Ossip Schubin

“ A boundless shame torments him; it is all over--all.
The whole night long, restless, without peace, he seeks only a hand-breadth of blue sky for his child, seeks no great, brilliant happiness such as he has dreamed of for Mascha; no, the most moderate, only a tolerable life--seeks a salvation--in vain--nothing--nothing! His mind is like a captive bird which wounds itself at every beat of its wings against the bars of a too small cage. ”

“ 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. ”

“ The light of a hanging lamp falls over a table on which stand the picturesque remnants of a recently left, abundant dessert.
Suddenly a great confusion and even a painful shame overcome Mascha. Perhaps it is all not true! How can one lunch so gayly if one is in mortal danger? Shyly she turns to the door; she would like to escape. Then Bärenburg enters the room.
"Fräulein--you!" comes from his lips. But even in his startled surprise he speaks softly, evidently from prudence.
She stammers something; her voice is so choked with shame and excitement that he scarcely understands her. ”

“ Your wreath must be white as my wings, and like a crown, so round and firm, a crown of thorns concealed under roses; that is the bridal wreath, thus we bind it for you poor mortals in heaven. I will bring you one from above, and will break out all the thorns for you, my treasure, my darling!" And her mother wished to spread out her wings and ascend, but she could not, her wings were broken. And she looked at Mascha with such large, helpless, sad, deathly, frightened eyes, and then turned away.
"Mother!" cries Mascha, in her sleep; "mother!" She awoke. ”

“ All at once Maschenka begins to sob, but so convulsively, so hoarsely and gaspingly, as Nita has never heard any one sob before. It goes to her heart.
"How stupid I was!" she thinks, suddenly. "It is Karl Bärenburg's betrothal which pains her. Is it really possible that this fiery, generous little heart wounds itself for the superficial dandy? Poor little goose!"
She no longer urges the girl to confess her sorrow, she only silently caresses her; and when she sees that her caresses only excite the unhappy child instead of calming her, she sadly withdraws. ”

“ The insane story from Figaro comes to the mind of more than one of his listeners. It is not to be denied, his playing gives the impression of a bad charm to which he himself has fallen victim.
Now Lensky plays his own composition, his famous, wonderful "La Légende," for which every one in the audience waited eagerly. In the middle of the powerful, striking melody of the piece something like a sob and the wearily fluttering wings of an angel who has wandered into Hades, and now vainly seeks the way to its home, sounds from beneath his bow. ”

“ All the time it is to Nikolai as if a cold, slippery monster which he could not shake off sat upon his breast.
"And have you in your whole life never been mistaken in a woman, never too lowly estimated her virtue?" asks he, somewhat sharply.
Lensky looks thoughtfully before him. Suddenly he shudders, then rising, he says, with the tone of a man who would fain break off a useless and painful conversation: "I am cold, Colia; come home. Why thresh mere straw?" ”

“ Those with whom his daughter should associate will not have anything to do with her; but others, women who are lenient from eccentricity, and others again who have their reasons for it, an hysterically mad, or amusing, dissolute crowd, without every moral restraint, will assemble round the child. And then--Mascha has his blood in her veins; without any healthy amusement, without good examples in her associates, without any urgent reason longer to restrain herself, she will give the reins to her temperament. He will see her sink--she, his darling, his white lamb--sink, sink! ”

“ 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. ”

“ Mascha has wiped the tears from her eyes; she looks at Nita touchingly, thankfully; then smiling, with the tender roguishness which adds so much to the charm of her little personality, she says: "I am not sorry. You would not have been so kind to me if I had been polite, would you?" And with that she lays her arm somewhat shyly around Nita's neck and presses her soft lips to the young artist's smooth cheeks. "I was beside myself," says she. "Ah! I am so afraid of death! If only there was no dying!" ”

“ 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 Bärenburg. ”

“ Through the passage left between the audience on the stage strides a large man, with long, half-curled hair, which begins to grow gray; with a face whose features remind one of an Egyptian Sphinx, a face with an indescribable expression of gloomy sadness, austere pride, and touching kindness; a face that is not handsome, but which one never forgets when one has once seen it, the face of a man who has tasted all the pleasures of earth and who is yet always hungry--the face of a man who still desperately longs for something in which he has long ceased to believe. ”

“ She looks unusually attractive to-day, besides. The weary fever which quite weighs her down to the ground takes from her appearance the harshness which often makes her somewhat cold. The outline of her face is much softer than formerly. A mysterious light shines from her large eyes, the eyes in which a strange grief lies buried, and round her mouth trembles an expression as of death-sentenced tenderness which will not die.
"Could you possibly get me a vinaigrette, Colia?" asks Sonia, anxiously. ”

“ He has grown thin, the furrows in his forehead are deeper, his hair is gray. He has aged greatly. But how well it becomes him! The lovable, benevolent expression of the lips, the patient, one might almost say pardoning, sadness of his gaze.
"Father! You--what a surprise!" fairly rejoices Nikolai, and rushes in the arms which his father stretches out to him. And Lensky, however spoiled he is otherwise, each time rejoices anew when his children show their love for him. ”

“ What a feeling of warm security in these strong arms! What happiness to thus lean on a man whose caresses are not embittered for us by their compassionate graciousness, who loves us without criticism, blindly.
"Mascha, it is not to be borne that you torment yourself so," says he. "I will not consent. Leave him, and come to me."
But then she slips out of his arms, and says, firmly: "No, father; I will stay at my post."
She smooths her hair mechanically. After a short pause, she continues: "I often felt urged to tell you what makes my life so sad. Ah! how I longed for your compassion! ”

“ You see all in the same light."
"In the light of my experience, Colia, in the light of truth. I cannot help it if the world is as it is. The depth of our whole nature is mire, and nothing but mire!"
"Do not speak so inconsolably, father; I cannot bear it," says Nikolai, quite supplicatingly. "There is much that is beautiful everywhere, also in your life. Think of your art!"
"Of my art?" says Lensky. ”

“ The opening of a door, the entrance of a visitor, causes her each time a painful excitement. She does not know who comes, nor to whom she gives tea, nor what the people say. She has the same thought, the same feeling of being plunged in a black, miry abyss in which she can find no ground for her feet.
Sophie and Nita have both come to-day. Nita, who has visited Mascha many times already since Lensky's departure, inquires after her health, and why she has not let herself be seen in the last week. ”

“ Nikolai's eyes sparkle quite angrily; then he adds, slowly, heavily, but speaking plainly: "I let myself be so carried away as to kiss her hand, and she shook me off as if she had a horror of me."
"So; did she? The simpleton! Do you really believe that a girl would so rudely refuse a boy like you if she were quite sure of her heart? Torment yourself no more, Colia."
"Father!"
"The thing is plain; she sacrifices herself from friendship for Sonia. You have done a fine thing, you shy lover, you." Lensky laughs. "Never mind, we will set it all right. ”