XII.
"Where is Mascha?" asks Lensky, as Nikolai helps him into his overcoat.
"She has retired. Will you go up to her room?"
"No, it is too late," says Lensky, frowning, and adds: "Do you object to walking, Colia? A stroll has charms for me. I never walk in the daytime, for every street boy runs after me; that is vexatious."
Nikolai himself was pleased to breathe some fresh air after the close rooms.
Lensky was in an elevated mood. With head somewhat thrown back, overcoat open, with swinging arms, he walked near his son. Not far from the house two belated wanderers met them. They started at sight of the virtuoso. "Ah, Lensky!" they exclaimed, and stood still. When Lensky looked at them smilingly, although they were not personally acquainted with him, they took off their hats as though he were a crowned head.
Lensky bowed politely, graciously. "It is too absurd," he remarked, walking on. "Not even at two o'clock in the morning can one walk on the street without being recognized. I believe Bismarck and I have the best-known faces in Europe."
Scarcely had he said this when he felt how laughable it was; he is vexed at it, and, as always after his great or small triumphs, now, when the momentary intoxication of it begins to wear off, an embarrassing, suffocating, quite humiliating feeling overcomes him.
All at once he stands still. Nikolai looks at him. He is frightened at the tormented expression of the artist's pale face.
"Are you not well, father?" asks he, taking him by the arm, anxious lest a new attack of giddiness, had overcome him.
"No, no, there is nothing the matter with me."
They had reached the end of the Champs Elysées. "Stop a little," says Lensky. "Sit down on the bench--no, not that one near the light; here in the shadow--and let us talk, that is, if you are not sleepy."
"I? Far from it, father. But you! Remember you leave at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. You should rest."
"No; I can sleep to-morrow on the train. Sit down."
Nikolai does as his father requests. For a while they are both silent, then Lensky begins:
"Now I think of it, what was the matter with the hysterical enthusiast who fainted that time at my concert in Eden? Mascha told me of her. I thought she was invited this evening."
"She was invited," replied Nikolai.
"So!" murmured Lensky. "And she did not think it worth the trouble to come?"
"She was ill."
"Excuse!" says Lensky. After awhile he begins again. "I was vexed that she did not come. I asked after her. Mascha is quite in love with her. Who is she?"
"Fräulein von Sankjéwitch."
"Sankjéwitch, Sankjéwitch? Is she a Pole?"
"No; her father was a Sclavonian, her mother was of a Bohemian family."
"So, h-m! You have seen her often?" He looks penetratingly at Nikolai.
"Yes."
"And are you as charmed with her as our little curly-head?"
"I find her very charming," murmurs Nikolai, softly.
"In what a tone you say that!" Lensky lays his hand on his son's arm. "You are in love, eh?"
Nikolai is silent.
Lensky laughs. "H-m! h-m! It is the first time that I have ever discovered you in any serious enthusiasm. Tell me, now you should be already decided, have you any intentions?"
"What do you mean?" asks Nikolai, hoarsely.
"Just what I say."
In this moment Nikolai feels almost a kind of horror for his father.
"You cannot know of whom you speak," says he, icily; "it is a question of a young girl of very good family."
"I know very well of whom I speak," replies Lensky, vexed at his son's admonition. "It is a question of a young artist who, separated from her family, goes her own way. I cannot possibly expect of such a gifted exception that she will be restrained by the same prejudices as any little goose."
The blood rushes to Nikolai's cheeks. "I would be in despair if I believed that she thought herself above such prejudices," says he.
"Laughable," said the elder, unconvinced. Then looking askance at his son: "H-m! you seem to have taken it greatly to heart. If you carry such views with you through life, I congratulate you; you will have much suffering. But I pain no one willingly. If I had known that you--I would have been silent. I will not deprive you of your illusions; no one should do that for any man. Heavens! what would men be without illusions! They would creep on all fours. I am no longer far from that. But let us not speak of me; it is better that we speak of you. Only rave calmly to the blue air if it pleases you. I envy you the capacity."
"I have not the slightest intention of raving to the air," replies Nikolai, calmly, but still somewhat stiffly and coldly. "I have a fixed purpose before me."
"You wish to marry?" Lensky exclaims.
"Yes," says Nikolai, shortly.
"Marry at your age! Pardon me, but I never thought you so unpractical."
An unpleasant pause follows. Nikolai at length begins in a trembling voice: "Father, when you look back upon your whole life, even now a long one, what is there in it more beautiful than the first years of your marriage?"
Lensky's face twitches with a painful, scarcely to be mastered emotion; he breathes difficultly. Then he murmurs bitterly: "You would be a poor surgeon, Colia. You have a heavy hand, a very heavy hand. It pains."
Nikolai is shocked. He would like to make good his awkward roughness, to say something loving, tender to his father. Nothing occurs to him.
Then Lensky suddenly turns to him and says: "If you should really meet such a girl as your mother was, and she takes you, then hold her fast in your arms and never part from her; carry her over every stone which might bruise her feet, protect her from every too hot ray of sunlight, from every too cold breath of air, which might harm her, and kneel down before her every evening, and thank her for the happiness which she gives you. But I do not believe that you will find her--she is not to be found!"
"I am very sorry that you have not met Fräulein von Sankjéwitch, father," begins Nikolai, in a warmer, changed tone.
"So am I," replies Lensky, shortly. "How does she look? A beauty, naturally--that is, you think her one."
"No, father, no beauty; but so charming, so lovely."
"H-m! and her manner? If a lady of society wanders on Parnassus, she is usually particularly genial. Is she a decided artist?" asks Lensky, lighting a cigarette.
"A--well, yes, a little--not very much, but a little," answers Nikolai, "and only in the best signification of the word. If you learn to know her you will be just as charmed with her as I!"
"So!--h-m! That is a little bit strong," says Lensky. His voice this time sounds decidedly more kindly, and he pulls the young man's ear.
"I am convinced of it," asserts Nikolai, boldly. "You have never seen such a girl, so full of grace in every movement, and still with such an interesting abruptness; peculiar, full of spontaneity; one moment gloomy, repellant almost to rudeness, then again so kindly cordial, so truly womanly and compassionate; all against a background of incurable sadness--in short, charming, and comparable with nothing else in this world!"
"There has never been any one similar," Lensky assures him earnestly, and adds: "See, see how you thaw; you grow quite animated, dreamer." He is silent awhile, then he begins again: "Does she receive much company?"
"No; she sees as few people as possible."
"Ah!" says Lensky, with the triumphant expression of a hunter who has at length found the trace which he has long sought.
"She does not go into society, because conventional society is too tedious, too unmeaning for her," Nikolai hastily assures him.
"They all say that," replies Lensky, shaking his head. "My dear child, as long as I thought that it was only some passing fancy of yours, I was perfectly ready to let you have your way. But when it is a question of something so important as your marriage, I must earnestly beg you to be on your guard, to look into the matter more closely."
"But, father," says Nikolai, horrified, "all that I have told you should certainly prove to you----"
"It proves to me that you are intensely in love," says Lensky, good-naturedly. "For the rest, it points to all sorts of things which you have overlooked."
Once again Nikolai wishes to interrupt his father, but without noticing this, the latter continues:
"From all you say, she is much too interesting, much too attractive, for a girl of good family, who lives alone with an ex-favorite governess. And then, from whence comes the mysterious unsimilarity of her mood, the incurable sadness which forms the fundamental tone of her being? Inquire, Colia. If you come upon any trace of an unhappy love, a sad disappointment, then I will own myself satisfied, then all is explained. But if you discover nothing, then--then, be cautious. On the risk of falling completely from your favor, I would wager that she has secretly experienced some fearful shock--in a word, that she has a past."
"It is not possible!" exclaims Nikolai.
"Do not be so violent," Lensky replies. "You are not the first young man who has asserted that. Besides, I will not condemn her. Not the most faultless are the best. Human nature is not different. I would only be naturally very sorry if you, in spite of such a hateful circumstance, still would persist in your resolution."
"You need not fear, father," bursts out Nikolai, harshly. "I would never resolve to marry a dishonored, degraded girl. I would rather kill myself."
"Those are great words," says Lensky.
"They are words which express my convictions. I should not have let myself be drawn into speaking of my feelings to you. You see all in the same light."
"In the light of my experience, Colia, in the light of truth. I cannot help it if the world is as it is. The depth of our whole nature is mire, and nothing but mire!"
"Do not speak so inconsolably, father; I cannot bear it," says Nikolai, quite supplicatingly. "There is much that is beautiful everywhere, also in your life. Think of your art!"
"Of my art?" says Lensky. "Of my art!" he repeats with indescribably bitter emphasis. "Do you think that I do not know the condition of that? An art whose highest achievement is to rob a few hysterical women of the miserable remnant of respectability which they had. No; the effect of my art--what is left of it--is not calculated to restore me my lost idealism. I am sorry to have pained you; the last evening we should have passed comfortably together. It vexes me not to have learned to know her. If I had seen her, I could have told you exactly whether she is a wife for you or not."
All the time it is to Nikolai as if a cold, slippery monster which he could not shake off sat upon his breast.
"And have you in your whole life never been mistaken in a woman, never too lowly estimated her virtue?" asks he, somewhat sharply.
Lensky looks thoughtfully before him. Suddenly he shudders, then rising, he says, with the tone of a man who would fain break off a useless and painful conversation: "I am cold, Colia; come home. Why thresh mere straw?"
He takes a few steps, then looking in Colia's face, he stands still. "Heavens, how sad you look! Put everything that I have said to you out of your head--everything. I am mistaken; let us agree that I am mistaken, and that I have a quite false view of life. Roses are not rooted in the earth; angels throw them to us from heaven. Believe all that you will, but show me a gay face for farewell!"
He lays his heavy, warm hand on the young man's shoulder; his voice sounds hoarse and broken, while he continues: "Yes, yes, we will agree that I am mistaken, that something beautiful is before you. See, of the three things which were dearest to me, I have crushed two--your mother and my genius. My children are left to me; I wish to see them happy!"