Boris Lensky - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Early in the morning, before any one else was stirring, he went out, took a carriage, and drove to his father's grave.
He had to walk a long distance through the graveyard before he reached it. At last he discovered the grave. A mountain of wreaths covered it.
At the foot kneeled a black form, bowed deeply over her hands, praying.
Was that Mascha? Could she have come before him? He hurried nearer. No, that was not Mascha. Slowly she rose; it was Nita. Her eyes met his. It thrilled him through and through. They were the same wonderfully beautiful eyes, the remembrance of which had followed him across the sea, which he loved so unspeakably, and--which had once so pained him.
Some change had taken place in them. The shadow which had formerly darkened them had vanished. Ah! how loving and kind were those eyes now, somewhat sad indeed, but with the sadness of a great compa.s.sion, of a hearty forgiveness.
The bitterness of a hateful recollection had no place more in this pure, warmly beating heart.
He lowered his head before Nita's brilliant glance, quite ashamed. What thoughts could he have of his father if she could forgive!
She seemed surprised to see him, but she betrayed no embarra.s.sment at meeting him at the grave of his father. As he silently removed his hat, she came up to him with all her old freedom and gave him her hand. She evidently remembered that she had once caused him pain, and was sorry for it. Then she spoke a few words to him in her sweet, soft voice, in an undertone, as one speaks near the dead; smiled at him, crossed herself once more before the grave, and went.
He looked after her as she moved away among the dark cypresses as lightly as if borne on clouds, ever further, further between the white tombstones; looked after her, astonished, thoughtfully. Then he bent down there, where she had knelt, pushed the flowers a little aside, and kissed the fresh earth.
All was calm within him. He had finished one great period of his life. It was not only his father whom he had buried there, under the flower-covered mound; it was the last trace of a foolish hope which had, until then, prevented him from turning his eyes from his beautiful youthful dream and looking reality courageously in the face.
He had never ceased to love Nita, he knew that he would always love her, but calmly and undesiringly as one loves a saint or the dead.
When, a half-hour later, he left the graveyard, he bore his head high, and had the earnest, resolute look of a man who has begun a new life.
The perpetual remembrance of his father which he carried with him into this new life was that of the pale, n.o.ble face, alienated from all earthly shortcomings of the dead.
