Boris Lensky Part 16

He looks badly, and his manner is absent-minded.

He does not show himself in the Avenue Wagram. The recollection of the scene with Mascha is painful to him. He repeats to himself incessantly that he has behaved perfectly correctly, that every other man would have taken the situation differently. He would have given his life for a kiss, and--really, she would not have fought against it. To have renounced that was an heroic deed which bordered on quixotism. Why, then, was he not satisfied with himself?

He was not a bad, but only a weak, wavering man, a man without any originality, who, of his own inclination, had courage neither to do anything good nor bad which was not on the fixed programme of life of his companions in rank.

Still, he had fallen desperately in love with this little Russian. It was really fatal, for he could not marry her. In principle he was resolved to marry, to marry soon; he was urged on all sides to marry.

What could he wish better than Sylvia Anthropos? She was beautiful, wealthy, of very good family, and, more than all this, she was wise, practical, and possessed the strength of will which he lacked. She would take the responsibility of his existence upon herself, think for him, act for him, resolve for him. There had formerly been a time when he was one of her most ardent admirers. She had refused him, but that was long ago, full three years, and in the life of a young diplomat that is an eternity. She had done her best to recompense him for her former unkindness and win him back; but the charm was gone. He knew that if he offered her his hand to-day it would not be refused. But never had he felt such a warm feeling for any one as for Mascha. With all her unconventional impulsiveness, her lack of restraint and social routine, her physical and moral personality was yet penetrated by such a subtle refinement! Shame, eternal shame! Well, he did not need to decide to-day or to-morrow. Perhaps it would pa.s.s. Before he had made up his mind he courted Sylvia Anthropos, and in a sympathetic hour, in the Hotel Meurice, she laughed at him quite unexpectedly, and suddenly resting her large eyes very seductively upon him, she said: "You good, faithful, stupid man! Can you then never find courage to tell me that you love me?"

When, about an hour later, he left the Hotel Meurice he was betrothed, and carried away with him a comfortable feeling of general satisfaction with himself. At least, all was now settled!

Between his betrothal and the moment when he had murmured to Mascha, "If you ever need a man who would go through fire for you, you know where to seek him!" scarcely five days had elapsed!

XVI.

Among the different returns of attention which the Jeliagins' musicale have brought them, come several invitations to a large charity ball in the Hotel Continental. Anna is not disinclined to attend it, but has already been invited for the same evening to a dance. But Mascha is going with Madame d'Olbreuse, who, at the last moment, has good-naturedly offered to take her with her.

It is against custom to take such a young girl to this ball; but what is not against custom in Mascha's loveless, unprotected existence?

Mascha, who has pa.s.sed the last days in feverish expectation of Barenburg's proposal, looks forward with a kind of feeling between hope and fear to this ball. Perhaps he will be there. "But will he trouble himself about me?" she asks herself.

Ah! what does it concern her? He is quite indifferent to her, she persuades herself--quite, however little she can understand him. Who could? How can one say such feeling words to a girl, look at her with such tender enthusiasm, kiss her hand as he had kissed Mascha's, and then suddenly disappear, and for eight long days let nothing be heard of him? It is incomprehensible. "Perhaps he thinks that with a child like me he can permit himself anything," says she to herself, "but I will show him that he has deceived himself in me. I wish he would be at this ball, only that I might show him how little I think of him, how arrogant I can be!"

Meanwhile she prepares for the ball, and takes the greatest pains about her toilet. As, since Nikolai is gone, no one has time to accompany her, she drives about the boulevards alone, and makes the wildest purchases. In the midst of her preparations she takes a trip to the Avenue Frochot, where she is always a welcome guest in Nita's studio.

With no one is she on such a good footing as with Nita, whom she clings to with a kind of idolatry, and--Nita returns her affection. Sonia is consumed with jealousy when she sees her friend, formerly not at all inclined to exaggeration, caressing the dear little witch.

On the evening of the great event, Mascha puts on the same white dress which she had worn in honor of her social _debut_, and places a wreath of loosely fastened pink anemones on her head. That this adornment, which she herself thought of and which became her excellently, was a trifle too picturesque for a young girl of good family she does not suspect, and who should direct her attention thereto? The Jeliagins have already gone their own way, before she had begun to dress, and Madame d'Olbreuse, when she comes to get Mascha, does not leave her carriage, but merely sends her servant to announce that she is waiting.

They have reached the Hotel Continental. In the vestibule a gentleman comes up to the Countess d'Olbreuse, some vicomte, who is introduced to Mascha, bows to her, and troubles himself no further about her. He offers the Countess his arm; she looks around for a cavalier for Mascha, but finds none.

"Keep by me, dear child," says she, taking the Vicomte's arm. And so, somewhat ashamed and vexed, as an accidental dependant of the Countess, Maschenka enters.

People like the Countess visit such entertainments from curiosity, from a wish to admire the arrangements and criticise the people.

She walks through all the rooms on the arm of her cavalier, and from time to time turns round to Maschenka with a "Are you here, my child?"

Whereupon her companion shows her something droll, and she immediately forgets Mascha again.

The heat is stifling, the crowd fearful. At first Maschenka takes pleasure in shyly looking at herself in the mirrors along the walls, then no longer--her eyes meet such a weary, disappointed little face, with such a vexed, gloomy look.

"Now you have shown me enough foolishness. I should like at length to see something beautiful," says the Countess, petulantly, to her companion.

"Do you really wish to see something beautiful--the most beautiful thing ever created?" replies the Vicomte. "A beautiful woman. Then you must come with me into the patronesses' room."

"Oh, clear, no; I know all the ladies; they would immediately take possession of me, and there would be an end of my independence for the rest of the evening."

"At least take a peep through the door," the Vicomte proposes. "There, the lady under the palm near the statue--an Englishwoman, one sees at the first glance--blonde, and in a white gown."

Mascha puts up her _lorgnon_, looks into the room.

There, near the statue, in a white toilet slipping far down from her shoulders, sits Sylvia Anthropos with her imperial diadem of reddish curls, her short, antique upper lip, her large dark eyes, her golden eyelashes, and finely pencilled eyebrows.

The regular faultlessness of her features is to-day warmed by an expression unusual to her. She holds her head somewhat bent back, and looks up--to whom? Mascha feels something like a cold, hard blow on her heart.

There, leaning against the pedestal of the statue, speaking to the beautiful Englishwoman, stands Karl Barenburg. Now he raises his eyes, discovers Mascha, starts perceptibly, and turns his eyes away from her.

* * * * *

An hour has pa.s.sed since then.

Maschenka is one humiliation richer. The only man who has asked her to dance was her Italian teacher, Signor Supino. Besides, a wealthy leather dealer has offered her his arm for a promenade. Poor Supino she dismissed with a harshness which later pains her, but her strength and resolution did not suffice to shake off the leather merchant. He had met Mascha a single time in Nita's studio, and treats her as if she were his niece.

At length she is rid of him. With convulsive resolution she clings to an old, white-haired American, whom she knows as the father of one of the scholars in the Sylvain studio. His daughter is waltzing in the ball-room, the Countess d'Olbreuse is waltzing. Maschenka sits with Mr.

Cornelius Merryfield in the prettiest room, a winter garden with artificial moonlight and rocks; sits there weary, sad, and lets the old man explain to her the narrow influence of the North American Quakers.

Suddenly she hears a voice near her say: "At last! I have sought you already for half an hour!" It is Barenburg.

All the blood in her body rushes to her heart. She has but the one thought, not to let him notice how much she cares for him, to be as indifferent to him as possible.

"Ah, really! Then Miss Anthropos has already left the ball half an hour ago?" says she, slowly, raising her brows, whereupon, turning to Mr.

Merryfield, she asks: "Did you know President Lincoln?"

"Have the kindness to introduce me," interrupts Barenburg, irritably.

"Count Barenburg--Mr. Merryfield," says she, shortly; and still turned toward Mr. Merryfield, she continues: "I heard once that when an Englishman, in conversation with Lincoln, let fall a French phrase, the latter remarked that he did not understand Greek. Do you think that possible?"

"It may be," says Mr. Merryfield, with an uneasy glance at the door. "I do not understand what keeps my daughter so long; she promised to only dance one waltz. Permit me to go and look after her a little."

"But, Mr. Merryfield, I promised Countess d'Olbreuse to wait here for her," says Maschenka, very excited, and catching him by the sleeve.

The American looks helplessly at Barenburg. "You see that you must put up with my protection, Fraulein," says the latter, whereupon the two men bow formally, and Mr. Merryfield withdraws.

Then she is alone with him in the green twilight of the winter garden,--as good as alone. Truly, from time to time people pa.s.s by the young couple, men with ladies and alone, but they are people who know neither him nor her.

Here, in the pale pseudo-moonshine of the electric lights, her beauty has a quite magical effect. The mixture of pride and sadness in her manner, the poetic unusualness of the arrangement of her hair, the pink wreath, on whose bloom lies already a touch of sad weariness, the dark green background, against which her white child's face stands out--all unite in heightening the charm of her fantastic, peculiar loveliness.

For a while both are silent, he and she. At length he begins: "In my whole life, a week has never pa.s.sed so slowly as the last."

"Indeed! I find it, on the contrary, very short. In my monotonous life one day follows the other before one perceives it."

"Do you not go out at all?" asks he.

"No; my aunt says I am too young to go out in society; my cousin says I have too bad manners; in consequence of which I stay at home," says she, to a certain extent dropping the superior _role_ which she childishly and defiantly has planned for herself.

"Your cousin speaks nonsense, and if your aunt really thinks you too young to go out, she should not send you to such a ball as this one."