"Why?" asks Lensky, uneasily. "Barbara is not a bad woman. She is very good-natured."

"And perfectly characterless," replies Nikolai. "You were pleased that she overlooked Mascha's precipitation so easily yesterday. I was not.

Aunt Barbara is in bad circ.u.mstances; if I am not mistaken, she will very soon turn to you in her money matters, and with Mascha she will play the _role_ of an indulgent step-mother, who flatters the step-child in order not to offend the father. If Mascha is to prosper, she must live with people who understand her, who love her, but who are conscientious enough to be severe with her, and to guide her from time to time, tenderly but firmly, in the right way. She is much too gifted, much too obstinate for one to dare to leave her to herself. Mascha is a little race-horse who must be caressed, spared, but held very firmly in check. I know her better than you, for I have had more opportunity to observe her, and I tell you it is really dangerous to leave Mascha with people who will trouble themselves as little about her as the Jeliagins."

"You exaggerate, you exaggerate," grumbled Lensky. "Besides, how can I help it? Shall I shut up my song-bird in a cage, in a convent or a boarding-school? I tried it. She would not bear it. What shall I do with her?"

"Take her with you," says Nikolai.

"With me! That is impossible," bursts out Lensky--"impossible! What can a widower do with a grown daughter?"

Nikolai frowned. For a moment he is silent, then he says: "Do you remember how strongly you expressed yourself about Kasin, when he sent his daughter out into the wide world merely because she interfered with his bachelor life?"

Lensky's face darkens. This time Nikolai's remark has. .h.i.t its aim. "And you will draw a comparison between me and Kasin?" says he, slowly, cuttingly.

Nikolai thinks he has gone too far. "Naturally I did not think of that," he begins; "the actions of a great artist, of a genius----"

But there Lensky interrupts him.

"Spare me this genius; I am sick of being eternally pursued with this word," he cries. "I will be judged as a man with Kasin. As a man, what have I in common with this frivolous egoist, who first ran through his own and his wife's property, and then lived on still poorer devils, while he went about the world without troubling himself that his wife, his child, meanwhile suffered from hunger, without asking if they were well or ill; while I"--he drew a deep breath--"while I have tormented myself, worried myself about you my whole life long? All that you possess I won with my head and hands. G.o.d knows, I desired little for myself, but for you nothing was good enough. And if one of you wanted anything, I left everything and came from the ends of the earth to look after you--" He stops, out of breath.

"And you stayed with us as long as you were worried about us," says Nikolai, softly. "Yes, father, you were boundlessly generous to us, and still miserly. You never denied us anything, and still everything--yourself!"

"H-m! and did you miss me?" asks Lensky, harshly, quite repellantly, and looks at his son sideways, mistrustfully.

"Very much!" replied Nikolai.

Lensky had not expected that; the short, simple words went deep to his heart. He changed color, rose, walked up and down a number of times, and at length remained standing before Nikolai, and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"I know that I was in the wrong," says he, in a changed, indescribably gentle voice. "I do not deserve any children such as you are. If you had both turned out quite badly, I still could not have wondered. But you have but another's blood in your veins, and--and--" [....than you]

and lays his hand over his eyes, then he [...e her, a ...] foot. "I have neglected you, that is true [... ..u] must not imagine--" Again he pauses, [...] after awhile he continues: "As regards Mascha, G.o.d knows I should like to have my little lark about me, but with me it is really somewhat different than with--well, with Kasin. Kasin has his brilliant position and lives in St. Petersburg; but I--to-day I am in Paris, to-morrow in Berlin, the next day in Vienna. How, then, can I take a young girl about with me?"

"Is it, then, necessary that you should still so torment yourself?"

remarks Nikolai gently, quite pleadingly.

Lensky is silent.

And Nikolai, who, in spite of his early knowledge of life, is still an inexperienced idealist, thinks he has persuaded his father, hopes to win him entirely to the plan laid out for him. "You could certainly settle down now," says he. "I have planned that so finely. You could have an old relative, Marie Dimitrievna, for instance, mamma's cousin, who is sympathetic to you, to keep house for you; and under the united influence of your fame and Mascha's charm, your home in St. Petersburg or Moscow would become a true paradise. You could be so gay and happy, so petted and honored in your old age, if you only would not grudge yourself rest!"

"Not grudge myself rest?" groaned Lensky. "Yes, if I could [en.. ...]

rest." And with a gesture peculiar to him, [...] this back his thick hair with both hands from h[...] and [...], he adds: "Ask what you will of me, [only ...rer dev...] I should sit still; that I can do no more [..." ...bli...] is silent for awhile, then, with hoa.r.s.e, hollow voice, as if in a dream, he begins anew: "Yes, if they had left me your mother, perhaps it would have been different; just at that time, before our separation, I began to be weary of the dancing-bear life: with her, I perhaps could have led a respectable old age. But you knew better what was suited to her than she herself. You pointed out to her what would never have occurred to her of herself, poor angel!--that it was a shame to have patience with me. Please yourself with the result! You have killed her and me. But of what use to bring up again the old grief, what use to reproach others? It is all my fault. Now nothing can be changed. I am what I am; I can no longer subdue myself. I cannot be without women and applause," says he, brutally. "Be as horrified as you will, I cannot, I cannot. I will some time die with my bow in my hand, and can be happy if I am not hissed before that!"

His breath fails him. He is silent. They stand opposite each other, father and son, gazing into each other's eyes. Never before has Nikolai seen a face which expresses a more incurable sadness. Why does he understand now, just now, in spite of the inconsolable confession which his father has just made to him, the unescapable charm which he exercises on all men not fish-blooded?

Something of his thoughts are mirrored in his features. The polite mask has disappeared, and for the first time Lensky feels that it is his own flesh and blood that stands before him; for the first time he sees not only a young diplomat, dressed in the most correct English style, but his son, and in the features of the grown young man he finds something of the dear little face of the boy who used to spring joyfully out to meet him when he came home, who was so proud if he could show his father the slightest service, who boasted so imposingly to his playmates of his father's fame. He thinks of the tall, pale youth whose ideal he was until the day when Nikolai began to understand, and his bright eyes suddenly saddened with the hardest suffering that a young man can experience, the pain of being obliged to see a flaw in the one who is highest to him.

And from that time it was like an illness to the boy. He had learned to understand life so soon that it had made him old before his time. From his sixteenth year, and before that, he had carried about with him the grief of his poor, idolized mother. And Lensky reproached him for having lost his freshness.

Suddenly he takes his son by both shoulders and draws him to his breast--for the first time in years.

VII.

A little later, Nikolai and his father are rolling along the boulevard to see Mascha. The cab stops before a pretty private residence in the Avenue Wagram.

"Is Madame Jeliagin at home?" asks Lensky, while his son pays the cabman. Lensky never carries a groschen of money about with him.

"Madame cannot be seen," replies the servant at the house-door. Then a charming figure in a short, dark blue dress rushes down four, five steps at a time to the virtuoso.

"Ah!"

How often the little cry of joy with which his little daughter throws her soft, warm arms round his neck will ring in the ears of the artist as he grows older. And the kiss of her dewy, fresh, innocent lips--will he ever forget it? Mascha has lips like a four-year-old child.

"Papa! Colia! How lovely that you are both here, but how late!" says she, taking the hand of each and leading them into the hall. "Yes, how late! I have been standing at the window since ten o'clock, and looking to see if you were coming."

"You have lost much time, little one," says Lensky, and laughs.

"I had nothing to do but be happy with you, papa," replies she, and rubs her delicate, flower-like face against his hand.

They are now in the hall. One can scarcely think of anything more attractive than this room, with its old Flemish tapestry hangings, and in the background the heavy oaken stairs leading to the upper stories.

"It is pretty here, is it not, papa?" says Mascha, as she notices Lensky's glance slowly wandering over every object. "The colors all harmonize so charmingly," she continues; and with the important consciousness of saying something wise, she adds: "I call that eye music."

"A highly descriptive word. I will write it down," jests Lensky. "I had no suspicion that the Jeliagins lived so well," he adds, and seeks Nikolai's glance. How could he have a.s.serted that Barbara Alexandrovna was in bad circ.u.mstances?

"Yes, the whole house is pretty, all the rooms," says Mascha. "I have been all over it already, in the stable and in the attic. But sit down here near the chimney, papa; and you here, Colia. Ah! how nice to have you both together. Only poor mamma is missing!"

And the tender-hearted child, with whom joy and pain are always near together, rubs the tears from her eyes. Then she gives herself a little shake--this is not the day to be sad. "Only think, papa!"

"Well, what then, my angel?"

"When one comes in here, one imagines that aunt is very wealthy; but she is quite, quite poor." Maschenka's voice sinks tragically. "Early this morning some one came with a bill from the dressmaker, I think. At first aunt denied herself; and then there was such a noise that she came out to quiet the people. Poor aunt had to beg the people to wait.

How horrible! But the worst of all was"--Maschenka whispers quite mysteriously to him--"the worst of it was that then, afterward, Anna scolded poor aunt; the daughter scolded her mother. '_Vous manquez de dignite maman!_' cried she. 'You behave like a baker-woman. Never would these dirty loafers'--yes, she expressed herself so, '_ces sales canailles_'--'permit themselves such insolence if you knew how to act like a lady.' And poor aunt only replied quite humbly: 'Don't be vexed, my heart. I will be wiser another time. Have patience with me.' That went to my heart. I would have liked to fall on poor aunt's neck, but I dared not let her perceive that I had heard anything. She is very nice and good to me. Except Anna, they are all good to me." She throws her arms round Lensky's neck, and drawing his head down to her, she whispers in his ear: "What has Nikolai against me, papa? He does not look at me to-day."

"He is dissatisfied with you."

"With me?" Mascha springs up. "What have I done to you, Colia? I have noticed the whole time that you have not laughed a single time. Please say it, so that it will be over."

Nikolai stands there like the picture of an earnest young mentor who prepares himself for a lecture that will not cross his lips.

Mascha loses patience. "Don't cough incessantly; open your mouth and speak!" calls out she, and the energetic little person stamps her foot violently.

"Do not be so angry," says Nikolai, good-naturedly. Then he takes his sister's hand in his, and looking down at her very lovingly, he says: "Yes, Mascha, I am dissatisfied with you; you have guessed rightly.

Every one who really loves you must be dissatisfied with the imprudent self-will which you showed by your yesterday's prank."

"H-m! were you dissatisfied?" asks Maschenka, turning to her father, defiantly.