Natalie says nothing, only turns her head away with a gesture of displeasure.
"He is coming after us?" asks Maschenka, embarrassed.
"He promises to," replies Natalie, with difficultly restrained bitterness.
"Poor mamma!" and Maschenka tenderly kisses the tears away from her mother's cheek. "You must not cry, it is not good for you. You know papa cannot bear to see you cry."
It is quite inexplicable how nature has been able to bestow upon this tender, childish, velvet-cheeked little being such a striking likeness to the face stamped by time, weather, and life of the virtuoso. The troubled, strangely deep look with which Maschenka regards her mother; the tender and still defiant expression of her full lips; the manner of drawing together her delicate brows, all that reminds one of her father. But that in which her likeness to him is most strikingly announced, is the bewitching heartiness of her manner, the flattering insinuation of her caresses.
Natalie observes her with quite fixed attention, then draws her to her and kisses her passionately on both eyes.
Meanwhile there is a knock at the door. It is a waiter, who brings a telegram from Petersburg. Natalie starts, her thoughts fly to her son whom she has left behind them. But no the telegram has nothing to do with Kolia. It is really not from Petersburg, but has only sought her there, and has been sent after her to Berlin. She reads:
Dresden, Hôtel Bellevue, August 4th.
Can you not take the roundabout way through Dresden? We would be very glad to see you.
Sergei.