
but he denies any obligation to expiate his precipitation by a
marriage.