A November day--a November day in Venice, and what weather! The plaster
wet, the wall smoking with dampness, the water in the canals cloudy,
the atmosphere gray and cold, filled with gray mist, and nowhere a
sunbeam.
In a large, desolate room, with picturesque bow-windows, sets Mascha at
a writing-table. She is reckoning, evidently racking her brains over
the great problem how to make ten francs pay for a hundred francs'
worth. Sometimes she pauses thoughtfully. Then she pushes the
account-book from her, and begins to write a letter. The letter will
not come to an end.
She lays aside the pen, and with a quick, angry gesture crumples the
sheet. "No, I cannot--I cannot inflict that upon you, father!" she
murmurs to herself. She leans her head on her hand; the pen lies unused
beside-her.
More than four years have passed since Mascha's marriage to Karl
Baerenburg. When at that time the news had first circulated in Austria
of the distinguished marriage which the daughter of the Russian
violinist was to make, many envious, malicious words fell from the lips
of ambitious maidens. But in initiated circles it was known that the
existence of the young Countess Baerenburg offered little that was
enviable. Her husband's parents denied their daughter-in-law, and cut
off all subsidies from their son. Mascha's very large dowry from Lensky
made the whole material basis of the young household. Shortly after his
marriage, Baerenburg had had himself transferred to Japan; from there to
Rio. Now, for almost two years, he had been without a post; led with
his family--now in Pau, now in Nice, at length in Venice--the unsteady,
incessantly striving for something better, wandering existence of a man
who is no longer at ease in his social relations.
Mascha has cares enough. Three or four photographs of her father, all
those which Natalie had formerly loved to have about her, stand on
Mascha's writing-desk. She picks up one and looks at it lovingly. How
long it is since she has seen him--not since her wedding-day--and how
she longs for him! And then she is worried about him; she knows too
little of him. He was never a minute letter-writer. Now he writes more
seldom than ever. The few lines which he sends her at long intervals
are very kind and loving, but he writes nothing of himself. What little
she knows of him, she knows through strangers. She knows that for four
years he has wholly retired from the world, that he has resumed anew
his creative activity, written very much, but published nothing; that
of late a fanatic Russian national enthusiasm has developed in him, a
passion for hunting up all sort of Sclavonian musical chimeras. She
knows also that he who was accounted the most atheistic of the men of
his time has become more and more wrapped up in that insane and
pessimistic mysticism into which the greatest Russians fall on the
threshhold of old age, while they, instead of calmly accepting the
incomprehensibility of creation, drive themselves mad in explaining the
inexplicable.
She knows all that; but how he is, whether he is well, happy, she does
not know. She would like to have him near her, care for him, pet him,
alleviate the feebleness and thousand bitternesses of his age by tender
arts; would like to warm herself on his strong heart; find healing for
her wounded, weary soul in his tenderness. How plainly she sees him
before her! "Why does he not come?" She has so often begged him. Ah,
why does he not come?
Through the plashing of the waves which sob at the feet of the old
palace is heard the creaking of an approaching gondola. Mascha listens.
In her solitary life a visit is an event and seldom a pleasant one. The
gondola stops. A rough, deep voice speaks a few words below. Mascha
starts up. Is it possible? Surely not; it is a foolish fancy which
deceives her. A heavy, awkward step approaches the door. "Father!"
cries Mascha, and throws herself on his breast. "Father, how do you
come here?--but no, do not answer; what does it matter why you are
here, when only I have you! Ah, what happiness!" And she laughs and
cries and kisses his deeply furrowed cheeks again and again, and
strokes his rough hair.
"Really, really, still the old joy, my soul, my little dove! How dear
you are! Do not be so foolish, my angel!" he says. "It is not suitable
for a young wife to rejoice so in her old father." He wipes the tears
from her cheeks with his handkerchief, and pushing her a little from
him, he looks at her with a long, tender, scrutinizing glance. "So!"
says he. "Now I can more easily imagine how you look in your normal
condition, without eyes red from weeping. You have changed greatly, my
angel; you have grown and are stouter, and the old round-cheeked,
childish face is no more--you have become a beautiful woman, very
beautiful." His glance wanders proudly over her tall, superb figure.
"Your husband may be satisfied with you."
"He is always very good to me," assures Mascha, blushing slightly.
"Good to you!" repeats Lensky, bending forward, while his glance
becomes more piercing, more attentive. "Yes, yes; you have always
praised him greatly in your letters, and you often write me of your
happiness. Still, I wished to convince myself of it----"
"I must be the most unthankful woman in the world if I complained,"
Mascha quickly assured him; "and I think you have long owed us your
visit," she adds. "I--that is, both of us, Karl and I--had often begged
you to come. You cannot have longed to see us much."
"So, do you think so, little dove?" says Lensky, smiling, and strokes
her hair. "Shall I tell you the truth, child? Well, your husband
embarrasses me. I am not suited to him. How should such a Russian bear
be to such a polished western European dandy? But do not fear,
Maschenka; I will put up with him on your account----"
"You will still stay with us, father?" she urges, without further
noticing his remark.
"No; I have my quarters in the Europa," replies he. "I will not cause
you any inconvenience."
"Inconvenience! How can you speak so?" says Mascha, angrily. "No, you
shall not deprive me of the pleasure. We have room enough, that is the
cheapest thing in Venice. Ah! what would it be if you lived in a hotel,
and would come to me as guest in an especially well-brushed coat, in
the afternoons? I must have you the whole day, from the moment you open
your eyes. I must bring the children in their night-dresses to your
bed. They are so cunning when they rub the sleep out of their eyes. I
must show you Natascha in her bath. I must pour you your tea at
breakfast, and butter your bread--that is--" The young wife suddenly
grows confused. "How foolish I am! Perhaps you do not wish all that?
You are much more independent in a hotel. It might be a burden----"
"You foolish Mascha," he interrupts her, touched. "If it really causes
you no disturbance, have my luggage fetched immediately from the
Europa, and I will spend the few days with you. But now show me my
grandchildren; the little pictures of them which you sent me were very
nice."
"Harry has gone with the servant to hear the music on the St. Mark's
Place, and the little one is asleep. Come and see her."
She took him by the hand and led him through one or two bare and
immense rooms to a very neat little chamber, in which stood a cradle,
and an Italian nurse in a red dress busied herself with sewing.
"There!" whispered Mascha, pushing back the white tulle curtains of the
cradle. "Is she not charming?"
A child of perhaps nine months lay among the pillows. It was no longer
asleep, but its blue eyes were wide open. When it perceived its mother,
it gave a short, clear cry of joy; Mascha raised it from the pillows.
It looked very charming in its white night-dress, with its delicate
blond head where one could yet see the skin under the golden-brown
curls.
"Give grandpa a kiss, Natascha--that is, if you are not afraid of a wet
little mouth, papa," said Mascha.
"She is very large for her age," said Lensky, after he had taken the
child, who did not show the slightest fear of him, in his arms.
"I believe you," replies Mascha, proudly. "But give her to the nurse.
She will bore you, and, besides, she must be dressed."
When the child saw her mother leave the room, she began to cry loudly.
Mascha started a little, but meanwhile closed the door behind her.
"She does that every time that I leave her," says Mascha, "and I am so
foolish that it always goes to my heart. You do not know how hard it is
not to turn back, but I must not spoil her too much."
In the drawing-room Baerenburg came to meet them, his little son beside
him. Lensky's face immediately grew gloomy, and even Mascha's looks
betokened uneasiness. "A great surprise," she cried out to her husband.
"Oh, no, Marie; I have already heard of it," he replies with the
friendly courtesy which was peculiar to him. "Heartily welcome to us,
papa." And with that he stretched out his hand to the virtuoso.
Lensky gave him his silently. In vain did he try to force a polite word
from his lips. He did not succeed. Baerenburg kissed his young wife,
straightened her hair somewhat, raised his little son on his knee, made
a few superficial remarks; Lensky answered in monosyllables. With
increasing discomfort, Mascha watched the two--her husband, whose
condescension was unmistakable; her father, who could not succeed in
concealing his hatred. Lensky was right when he asserted that he was
ill suited to his son-in-law. Two men could not be worse suited to each
other than the old, retired artist and the young, unengaged diplomat.
Baerenburg had not improved in the last years. He had lost the
good-for-nothing charm of former days with the frivolity which was the
foundation of this charm. His manner betrayed the uneasiness of the
_declasse_; he spoke more rapidly than formerly, while he coughed
incessantly, repeated phrases, and incessantly reached out his hands
for some near-by object. Still he always had a distinguished look and
was particular to dandyism about his dress. And Lensky?
In Mascha's eyes her father had grown wonderfully handsome, now, when
the intellectual expression so powerfully predominated in his
magnificent old face, and was at the same time united with a trace of
sad kindness. What did it matter to her that his hair was still longer
and more luxuriant, his clothes shabbier and more slovenly than
formerly? The sensual expression which had then disfigured his mouth
had wholly disappeared; his lips were thinner, the mouth sunken; in the
near-sighted eyes, which only with difficulty perceived the nearest
objects, was a look which seemed to gaze into a distance unattainable
to us other ordinary mortals.
For Mascha he was something far above the ordinary, almost a God. For
Baerenburg he was a badly combed, badly, brushed, badly cared for
barbarian, an old violinist whom the world began to forget, a shabby
celebrity.
He nevertheless tried evidently to be agreeable to his father-in-law.
He commanded his little son, of whose uncommon and aristocratic beauty
he was evidently proud, and whom he openly spoiled, to kiss his hand to
grandpapa, and when the capricious little fellow refused--yes, even
staring distrustfully at the old artist, murmured: "Gipsy!"--he gave
him a slap, and sent him to kneel in the corner; a punishment to which
the droll little mite immediately submitted with a humorous shrug of
the shoulders.
Mascha frowned. "You will dine with us?" she turned to Baerenburg.
"I am, alas! already engaged," replied he. "I promised Pistasch
Kamenz----"
"I know," said Mascha; "but still, as we for the first time have the
pleasure of entertaining papa in our house----"
"Naturally, I will immediately send a regret to Kamenz. After dinner I
must certainly go to the Hotel Britannia to take leave of him. But at
least I will stay at home to dinner."
His glance turned to the virtuoso, while it involuntarily remained
fixed on his not sufficiently clean hands. Lensky noticed it, and with
a mixture of embarrassment and anger, he hid his hand.
"For heaven's sake, do not force yourself to anything on my account!"
cried he, sharply.
The situation had become painful, and would certainly have led to rough
words, if Harry, who had meanwhile begun to weary of his corner, had
not suddenly sprung up, in order to now voluntarily offer to his
grandfather the caresses which, with the same capriciousness, he had
formerly refused him. With such nimbleness did he hop up on the old
man's knee, embraced him so tenderly, offered him with such triumphant
roguery his fresh lips for a kiss, that Lensky could not but forget his
vexation, and yield to the advances of the petted little prince.