More than four years have passed since Mascha's marriage to Karl Bärenburg. When at that time the news had first circulated in Austria of the distinguished marriage which the daughter of the Russian violinist was to make, many envious, malicious words fell from the lips of ambitious maidens. But in initiated circles it was known that the existence of the young Countess Bärenburg offered little that was enviable. Her husband's parents denied their daughter-in-law, and cut off all subsidies from their son. Mascha's very large dowry from Lensky made the whole material basis of the young household. Shortly after his marriage, Bärenburg had had himself transferred to Japan; from there to Rio. Now, for almost two years, he had been without a post; led with his family--now in Pau, now in Nice, at length in Venice--the unsteady, incessantly striving for something better, wandering existence of a man who is no longer at ease in his social relations.
Mascha has cares enough. Three or four photographs of her father, all those which Natalie had formerly loved to have about her, stand on Mascha's writing-desk. She picks up one and looks at it lovingly. How long it is since she has seen him--not since her wedding-day--and how she longs for him! And then she is worried about him; she knows too little of him. He was never a minute letter-writer. Now he writes more seldom than ever. The few lines which he sends her at long intervals are very kind and loving, but he writes nothing of himself. What little she knows of him, she knows through strangers. She knows that for four years he has wholly retired from the world, that he has resumed anew his creative activity, written very much, but published nothing; that of late a fanatic Russian national enthusiasm has developed in him, a passion for hunting up all sort of Sclavonian musical chimeras. She knows also that he who was accounted the most atheistic of the men of his time has become more and more wrapped up in that insane and pessimistic mysticism into which the greatest Russians fall on the threshhold of old age, while they, instead of calmly accepting the incomprehensibility of creation, drive themselves mad in explaining the inexplicable.
She knows all that; but how he is, whether he is well, happy, she does not know. She would like to have him near her, care for him, pet him, alleviate the feebleness and thousand bitternesses of his age by tender arts; would like to warm herself on his strong heart; find healing for her wounded, weary soul in his tenderness. How plainly she sees him before her! "Why does he not come?" She has so often begged him. Ah, why does he not come?
Through the plashing of the waves which sob at the feet of the old palace is heard the creaking of an approaching gondola. Mascha listens. In her solitary life a visit is an event and seldom a pleasant one. The gondola stops. A rough, deep voice speaks a few words below. Mascha starts up. Is it possible? Surely not; it is a foolish fancy which deceives her. A heavy, awkward step approaches the door. "Father!" cries Mascha, and throws herself on his breast. "Father, how do you come here?--but no, do not answer; what does it matter why you are here, when only I have you! Ah, what happiness!" And she laughs and cries and kisses his deeply furrowed cheeks again and again, and strokes his rough hair.
"Really, really, still the old joy, my soul, my little dove! How dear you are! Do not be so foolish, my angel!" he says. "It is not suitable for a young wife to rejoice so in her old father." He wipes the tears from her cheeks with his handkerchief, and pushing her a little from him, he looks at her with a long, tender, scrutinizing glance. "So!" says he. "Now I can more easily imagine how you look in your normal condition, without eyes red from weeping. You have changed greatly, my angel; you have grown and are stouter, and the old round-cheeked, childish face is no more--you have become a beautiful woman, very beautiful." His glance wanders proudly over her tall, superb figure. "Your husband may be satisfied with you."
"He is always very good to me," assures Mascha, blushing slightly.
"Good to you!" repeats Lensky, bending forward, while his glance becomes more piercing, more attentive. "Yes, yes; you have always praised him greatly in your letters, and you often write me of your happiness. Still, I wished to convince myself of it----"
"I must be the most unthankful woman in the world if I complained," Mascha quickly assured him; "and I think you have long owed us your visit," she adds. "I--that is, both of us, Karl and I--had often begged you to come. You cannot have longed to see us much."
"So, do you think so, little dove?" says Lensky, smiling, and strokes her hair. "Shall I tell you the truth, child? Well, your husband embarrasses me. I am not suited to him. How should such a Russian bear be to such a polished western European dandy? But do not fear, Maschenka; I will put up with him on your account----"
"You will still stay with us, father?" she urges, without further noticing his remark.