He takes a few steps, then looking in Colia's face, he stands still. "Heavens, how sad you look! Put everything that I have said to you out of your head--everything. I am mistaken; let us agree that I am mistaken, and that I have a quite false view of life. Roses are not rooted in the earth; angels throw them to us from heaven. Believe all that you will, but show me a gay face for farewell!"
He lays his heavy, warm hand on the young man's shoulder; his voice sounds hoarse and broken, while he continues: "Yes, yes, we will agree that I am mistaken, that something beautiful is before you. See, of the three things which were dearest to me, I have crushed two--your mother and my genius. My children are left to me; I wish to see them happy!"
XIII.
The sunbeam which wakes Mascha every morning lies broad and full on the carpet in her bedroom, creeps caressingly on her pillow, strokes her round white cheeks, but she sleeps soundly and sweetly, like a very young child who sleeps heavily after a great grief.
There is a knock at her door, first gentle, then louder. "Maschenka, my little dove, it is I," calls a dear, well-known voice. She does not hear. Softly Lensky turns the knob, hesitates a moment on the sill. He approaches the little white bed; there she lies sleeping so innocently, so peacefully. A touchingly sad expression is on her slightly swollen eyelids, her red lips. How long and thick are the black lashes resting on her cheeks!
"Maschenka--sluggard--lazy-bones!" calls he, teasingly, and strokes her cheeks.
"Ah!" with the short, soft cry of a bird frightened out of its sleep, she starts up. "You, papa!"
"Yes, I--who else? I have knocked twice at your door without any answer. If one sleeps as soundly as you, my little witch, one should certainly bolt one's door."
"Ah! I am not afraid of thieves, only of ghosts, and they creep through key-holes," says Maschenka, laughing, and he laughs and strokes her cheeks.
"Childish one!" murmurs he.