Monday in Whitsun-week. Blue heavens, with slowly piling up
storm-clouds, and in all Paris a close, oppressive heat. Toward two
o'clock a cab rolls up the Rue Blanche. In the cab sits Mascha, a large
bouquet of white roses on her knees. Her blue eyes are strangely
staring.
"Is Fraeulein von Sankjewitch in her studio?" asks Mascha, of the
_concierge_, as she leaves the cab.
"Yes, mademoiselle."
Mascha hesitates a moment, as if she were not prepared for that; then
she says: "Give her the roses from--" Just then Nita crosses the sill.
"Ah!" cries she, gayly, "you have come again at last. Please come in."
"No, no," replies Mascha, in great haste and excitement. "I cannot
stay; I only wished to bring you the roses--for good-by."
"For good-by. How so?"
"Papa came yesterday, and----"
"You are going away with him." Nita completed the sentence. "Well, they
are very beautiful, your roses, but still I will not accept them if you
do not come in. You owe me a great many visits, little dove; come in,"
she urges, energetically.
One moment Mascha hesitates, then she accepts the invitation. "Only a
moment," she murmurs. "I should like to see your studio once more, a
last time, and your new picture. Colia said it is so beautiful."
"See! There it stands on the easel," says Nita, while she arranges the
roses in a vase.
Mascha went up to the painting. It represented the corpse of a drowned
girl, resting on a bier. Her garments drip with water, and so do the
outstretched thin limbs, which make the impression of having been
recently taken from the water. All this is painted with wonderfully
bold truthfulness, but the charm of the face, the touchingly contented
smile of the dead, reconciles the spectator with the painfulness of the
subject.
"How did you think of it?" says Mascha, shuddering.
"I saw it in the morgue," explains Nita. "On a Sunday, shortly after
the opening of the Salon, we were very gay, Nikolai, Sonia, and I. We
went in the morgue, as if in defiance, but when I came out my heart was
so full that I felt at once that I would make a picture of it. That is
my way of ridding myself of an unpleasant impression."
Mascha stares with wide eyes at the picture. "Who stood model for it?"
murmurs she.
"A little seamstress."
"How content she looks. Do you believe that a dead person can look so
satisfied?" Mascha speaks as softly and solemnly as if a true corpse
were before her.
"The drowned girl in the morgue had this expression. Besides, I have
often noticed it in dead people. Have you never seen a corpse?"
"Never!" says Mascha, shaking her head--"never!"
"Not even your mother?"
"Not even she--I would not. I was afraid." And seizing Nita
convulsively by the wrist, she asked breathlessly: "Nita, do you
believe that there is a second life after this one?"
If anyone else had asked this question of Nita, she would probably have
answered all kinds of things. To the child, evidently tormented by
anxiety, she only answered earnestly and simply: "Yes," whereupon she
added: "And now come away from the horrid picture. I would not have
asked you to look at it if I had not forgotten what a nervous little
person you are. Now make yourself comfortable. You will spend the
afternoon with me." And Nita wished to take her hat.
Mascha pushed her off. "I must go, I must go," she repeated, with the
same hasty uneasiness. Suddenly she herself took off her hat. "Only a
little while--a little while," she whispered. "Sit down in the
arm-chair, Nita, so, and I here." She crouched down on a cushion at her
friend's feet; then laying her head down on Nita's knees, she begs:
"And now love me a little; be good to me, very good; you can be so
well!"
It is very close even here in the large, airy studio. Already Nita
believes that Mascha has fallen asleep, when she murmurs: "What do you
call it?"
"What?"
"Your picture."
"Martyr."
"Ah! martyr--martyr--and--do you not believe that she killed herself?
It is wrong to kill one's self."
Nita says nothing.
"And--do you not think--that she killed herself--because"--Mascha
murmurs this softly to the folds of Nita's dress--"because she had done
something wrong?"
"But, Maschenka, how do you come by such thoughts?" Nita says it quite
reproachfully.
Maschenka is silent, and Nita continues to stroke her hair gently, like
a tender mother who lulls her sick child to sleep. After a while
Maschenka begins anew. "Nita," whispers she, and her voice sounds so
weary and choked that Nita only with difficulty understands her, "could
you ever love any one if you knew that he had done something wrong?"
"What do you mean?" asks Nita, and feels that the young being leaning
against her trembles as with a violent chill.
"Can you understand that one can do something really wrong, something
wholly wrong, without being bad himself?"
For an instant Nita hesitates, then she says: "Yes, I believe so.
Yes--but what wrong can you have done?"
"I--oh, nothing; naturally, it is no question of me," assures Mascha,
hastily. "Only when one lives so alone, and has no one to whom one can
speak, all sorts of thoughts come to one. It is foolish----"
"No!" cries out Nita, hastily. "It is not foolish, it is sad. How could
one leave you with those uncongenial people this long, long time?"
Mascha only silently shrugs her shoulders.
"But now it is over. You will be happy. You will again be healthy and
happy."
"Yes," murmurs Mascha, scarcely audibly--"happy--healthy!"
"If I only knew you far away from this dusty sultriness," says Nita,
"somewhere where it is shady, cool, where fresh roses bloom each day,
where the air is almost as fresh in the evening as it is in the
morning. You long to be away?"
"Yes," murmured Mascha, "I long to be away--away from the houses, from
people, from the heat, far away, anywhere where it is cool, very cool!"
"Poor heart, my poor little darling!"
After a while Mascha whispers: "Do you remember how, the first time I
came here, I was afraid of the skull? You were so dear and good to me.
I loved you from that moment."
"And I you, my angel. You must not forget me. You must write to me
sometimes. Promise me?"
But Mascha says nothing, only kisses repeatedly the young Austrian's
slender hands. Suddenly she springs up. "Now the time is past. Adieu!"
she cries. "Adieu!" She embraces her friend violently, and then pushes
her quickly from her. Quite before Nita perceives it, she has slipped
out of the studio and into the cab. From the window she kisses her hand
to her. Will Nita ever forget the staring look which the child gave
her?
It has grown quite dark. It is pouring. Further painting is not to be
thought of. Nita would really like to go home, but her art dealer has
appointed four o'clock to call. He will not come in this storm--there!
Is not that a carriage rolling into the yard? There is a ring at her
door, she opens. Who is that? She has to hold to a chair not to sink
down. Lensky!
In spite of the gloom she sees him plainly--the large frame, with its
now slightly stooping broad shoulders, the face surrounded by long,
half-curled hair.
She stands with her back to the light. He sees nothing but the dark
outline, but this outline pleases him; her carriage, the shape of her
little, proudly carried head, has something sympathetic, and the
perfume of iris and violets which is about her is pleasant to him.
Colia seems to have shown good taste.
If only the ice were broken. It is hard to find the first word!
Slowly, and moving backward, she has reached the middle of the room.
She speaks no word of welcome, offers him no chair, does not once ask
him what brings him.
"An unbidden guest," he begins constrainedly, but with a smile of
heart-winning graciousness. "I do not know if you know me--by sight, I
mean?"
She shudders without answering.
"Well, yes, you know me. I am so-and-so, but to you I am now only the
father of a poor young man whom you have greatly pained." He pauses as
if he expects that she will say something, but she is silent, only
retreats a step. It is as if he should speak to a picture or statue.
What is the matter with her? Well, he has promised the boy to speak
with her. Now she turns her head a little, he perceives her profile;
she is charming, it cannot be denied, and what pride and defiance! It
will be hard to win her, but it is worth the trouble to try it.
"You evidently find me very impertinent," he begins anew,
half-laughingly, "but it cannot be helped; you will not succeed in
shaking me off until I have made you speak. I was initiated in Colia's
affair, and was rejoiced at the happiness on which I had already begun
to count for him, when yesterday he confessed to me his despair, and
looked so miserable, and yet bore up so bravely, that I promised him to
more accurately fathom your obstinate heart. I really cannot understand
that a warm-hearted, fine-feeling being such as you must be, from
Nikolai's description, should refuse my son. But what is the matter?
Why do you not answer a word? You are evidently defiant, of strong
character, will not betray the friend for whom you sacrificed yourself.
Have I guessed it, my child? I should like to see your face once." He
stretches his head forward and looks at her attentively. "And you are
very, very charming; it is worth the pains to conquer you, and I will
conquer you." He wishes to take her hand, but she draws it away
hastily.
It has grown somewhat lighter. With an angry gesture Nita has turned
her face fully to the old artist. Her eyes are full of a repellent
pride, which is mixed with horror. He looks at her closely. A horrible
misgiving takes possession of him. "Have I not already seen you?" His
and her eyes meet. "Great God!" He stamps his foot. A moment he stands
as if petrified with horror. "Forgive!" he murmurs, scarce audibly;
then, holding his hand over his eyes, he leaves the room.