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," a.s.sures 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 G.o.d!" 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.

XXIV.

"Well?" Nikolai cries out to his father.

For an hour he has been sitting in the virtuoso's parlor, impatiently awaiting his return; sits there with a newspaper in his hand, with a high-beating heart, which he tries to persuade that hope is a frivolous deceiver on which one should not rely. One glance at Lensky's face suffices to convince the formerly so obstinate heart.

"It is nothing," murmured Lensky, quite confusedly; "nothing. It cannot be; you must submit; it is never otherwise!" And, as if to cut off all further explanation, he asks: "Was no one here in my absence? No visitor?"

"No one came up here," replies Nikolai. "I thought it would be in vain," stammered he, with difficulty preserving his composure. "But you were so convinced. So, then, nothing--no reason?" And, with a pitiable smile, he adds: "It must be borne! A very good article in the _Times_, on Hector Berlioz; you should read it. How stupid I am, I have torn the sheet. Pardon!" He still rests his eyes supplicatingly on his father, as if he hoped he would tell him more explicitly how it had all been.

But the virtuoso is silent. He only murmurs something to himself, then sits down, with his back to Nikolai, near the chimney, and stares into the dull fire-place.

"Did--did she displease you?" asks Nikolai.

Lensky does not reply.

Meanwhile, there is a loud knock at the door. Every one comes to see Lensky without being announced; that is an acknowledged custom.