"That is all very pretty and poetic," replies Anna, condescendingly, "but as you cannot tell this touching commentary to your splendor to every one, I would advise you to take off the pearls for this evening.

It is absolutely unsuitable for a girl of your age to wear such costly ornaments. You are, without that, dressed absurdly elegantly--_c'est d'un gout douteux!_"

"Take off my pearls!" calls out Mascha, unspeakably vexed at Anna's condescending tone, with a violence which plainly betrays the dangerous vehemence of her nature inherited from her father. "No, never! Never!"

she repeats, seizing the necklace with both hands. "I would rather stay in my room the whole evening and not show myself, if you are afraid I might shame you."

A moment before, Lensky felt an almost uncontrollable desire to throw something at Anna's head, but Mascha's burst of rage has a subduing effect on his own excitement. Not for anything in the world would he have his daughter appear to disadvantage.

"But, Maschenka," says he, gently, laying his hand on hers, "collect yourself. Anna does not mean badly. In the end it is quite indifferent whether an insignificant little thing like you has a black or a white neckband on. Restrain yourself, my little dove. Do not forget that you are a guest here." A stern word would, perhaps, have steeled her.

Lensky's gentleness spoils everything.

"Ah! I am everywhere only a guest, and no longer at home anywhere,"

says she. Tears came to her eyes. She tried hard to be mistress of herself, choked down what she could; her unpractised seventeen-year-old self-restraint does not endure, and suddenly bursting into convulsive sobs, she leaves the room. An unpleasant silence follows.

Anna boldly displays her vexation, old Madame Jeliagin smiles sweetly and politely into air, Lensky looks angry, and Colia murmurs excusingly: "She is very over excited. She cannot console herself for the parting from you this time, father."

"Yes, yes, I know," says Lensky. "Poor child! No self-control--no self-control." And turning directly to Barenburg, he adds: "She lost her mother three years ago, just when she needed her most, and since then she has been, so to speak, left to herself. But she is a good child--a very good child."

"Shall I perhaps go up and look after her?" asks Madame Jeliagin, coaxingly, of her brother-in-law.

"No, no, aunt, let me go," says Colia, hastily preventing. "I know her better than you. I usually succeed quickly in calming her. She really deserves to stay in her room, and she will be ashamed to come down again; but if you will let me, I still will bring her. She has looked forward so to this evening!"

"What would you do if your sister had behaved like Marie?" Anna whispers to Count Barenburg.

He knits his brows in lazy consideration. "H-m! h-m! The same that Nikolai did--run after her to console her," replies he, slowly. "That is, granted that my sister were as charming as your cousin, which she is not."

XI.

Except for a few trifles, the dinner is prettily served, abundant and good. The mood prevailing leaves so much the more to be desired.

Lensky, who is vexed that Maschenka has made a scene before the "stupid, arrogant Austrian," says nothing. Old Madame Jeliagin is consumed with anxiety lest the service be broken. Mascha is awkward and shy as an eight-year-old child who is ashamed of her naughtiness. Only Anna feels thoroughly at ease, for it always has an exhilarating effect upon her to sit between two handsome and polite young men, as to-day between Nikolai and Barenburg; but the latter looks quite uninterruptedly over at Mascha.

"A charming creature, this Mascha," he thinks to himself. It pleases him to repeat her strange name to himself. "Yes, a charming creature.

What a complexion, what a charming little mouth, and what a delightful expression, changing incessantly from petulance to moving tenderness, in her eyes! What shoulders! What a shame!"

Yes, what a shame to marry Marie Lensky. He could not think of it, but--why should he not be a little pleasant to her? What Count Barenburg understands as being "a little pleasant," others would describe as paying desperate court to a girl. But he sees nothing of the sort, but takes the situation poetically.

"If only this silly Anna would not be so unbearably attentive!" thinks he, and still looks secretly over at Mascha.

She now stands near Lensky, before the mantel, pale, and with a treacherous redness of the heavy eyelids. With a kind but very earnest face, bending down to her, holding one of her small hands between his large ones, her father speaks very gently but impressively to her, evidently reproves her, and in a strange, melodious language, which goes to Barenburg's heart, although he understands not a word of it, the wonderful Russian tongue which, like no other, contains and reflects the whole character of the people for whom it serves as expression.

After Lensky has finished his admonition, Maschenka, innocently unembarra.s.sed, stretches out her arms to her father, and kisses him.

Barenburg is thrilled.

Meanwhile, Lensky, gently reproving her, says in French: "And now behave like a sensible being, Mascha. So! Sit up straight, and play something for us, now, before the people come."

"But papa!"

"Yes, no evasions, only play. Rely on me, you may venture it," says Lensky. "I have been enough ashamed of you to-day, and, for a change, would like to be proud of you. Sit down--my heart--I take the risk; it will go!" And with that he raised the piano lid himself. "The A minor rondo of Mozart!"

For one instant she hesitated, then the wish to distinguish herself before Barenburg, to please her father, comes to her. She plays, and how beautifully she plays!

As if electrified, Barenburg rises and goes up to the piano. He has a great love for good music. The A minor rondo is his express favorite.

In this composition of universal sadness, in which the purest artist soul which ever came down to us from heaven weeps over the frivolity of an entire century, Mascha's still immature but always tender and delicately shaded mastery is especially noticeable.

"That was entrancing," calls out Barenburg, with true enthusiasm. "You are a G.o.d-gifted artist!"

"That is she; I heard her without," suddenly a deep, old woman's voice joins energetically in his praise.

The first of the ladies invited for the evening has appeared.

She is a very handsome old lady, an old lady with gay, mocking, and still good-natured, sparkling blue eyes which betray her Irish origin--a woman whom calumny has never ventured to touch, although she has for thirty years been one of the "influentials" of Europe, one of the two or three women for whom Lensky feels respect, Lady Banbury.

"I congratulate you on your daughter, Lensky," says she, greeting the artist cordially. "So this is the fat little baby whom I used to carry about in St. Petersburg. I am very glad to see you again, my child."

And Lady Banbury gives her hand to Mascha. But when Mascha, with a shy courtesy, wishes to draw it to her lips, the old lady says: "I grudge the leather your fresh lips; let me embrace you, that is, if it is not unpleasant for you to kiss an old woman who loved your mother very dearly. Ah! good evening, Nickolai. You here also, Charley?" to Barenburg. Then, at length, remembering the circ.u.mstance that she is really not Lensky's but his sister-in-law's guest, she turns to the latter.

Strange, all the truly distinguished ladies who are present this evening commit the same, perhaps somewhat voluntary, error--they have all come on Lensky's account merely; they come early, in simple toilets. All have a pleasant word for Mascha, tease Lensky with some ancient reminiscence, and Mascha is pleased with their charm, with the gay mood which they have brought with them, with the great respect which they show her father. Sonia comes, but not Nita. It is a great disappointment for Nikolai. He has not yet ceased to inquire of Sophie for her friend's health, when a large, stout, handsome, painted blonde enters, a woman with too bare shoulders and too long train, a woman the sight of whom has the effect of the Medusa's head upon all the other women.

"How does she come here?" ask the other ladies. "How does she come here?" they ask each other oftener and oftener, as, one after the other, a procession of brilliant social ambiguities file in--a cosmopolitan battalion of Lensky enthusiasts, recruited from the highest circles.

Men appear spa.r.s.ely. They form scarcely a third part of the numerous guests.

Lensky has been playing for more than an hour. The women crowd around him so that he has scarcely room to move his arm. His eyes wander about him. He sees a confusion of bare necks, of brilliant eyes, of half-parted lips. The sight goes to his head. The most insane flatteries are repeated to him. He feels twenty years younger; a triumphant insolence overpowers him.

In a concert hall, where the resonance is better, where the public is more critical, he exerts himself with all the force of his powerful nature; but here, in this narrow room, where nothing can be distinctly heard, surrounded by an audience of musically ignorant women, he plays like an intoxicated person. The air becomes ever more oppressive.

One person is boundlessly unhappy this evening. It is Mascha. Totally ignorant of what her duties as hostess may prescribe, she is incessantly corrected by her cousin, pushed about, has the feeling of being in every one's way, and while she, quite unknown as she is, creeps through the crowd a.s.sembled in the adjoining rooms, she hears remarks about her father, his playing, his relations to women, which send the blood to her cheeks, although she only half understands the most.

At length Lensky has laid down his violin. All the respectable women have withdrawn. Maschenka has helped them find their wraps. Most of them were very pleasant; some kissed her good-by, some even asked Nikolai to bring his sister to see them--but not very urgently.

If dear Natalie were still alive, why then they would be delighted to see this charming Mascha, but to be forced to take these unbearable Jeliagins into the bargain--that one must consider!

The Lensky enthusiasts have remained. Madame Jeliagin has invited them to partake of light refreshments. Mascha tried to help her, and had the misfortune to upset a cup of tea, whereupon, for the tenth time this evening, she is bidden to "get out of the way."

Depressed and namelessly unhappy, she stands among the guests, not knowing where to turn, when Barenburg, coming up to her, remarks: "How pale you look! It must be frightfully fatiguing to be hostess on such occasions, especially if one is not accustomed to the task. Come into the adjoining room, it is cooler there, and rest a little."

He gives her his arm and leads her into the adjacent drawing-room. Many guests have already found the way here; it is not especially secluded here, but enough so that the sympathetic pair can talk apart and undisturbed, if not un.o.bserved.

He leads her to a divan which is partly concealed by a miniature thicket of palms and ferns.

"Will you not have an ice? It will refresh you," says he, and beckons a servant.

Maschenka takes an ice, tastes it, and pushes it away.

"You are evidently very tired," remarks Barenburg compa.s.sionately.