"Poor thing!" grumbles Lensky. "And one must have a pair of such pretty eyes only to attain that!"
"You must not take it so seriously," consoles Nikolai. "A little distraction, one of the water-cures. Aunt Barbara spoke of St. Maurice."
"Ah, yes; and she will probably sacrifice herself," says Lensky, with a grim laugh. "But none of that. I will not leave my poor little dove any longer to strange oversight. If the child must go to St. Maurice, I will go with her. If only these stupid, insolent women would not follow me everywhere! I am so weary of that, so heartily weary. You are astonished! Yes, it has suddenly dawned upon me that it is all over--all--I am old. Ah! how pleasant it is to be old, no longer perpetually to have a storm in one's veins, to be able to calmly rejoice in those whom one loves." He laughs, and takes Nikolai good-naturedly by the arm. "Well, now, about your great affair. When shall I learn to know my daughter-in-law? You are not the only one who raves about her. Lady Banbury swears by no one more than by her. I wrote you it. I knew it would please you. I was very foolish with my mistrust. Why do you say nothing? How do matters stand between you?"
"How do they stand?" murmurs Nikolai, dully, half confused, as one who has suddenly been awakened from a peaceful dream. "How do they stand?"
"Well?" says Lensky, becoming impatient, harshly.
Nikolai passes his hand slowly here and there over the table-cloth, coughs, says nothing. Lensky takes the shade from the lamp, bends down, squints, looks in a pale face with a stiff, unexpressive smile on the lips.
He strikes his fist on the table so that everything rattles. "That is not to be borne!" cries he, springs up, and walks up and down the room. He hums some musical motive to himself, does not finish it, then turns again to Nikolai. "You are not a whit better than Mascha," grumbles he. "So, have I looked forward to that!" He sits down again opposite Nikolai, and vexedly pushes his plate away. "Nothing but unpleasantness! Scarcely had I reached Paris when an acquaintance met me at the station. 'Do you know that your protégé, Bulatow, has hanged himself?' cries he, naturally to please me; and then a relation of particulars: the most absolute need; he had eaten nothing for three days; his wife half mad with grief; they were too proud to beg--yes, yes, proud--they were not too proud with me, if I had not shown him the door! I would like to cudgel Braun; as if I were happier for the few hundred rubles which he saved me! Then I hurry to Mascha to enliven me, find a hysteric, leaden-footed, melancholy being, and now--it is enough to make one beside himself! Out with it! Why do you make a face as if chickens had eaten your bread? What about your love affair?"
His tone is rough, quite harsh. He belongs to the men who at times ill-treat their kin from rage at not being able to make them happy.
"She has refused me, to-day, that is all," murmured Nikolai, turning away his head, as if in shame.
"Refused--you!" bursts out Lensky; then uneasy, confused, he draws his chair nearer to Nikolai's. "Refused you! I do not understand it!" Suddenly he takes his son's head between his hands, and looking at him with quite childish pride in his beautiful eyes, he cries out: "But that is absurd, boundlessly absurd! What will she, then, the princess, if my splendid boy is not good enough for her? No; do not think anything of it, my boy. Hold up your head, it was a misunderstanding!"