"You evidently find me very impertinent," he begins anew, half-laughingly, "but it cannot be helped; you will not succeed in shaking me off until I have made you speak. I was initiated in Colia's affair, and was rejoiced at the happiness on which I had already begun to count for him, when yesterday he confessed to me his despair, and looked so miserable, and yet bore up so bravely, that I promised him to more accurately fathom your obstinate heart. I really cannot understand that a warm-hearted, fine-feeling being such as you must be, from Nikolai's description, should refuse my son. But what is the matter? Why do you not answer a word? You are evidently defiant, of strong character, will not betray the friend for whom you sacrificed yourself. Have I guessed it, my child? I should like to see your face once." He stretches his head forward and looks at her attentively. "And you are very, very charming; it is worth the pains to conquer you, and I will conquer you." He wishes to take her hand, but she draws it away hastily.
It has grown somewhat lighter. With an angry gesture Nita has turned her face fully to the old artist. Her eyes are full of a repellent pride, which is mixed with horror. He looks at her closely. A horrible misgiving takes possession of him. "Have I not already seen you?" His and her eyes meet. "Great God!" He stamps his foot. A moment he stands as if petrified with horror. "Forgive!" he murmurs, scarce audibly; then, holding his hand over his eyes, he leaves the room.
XXIV.
"Well?" Nikolai cries out to his father.
For an hour he has been sitting in the virtuoso's parlor, impatiently awaiting his return; sits there with a newspaper in his hand, with a high-beating heart, which he tries to persuade that hope is a frivolous deceiver on which one should not rely. One glance at Lensky's face suffices to convince the formerly so obstinate heart.
"It is nothing," murmured Lensky, quite confusedly; "nothing. It cannot be; you must submit; it is never otherwise!" And, as if to cut off all further explanation, he asks: "Was no one here in my absence? No visitor?"
"No one came up here," replies Nikolai. "I thought it would be in vain," stammered he, with difficulty preserving his composure. "But you were so convinced. So, then, nothing--no reason?" And, with a pitiable smile, he adds: "It must be borne! A very good article in the Times, on Hector Berlioz; you should read it. How stupid I am, I have torn the sheet. Pardon!" He still rests his eyes supplicatingly on his father, as if he hoped he would tell him more explicitly how it had all been. But the virtuoso is silent. He only murmurs something to himself, then sits down, with his back to Nikolai, near the chimney, and stares into the dull fire-place.
"Did--did she displease you?" asks Nikolai.
Lensky does not reply.
Meanwhile, there is a loud knock at the door. Every one comes to see Lensky without being announced; that is an acknowledged custom.