It was two o'clock, and the house was empty; the lights still burned. Lensky was busy arranging the music on the piano, Natalie stood in the middle of the room, drawn up to her full height, evidently trying to suppress a nervous attack. She held her handkerchief to her lips--it was no use. Suddenly she cried out: "Must I receive these people? I would rather scrub the floor!" And with that she made a gesture as if she would tear something apart.
"What do you mean?" he asked slowly. He had become deadly pale, and his voice trembled.
She only drew her brows gloomily together and continued to gnaw at her handkerchief.
Then he lost patience. He seized a large Japanese vase, and threw it with such force on the floor that it broke in pieces; then he left the room, slamming the door behind him.
But Natalie looked after him, offended, and broke out in fierce, whimpering sobs.
A few minutes later when she, still weeping and trembling in every limb, leaned against a sofa, in whose cushions she had buried her face, she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She looked up, Lensky had come up to her. The traces of his difficultly mastered irritation were still on his deathly pale face, but he bent down anxiously to her and said gently: "Calm yourself, please, Natalie; it is no matter. Poor Natalie! I should have thought of it sooner. You shall never again receive any one--not a person--who does not please you, only stop crying; that I cannot bear."
At the first friendly word that he said to her, her whole ill humor changed to tormenting remorse and shame. "You will not take what I said to you in earnest," said she. "It is not possible that you should take this madness in earnest. I am so ashamed--ah, I cannot tell you how ashamed I am! I acted unjustifiably, but I was so tired, so nervous--scold me, be angry with me, and only then forgive me, or else your indulgence will oppress me too heavily," and with that she kissed his hands and sobbed--sobbed incessantly.
He caressed her like a little child whom one wishes to soothe, and she continued: "I will suit myself better to my position, I will be friendly to every one--as if I could not make that little sacrifice to your artistic position!"
Then he interrupted her: "I will accept no sacrifice from you, not the slightest, that I cannot do," said he. "What have you to trouble yourself about my artistic position? You have nothing at all to do but to love me and be happy--if you still can," he added softly, with a tenderness that for the first time since his marriage had a bitter savor.
But she looked up at him in the midst of her tears, with glorified happiness. "If I still can?" she whispered, drawing his head down to her--he now sat on the sofa beside her, with his arm around her waist--"if I still can!" His lips met hers, her head sank on his shoulder.