Lensky has been playing for more than an hour. The women crowd around him so that he has scarcely room to move his arm. His eyes wander about him. He sees a confusion of bare necks, of brilliant eyes, of half-parted lips. The sight goes to his head. The most insane flatteries are repeated to him. He feels twenty years younger; a triumphant insolence overpowers him.
In a concert hall, where the resonance is better, where the public is more critical, he exerts himself with all the force of his powerful nature; but here, in this narrow room, where nothing can be distinctly heard, surrounded by an audience of musically ignorant women, he plays like an intoxicated person. The air becomes ever more oppressive.
One person is boundlessly unhappy this evening. It is Mascha. Totally ignorant of what her duties as hostess may prescribe, she is incessantly corrected by her cousin, pushed about, has the feeling of being in every one's way, and while she, quite unknown as she is, creeps through the crowd assembled in the adjoining rooms, she hears remarks about her father, his playing, his relations to women, which send the blood to her cheeks, although she only half understands the most.
At length Lensky has laid down his violin. All the respectable women have withdrawn. Maschenka has helped them find their wraps. Most of them were very pleasant; some kissed her good-by, some even asked Nikolai to bring his sister to see them--but not very urgently.
If dear Natalie were still alive, why then they would be delighted to see this charming Mascha, but to be forced to take these unbearable Jeliagins into the bargain--that one must consider!
The Lensky enthusiasts have remained. Madame Jeliagin has invited them to partake of light refreshments. Mascha tried to help her, and had the misfortune to upset a cup of tea, whereupon, for the tenth time this evening, she is bidden to "get out of the way."
Depressed and namelessly unhappy, she stands among the guests, not knowing where to turn, when Bärenburg, coming up to her, remarks: "How pale you look! It must be frightfully fatiguing to be hostess on such occasions, especially if one is not accustomed to the task. Come into the adjoining room, it is cooler there, and rest a little."
He gives her his arm and leads her into the adjacent drawing-room. Many guests have already found the way here; it is not especially secluded here, but enough so that the sympathetic pair can talk apart and undisturbed, if not unobserved.
He leads her to a divan which is partly concealed by a miniature thicket of palms and ferns.
"Will you not have an ice? It will refresh you," says he, and beckons a servant.