In the Jeliagins' little sandy garden behind the house sits Lensky with
his daughter. It is Sunday afternoon. Upon his gentle, loving
persuasion, she has left her bed for the first time. As the maid had
left the house with the Jeliagins, the kitchen maid, with her red,
swollen, awkward, but kind hands, has dressed her, slowly, as one
dresses an invalid who will not or cannot help herself. When she was
ready, they could not at first induce her to leave the room. With
little steps, trembling and tottering, she dragged herself to the door,
leaning on her father's arm; but then she suddenly turned round, and
clinging with a wild gesture to the bed-posts, she declared with rigid
obstinacy: "No--no--no!" until she at length, half exhausted by
opposition, half calmed by her father's tender assurances that she
would certainly see no one, with her head hidden on his shoulder, let
him carry her down-stairs.
The sight of every object which reminded her of her past life, of the
outer world, is indescribably painful to her.
Now they sit together on a hard green bench in the warm summer
afternoon. The little garden is quite filled with transparent gray
shadows. It is very quiet--Sunday quiet. Lensky's eyes fasten on his
child. He uneasily seeks something which he may tell her without
humiliating her, without paining her.
"Maschenka!"
"Papa!"
"Listen! do you hear how prettily that bird sings? I would not have
thought that a city bird could have such a sweet voice."
She looks up. "Yes, papa," murmurs she, and bows her head anew.
Compassionately his eyes follow every movement of the poor child. They
have put a white morning dress on her. She is sallow, her cheeks are
sunken. Still her little face is unspeakably, touchingly attractive.
"As soon as you are better, we will play a great deal together," he
begins, after awhile.
Mascha does not answer. He repeats his words. Then she looks up,
confused, distracted. "What did you say? I--I did not hear," murmured
she.
"Of what are you thinking, then, Mascha?"
"Of what? I--I only thought how all will be now," stammered she, and
stares at the ground.
Yes, how will it be? He also thinks of that. He does not believe in the
success of Nita's undertaking; he would not have let himself be forced
to marry in such a case. And what then? Suppose he marries Mascha to
some philosopher who surrenders himself for her few groschen? The
present would at least be covered thus, but what of the future?
Humiliation--ill treatment! No, he will not give his child to that--no,
no! He alone will care for her, be all in all to her, recompense her
for everything with his love. His pride will not permit him to return
to his fatherland with his dishonored child, but he will make a home
for her in the most beautiful place in the world, in Sorrento, or
somewhere in southern France. He will keep her like a princess,
distract her by his art, read with her, teach her, surround her with
lovely flowers, with all beautiful objects before which she need not
lower her eyes.
With fearful bitterness, he suddenly breaks off this air-castle
building. That is all nonsense--sentimental dotage. A moment will yet
come when longing for companions will overcome her. Those with whom his
daughter should associate will not have anything to do with her; but
others, women who are lenient from eccentricity, and others again who
have their reasons for it, an hysterically mad, or amusing, dissolute
crowd, without every moral restraint, will assemble round the child.
And then--Mascha has his blood in her veins; without any healthy
amusement, without good examples in her associates, without any urgent
reason longer to restrain herself, she will give the reins to her
temperament. He will see her sink--she, his darling, his white
lamb--sink, sink!
All at once she shudders, springs up. "What is it, Mascha?" he asks,
lovingly, holding her back by the hand.
"I heard a window open--there in the house in the rear; people see me
from there. I--I want to go back to the house. I cannot bear it,
father," whimpers she. She wishes to free herself from him by force.
Then there is a ring of the door-bell. Mascha stands still. Who is it?
Is not that Nita who asks for her?
Yes! The door leading into the garden opens; Nita enters, pale, weary,
but with beaming eyes. She catches the child in her arms. "Maschenka,"
whispers she, "all is well. I have only come before to prepare you; in
a few minutes he is here and begs you for forgiveness."
Maschenka's eyes grow staring. She clutches her temples with both
hands.
"Do not faint, my darling; there is no time now for that," whispers
Nita, anxiously.
"No--no." Mascha looks shamefacedly at her white wrapper.
Nita unties a black lace fichu from her neck, and binds it round the
child's neck; then she smooths her hair.
The house-door opens; a cry, the old, soft bird-cry which Lensky loved
so, only stronger than formerly, full of piercing, painful sweetness,
with wide, outstretched arms, Mascha rushes past Nita, past her father,
into the house.
Nita wishes to go. Lensky holds her back. "You have done that--you--for
me," said he, "and you will not even give me time to thank you?"
"I do not deserve any thanks--it all arranged itself!" murmurs she.
"So!" he smiled bitterly. "I know how it would have arranged itself
without you."
His voice is warmer, but she steps back from him.
"I understand you," he murmurs. "Go!"
She goes a few steps toward the door; then she suddenly turns, goes up
to him, and reaches him her hand.
He looks her full in the eyes. "May I?" he asks.
As she nods affirmatively, he presses her hand, but not to his lips,
but lets it sink. He kneels down before the young girl, and kisses the
hem of her dress. A wonderfully relieved feeling has come over him. It
seems to him that he is freed from a burden--a burden of oppressive
scorn of mankind, which, with a breath of relief, he has laid down at
the feet of this young, pure, warm-hearted being.
"You are a saint," he murmured. "God pay you my debt!"
Thus they part.
The rescue is accomplished; Mascha is saved.
For a while Lensky remains alone in the garden, then he goes in the
house. Fear of disturbing his daughter in her happiness, longing to
rejoice in the sight of this happiness, alike agitate him.
From the drawing-room sound voices--very softly, interrupted with long
pauses.
The drawing-room door is not tightly closed; Lensky looks through the
crack.
Happiness? Where is the happiness? They sit near each other, hand in
hand; he embarrassed; she humiliated, shy.
"That cannot remain thus; it is not possible that it should remain
thus," Lensky's warm, wild heart cries out. "Take her in your arms," he
would like to call to the young man; "bury her shame in your
tenderness, raise her broken self-respect by your love!"
It must still happen thus, he must clasp her to his breast, kiss and
console her.
Lensky waits, waits breathlessly, fairly spying for a change of
affairs; but nothing changes. And suppressing a deep sigh, he turns
away.
"That is a rehabilitation, but no happiness!"