"She does that every time that I leave her," says Mascha, "and I am so foolish that it always goes to my heart. You do not know how hard it is not to turn back, but I must not spoil her too much."
In the drawing-room Bärenburg came to meet them, his little son beside him. Lensky's face immediately grew gloomy, and even Mascha's looks betokened uneasiness. "A great surprise," she cried out to her husband.
"Oh, no, Marie; I have already heard of it," he replies with the friendly courtesy which was peculiar to him. "Heartily welcome to us, papa." And with that he stretched out his hand to the virtuoso.
Lensky gave him his silently. In vain did he try to force a polite word from his lips. He did not succeed. Bärenburg kissed his young wife, straightened her hair somewhat, raised his little son on his knee, made a few superficial remarks; Lensky answered in monosyllables. With increasing discomfort, Mascha watched the two--her husband, whose condescension was unmistakable; her father, who could not succeed in concealing his hatred. Lensky was right when he asserted that he was ill suited to his son-in-law. Two men could not be worse suited to each other than the old, retired artist and the young, unengaged diplomat.
Bärenburg had not improved in the last years. He had lost the good-for-nothing charm of former days with the frivolity which was the foundation of this charm. His manner betrayed the uneasiness of the déclassé; he spoke more rapidly than formerly, while he coughed incessantly, repeated phrases, and incessantly reached out his hands for some near-by object. Still he always had a distinguished look and was particular to dandyism about his dress. And Lensky?
In Mascha's eyes her father had grown wonderfully handsome, now, when the intellectual expression so powerfully predominated in his magnificent old face, and was at the same time united with a trace of sad kindness. What did it matter to her that his hair was still longer and more luxuriant, his clothes shabbier and more slovenly than formerly? The sensual expression which had then disfigured his mouth had wholly disappeared; his lips were thinner, the mouth sunken; in the near-sighted eyes, which only with difficulty perceived the nearest objects, was a look which seemed to gaze into a distance unattainable to us other ordinary mortals.
For Mascha he was something far above the ordinary, almost a God. For Bärenburg he was a badly combed, badly, brushed, badly cared for barbarian, an old violinist whom the world began to forget, a shabby celebrity.
He nevertheless tried evidently to be agreeable to his father-in-law. He commanded his little son, of whose uncommon and aristocratic beauty he was evidently proud, and whom he openly spoiled, to kiss his hand to grandpapa, and when the capricious little fellow refused--yes, even staring distrustfully at the old artist, murmured: "Gipsy!"--he gave him a slap, and sent him to kneel in the corner; a punishment to which the droll little mite immediately submitted with a humorous shrug of the shoulders.
Mascha frowned. "You will dine with us?" she turned to Bärenburg.
"I am, alas! already engaged," replied he. "I promised Pistasch Kamenz----"