The Argonauts

by Eliza Orzeszkowa

CHAPTER VII

Baron Emil said at times to Irene:

"You have the aristocracy of intellect. Your mind is original. There is in you much delicate irony. You are not deceived with painted pots."

These words caused her pleasure of the same sort as that which the praise of a mountaineer causes an inexperienced traveller when he tells him that he knows how to climb neck-breaking summits. Much irony had flowed into her mind from certain mysterious sides of her life. But she had become conscious of this now for the first time, under the guidance and influence of the baron. He awed her by the originality of his language and ideas, by the absolute sincerity of his disbelief, and his egotism. During childhood she had seen a mask which astounded her, and struck her in the very heart. Thenceforth everything seemed better to her and more agreeable than masks. Moreover, the baron was to her thinking a finished aesthete, an excellent judge in the whole realm of art, and in this regard she did not deceive herself greatly. The opinions on art and philosophy, which he proclaimed, interested her through their novelty, and the expressions which he used purposely, though sometimes brutal and verging on the gutter, roused her curiosity by their singularity and insolence. She imitated him in speech; in his presence she guarded her lips lest they might let something escape through which she would earn the title of "shepherdess."

"You are very far from the Arcadian condition, in which I meet people here at every step. You are intricate; you are like an orchid, one stem of which has a flower in the form of a butterfly, while the next seems like a death's head."

She interrupted him with a brief laugh:

"A butterfly is flat."

Her laugh had a sharp sound, for the cold gleam of the baron's eyes fell on her boldly and persistently.

"No," contradicted he, "no; the combination of a death's head with a butterfly makes a dissonance. That bites and sticks a new pin in the soul."

"But the Greek harmony?" she inquired.

With a flattering smile, which conquered her, the baron answered:

"Never mention harmony. That is the milk with which babes were nourished. We subsist on something else. You like game, do you not? but only when it begins to decay. There is no good game, except that which is rank. Very well, we subsist on a world in decay. This is true, but you speak of that darned sock; namely, harmony—ha! ha! ha! You think sometimes one way and sometimes another. Your soul is full of bites! You are idyllic and also satirical. You jeer at idyls, and still, at odd times, you yearn for one somewhat. Have I touched the point accurately? Are my words true?"

"True," answered Irene, dropping her eyelids.

She dropped her lids because she was ashamed of the discovery which the baron had made in her, and for this cause as well, that she felt his breath on her face, and caught the odor of certain strange perfumes which came from him. His eyes sought hers and strove to pour into them their cold gleam, which was also a burning one. He strove to take her hand, but she withdrew it, and he, with lowered, drawling, and somewhat nasal tones, said:

"You wish, and again you do not wish; you feel the cry of life in you and try to turn it into a lyric song."

The cry of life! Over this phrase Irene halted later on, but briefly, touched as she had been by premature knowledge, its meaning became clear to her straightway. The baron, small, fragile, with a faded face and irregular, was a master in calling forth the "cry of life" in women. His manner with them was exquisite, but also insolent. In his gray eyes, with the reddened edges of their lids, he had a look which was hypnotising in its persistence and cold fire. It resembled the glitter of steel—pale and penetrating. In the manner in which he held the hand of a woman and placed a kiss on it, in the glances with which he seemed to tear her away from her shelter, in the intonation given to certain words, was attained the primitiveness of desire and conquest under cover of polished refinement. Amid the tedium and dissatisfaction of ordinary and exercised lovemakers this method seemed cynical, but bold and honest. It might have been compared to the shaggy head of a beast sticking out of a basket of heliotropes, which have ever the character of sameness as has their odor. The head is ugly, but smells of a cave and of troglodytes, which among common flowers of dull odor lend it the charm of power and originality.

Irene thought at once of "great grandfatherliness;" when in presence of the baron her nerves quivered like chords when touched in a manner unknown up to that time. She asked herself: "Am I in love?" But when he had gone this question called from her a brief, ironical smile. She analyzed and criticised the physical and moral personality of the baron with perfect coolness, and at moments with a shade of contempt even.

A vibrio! This expression contained the conception of physical and moral withering, almost the palpable picture of an existence which merely quivers in space, and is barely capable of living. In comparison with this picture she had a presentiment of some wholesome, noble, splendid strength. Disgust for the baron began to flow around her heart and rise to her lips with a taste that was repulsive, and to her brain with a thought that was bitter: Why is this world as it is? Why is it not different? But perhaps it was different somewhere else, but not for her? She had ceased to believe in an idyl. She had looked too long, and from too near a point, at the tragedy and irony of things to preserve faith in idyls. Maybe there were idyls somewhere, but not in the sphere where she lived—they were not for her! To yearn for that which perhaps did not exist at all, which most assuredly did not exist for her! What a "rheumatism of thought" that would be! Her head, with a Japanese knot of fiery hair on the top of it, bent down low, for the stream of lead from her heart was rising. With a movement usual to her she clasped her long hands, and, squeezing them violently, thought:

"Well, what of it? I must in every case create some future, and why should any other be better than this one? Here at least is sincerity on both sides, and a just view of things."

As time passed she said to herself that what she felt for the baron was love of a certain kind, and that at the foundation of things there is no other love, and if there is any other kind it does not signify much, for each kind passes quickly. She began in general to attach less and less weight to that side of life, and also life itself had for her a charm which was continually decreasing. In the gloom of weariness, and the apathy into which she was falling, that which connected her with the baron was like a red electric lantern shining on a throng in the street and in the darkness. It was not the bright sun, nor the silvery moon; it was just that red lantern which, shining on a throng in the street, enabled one to see many curious or brilliant objects.

She knew of Lili Kerth, and the role which she played as to the world in general and the baron in particular. The baron in that case, as in others, wore no mask; sometimes he accompanied Lili Kerth to public promenades, and sometimes even showed himself with her in a box at the theatre. That was in contradiction with morals, especially in view of his relation with Irene; but subjection to morals, would not that be standing guard over graves, or the "darned sock?"

In this case Maryan, without knowing why, did not applaud his friend.

"C'est crane, mais trop cochon," judged he, and he pouted a little at the baron, but looked with curiosity at his sister, also present in the theatre. Irene sat in her box as usual, calm and full of distinction, a little formal, never charmed with anything, or laughing at anything. As usual she conversed with the baron between acts, till Maryan, looking at her, sneered, and asked:

"How did your vis-a-vis please you?"

"Qui cette fille?" asked Irene, carelessly. "The color of her hair is superb. Pure Venetian gold."

No feeling of offence, or modesty.

"Bravo!" said Maryan. And with comical solemnity in his voice he added: "Dear sister, you have a new mentality altogether. You have surpassed my expectations, and now I shall call you my true sister."

Why? Was she to be naive in a theatre? She knew well that such things were done everywhere, and they must exist in the life of the baron. And, if they must exist, then let them be open, for mysteries—Oh! she preferred anything to masks and mysteries. Besides the question was mainly in this, that that history of the baron and the famous singer of chansonettes did not concern her in any way.

One evening outside the windows of the house began the twilight, which was rather pale from snow. In the drawing-room sat Irene amid the cold whiteness of sculpture, which adorned the walls, and the reflection on polished furniture of blue watered-silk. The young lady was seated at one of the windows on a high stool. On the background of the window-pane, filled with the whitish twilight, her figure seemed tall, with narrow shoulders, and her profile somewhat too prolonged. Over this profile rose a knot of fiery hair, and the whole figure reminded one of a statue of a priestess, erect and smiling enigmatically. Her eyelids were drooping, her long hands were clasped on her robe; but the smiles wandering over her lips and ever changing, were not those of satisfaction. She remembered that in recent days she had met the baron offener than before. He strove more and more to see her—to meet her. He simply pursued her—found her frequently in shops which she visited with her mother, or alone. When he came he did not shield himself with the excuse of chance, but said with his usual sincerity:

"I willed to-day to see you, and I see you. I know how to will!"

This day she had barely entered the shop of a celebrated tailor when he entered also, and immediately, with unusual animation, began to tell her of his great project of going to America and settling there for a long time, perhaps permanently. He was roused by that idea; he was almost enthusiastic; the hope of new scenes and impressions, perhaps great profits, had fired his imagination. Of these last he spoke also to Irene.

"One must move, rouse courage, bring the nerves into action, otherwise they may wither. One must conquer and win. He who does not gain victories deserves the grave. Money is an object worthy of conquest, for it opens the gates of life. William Morris is a famous poet and artist, but he became a manufacturer. He understood that contempt for industry is like many other things, a painted pot. Men made this pot and poets painted it in beautiful colors, then the poets died of hunger. America holds in reserve new horizons."

He spoke long, and was astonished himself at his own enthusiasm.

"I thought," said he, "that I should never know enthusiasm, and I supposed even that it was a rheumatism of thought. Meanwhile I feel enthusiasm, yes, enthusiasm! And it pervades me with a delightful shiver. Do you not share it? Are you not attracted, as well as I, by distant perspectives, new horizons, 'the divine vibrations of blue seas, the silences traversed by worlds, by angels '—And plagiarizing he repeated the addition made by Maryan: 'And by millions'?"

Yes, she was attracted. Not by the millions; she was too familiar with them, but the distant perspectives, the new horizons, the shoreless expanses of oceans, and the endless quiet of spaces which in the twinkle of an eye were unfolded before her imagination. The dull pain, and the gloomy disgust which tortured her not long before, cried out: "Yes! yes! go, fly far, as far as possible under new skies, among people of another nationality! Go, fly, seek."

With a slight flush on her cheeks, which were delicate to the highest degree, she told all this to the baron, whose crumpled, faded face was gleaming with delight.

"You make me happy, really happy!" whispered he, and added:
"Command me to bow down before you; I will obey and bow down."

Meanwhile a door-bell was heard every moment in the great shop, and a wave of people passing by reminded Irene of the reason why she was there. She turned to an elegant apartment, in which a flood of materials disposed on the furniture was waiting for her. The baron had a knowledge of the wearing apparel of ladies; he liked to speak of it; and more than once, with the accuracy of a tailor, and the pleasure of an artist, he told of the original and peculiar toilets seen in capitals. On this occasion, in the tailor's apartment between great mirrors, in the flood of unfolded materials, he said:

"I beg you not to dress according to pattern; I beg you not to spoil my delight by forcing me to see on you any of the ridiculous styles of this city. I meet no ladies here of subtle taste. There is wealth, frequently there is even taste, but common, according to pattern. For you it is necessary to think out something new—something symbolic, or rather something which symbolizes. A woman's dress should be a symbol of her individuality. For you it is necessary to think out a dress which would symbolize aristocracy of soul and body."

And he fell to thinking out; and they both fell to thinking out. They selected among colors and kinds of materials; they examined specimens, drawings, the baron corrected them, completed them with details taken from his own fancy. After a certain time they agreed to one thing: her dress should be flame color. With Irene's delicate complexion and her fiery hair this would, as the baron thought, form a whole which would be irritating.

"In this robe you will be novel and irritating."

The proprietor of the shop, elegant and important, came in and went out, inquired, advised, and again left them to their own thoughts and decisions. They, on their part, amused themselves better and better, surrounded by a light cloud of perfumes which rose from their clothing, and by the rustle of silks which fell to their feet, like cascades of many colors. The flame-colored material was selected, still they went on selecting. The baron, with a flush appearing on his cheeks, exclaimed:

"We are passing the time most delightfully, are we not? And who could have expected it? At a tailor's! But you and I know how to experience sensations which no one else can experience. For that it is necessary to have a sixth sense. You and I have the sixth sense."

Irene began to lose her usual formality and air of distinction; she spoke quickly and much; she laughed aloud, and, a number of times, the movement of her bosom and arms became irregular, too lively at moments, but they were full of a half dreamy gracefulness. The baron grew silent and looked at her for a while, then, with rapturous eyes, he began:

"How you are changed at this moment. How charmingly you are changed! Such surprises interest one—they irritate. You have the rare gift of causing surprises."

With gleaming eyes he begged her insistently to tell him whether the change which had taken place, the humor into which she had fallen, was spontaneous or artificial, the result of feeling, or of coquetry.

"You are without doubt the product of high training, so it is difficult to know in you that which is nature and that which is art. And such a person in that changed form is problematical—I beg you, I beg you to tell me whether in you this is nature, or art?"

Listening to these words, in which a very insolent idea was contained, she laughed and turned her eyes away. But bending toward her with a smile which might remind one of a satyr, and with a request in his voice, he asked:

"Is this nature? is it art?"

With a sudden resolve she answered:

"It is nature!"

And she wished to equal the boldness of her answer with the boldness of her look, but a flaming blush shot over her face, and the lids covered her eyes, into which shame had gushed forth. Though maiden modesty was a painted pot, this new change, to which Irene had yielded, exercised on the baron a new irritating influence. In the midst of the rustling materials he seized both her hands, his eyes flashed magnetic rays into her flushed face; he drew her delicate form toward him. She tried to twist her hands away, and with a violent effort strove to throw her bust backward, but the fragile baron was very strong at that instant; he pressed her hands in his as in a vice, and whispered into her very face:

"Do not fight against that cry of life which is heard within you—I am a despot—I know how to will—"

With the last word he pressed his lips to hers. But that moment she, too, gained unexpected strength, and in a flash she was some steps away from him, very pale now and trembling throughout her whole body.

"This is too much of nature!" cried she.

Her head was erect, and from her eyes came flashing sparks, which soon melted, however, into cold irony. Shrugging her shoulders, with a smile she exclaimed:

"Dieu! que c'etait vulgaire!"

Then holding her skirt with both hands, as if she wished not to take one atom of dust from that room with her, she went out into the shop; the baron saw her talk to the tailor for a moment with her usual coolness, and then turn to go with the ordinary words of brief leave-taking.

But now Irene sitting there on that tall stool at the window, surrounded by the fading gleam of the blue watered-silk, and against the background of the pane which was covered with a whitish gloom, seemed a statue with a delicate bust, and a somewhat prolonged profile settled in stony fixedness. The "cry of life" possessed as words the charm of novelty and daring, but when changed into an act it roused in her every feeling of offence and maiden modesty. The shaggy beast had ventured out too far from behind the heliotropes, and had given forth too rank a smell of the den and the troglodytes. "It is vulgar!" cried she to the baron, but she understood immediately that what had taken place was neither new, nor a rare thing, but as old as the human race and as vulgar as the street is. The tailor's shop full of people, the ceaseless ringing at the door-bell, the noise of selling and buying, the passage beyond the window—is the street. A kiss received on the street. Street adventure! A quiver shot downward through her shoulders. Before her imagination passed the wretched forms of women trailing in the dusk of evening along the sidewalks. On her inclined face a blush came out; that painted pot called maiden, modesty, under the form of inherited instinct and woman's pride, was laboring in her untiringly and painfully. After a while its place was taken by disgust beyond expression.

The baron, whose single charm was in his subtlety, appeared now as a vulgar figure. That kind of mutual love, which she had thought they felt for each other, when closely analyzed, reminded her of pictures in which Fauns with goats' beards were chasing through the forest after Nymphs. On Irene's lips a jeering, almost angry smile, now fixed itself. What did he say: "a sixth sense." Why a sixth sense in this case? Empty words! The baron jeers at painted pots, but he makes them himself, and paints them in the ancient colors. An idyl is an old thing, and a den is old also, but the idyl would be better than the den if only it existed. But where is it? Her eyes had never seen an idyl, but they had seen, ah, they had seen what happens and takes place with loves of men and women, 'and with bonds which bear the name of sacred! Well, what is to be done with the baron—and America? Such contempt for everything, such disbelief in all things, such a contemptuous despising of everything, and of her own self as well, embraced her and possessed her, that at the end of the meditation she said to herself: "It is all one!" She crossed her hands and pressed them firmly across her breast, bent her head somewhat, and thought: "It is all, all, all one!"

A few tears, one after another, fell on her tightly clasped fingers. "All one! If only the sooner!"

What sooner? Why sooner? With a slow movement she turned her face toward her mother's apartments; her lips which quivered, and the glistening tear which had fallen on them had the same kind of expression that a child has when crying in silence. With brows raised somewhat, she whispered:

"Mamma!"

After a while, under those brows which were like delicate little flames, her eyes began to grow mild, to lose their tears and their irony, until they took on an expression of such delight, as if they were looking at an idyl.

Meanwhile the air, modified by the gray twilight, was cut by a bright moving line. This was Cara going from her father's study with Puff tugging at her skirt. She hummed a song as she went forward. When she saw her sister she ceased humming, and called out from the end of the drawing-room:

"Do you know, Ira, father will dine with us to-day?"

In her voice a note of triumph was heard. After many weeks her father would sit for the first time with them at the family table, and then everything would go on as it should go. What it was that went ill, and why it went so, she knew not. But she had been observing, was astonished, and had fears. With that real sixth sense, which persons of keen sensitiveness possess, she felt something. She felt in the air a certain oppression, a certain trouble, and, not knowing what these signified, nor whence they were coming, she suffered. In the very same way, organisms with supersensitive nerves feel the approach of atmospheric storms. Now she advanced with a short step, erect and slender, with Puff at her skirt, while she hummed joyously.

When Irene entered her mother's study soon after, she saw, by the lamplight, a group composed of three persons. Sitting on the sofa, with glitters of black jet in her light hair, was Malvina Darvid; nearby, in a low armchair, inclining toward her, was Maryan, elegant as usual, and before him, with elbows resting on her mother's knees, knelt Cara, a bright, blue strip lying across the black silk robe of her mother.

"A picture deserving the eyes of Sarah and Rebecca!" suggested Irene, going straight to the mirror before which she began, with raised arms, to arrange and modify the knot of hair on her head. Maryan, in good humor, was imploring his mother to let him have her portrait painted by one of the most noted artists in the city.

"His brush is famous! I cannot understand how, amid the effeteness of this city, a talent can rise which is so fresh and individual. In his landscapes there is a magnificent pleinair, and as a portrait painter he knows how to seize the soul. My mother, let me have your soul enchanted into a portrait—have you noticed that the eyes of some portraits look on us from beyond this world? There is an enchanted soul in them. Let me have your portrait painted by an artist from whose canvas comes a breath from beyond this world."

He inclined his cherub head and kissed his mother's hand, which was resting on Cara's shoulder.

"And kiss me, too!" cried Cara.

"Sentiment!" said Maryan, straightening himself, "beware of sentiment, little one. I, thy great-grandfather, say this to thee."

"Splendidly expressed!" exclaimed Irene from the mirror. "Cara's soul is so primitive, yours—"

"So decadent," put in Maryan.

"That you have a right to be called her great-grandfather."

"I greet you great-grandmother!" laughed he at Irene.

"I say this, mother, for, as you see, I understand my elder sister perfectly, but not the little one yet; however, that will come some time—surely soon. Mais revenons a nos moutons: How about the portrait?"

Malvina laughed. Her face, greatly troubled an hour before, had grown young again. A certain sunray had pierced the thick cloud at that moment. She warded off the idea of the portrait.

"Why? There are too many portraits of me already. Oh, too many!"

"Caricatures!" exclaimed Maryan, "and none of them is mine. I beg a portrait for myself specially; my own exclusive property."

"What for?" repeated Malvina. "Look at the original as often as you like. Better not have a portrait; then, perhaps, you will feel the need of seeing me oftener."

"No reproaches, dear mother! Leave reproaches, threats; let the whole patriarchal arsenal remain on that side, over there—"

With a gesture he indicated the door leading to the interior of the house.

Cara raised her head from her mother's knees, and her eyes glittered.

"But on this side let there be only sweetness, only charm, only that precious, beautiful weakness, before which I am on my knees always. As to this, that I can see the original of the portrait when I wish, that is a question! We are grains of sand scattered over the world by the wind of interesting voyages."

"Have you some plan of a journey again?" inquired Malvina, alarmed.

"Yes. It is in indistinct lines yet, but is becoming more definite every day. This will be the step of a giant—fleeing before that rod with which the all-mighty father is pleased to beat his children."

Again, with a gesture he pointed to the door leading to the more distant apartments, and in the short laugh which accompanied his last words there was sarcasm—almost hatred. At the same moment he met Cara's eyes, and asked:

"Why look at me, little one, in that way? There are eyes! curious, anxious, and as frightened as those of a hunted deer. Why so curious? What do you fear?"

Cara hid her face in her mother's dress, quickly.

"But how would it please you, mamma, to make a trip with me to
America?" called Irene from before the mirror.

She put up the last of her hair, fastened it with a fantastic pin, and said, turning toward her mother:

"I have such Tom Thumb boots that when I put them on I shall be beyond the sea with three great steps. How does that plan please you?"

"You give a shower of plans to-day," jested Malvina.

"A portrait, flight from the rod, America."

"A ball!" exclaimed Cara, raising her head. "Do you know of it,
Maryan? In a few weeks we shall have a real ball—a grand one."

"Your tale is curious, little one, tell on," answered Maryan. "When talk is the question, there is never need to beg Cara twice."

She sprang up from her knees and told of the hour which she had spent in her father's study a few days before. She had told her mother and sister of the plan of the ball, but how it rose she had not told. Something had prevented. Now she would tell them all. Three gentlemen had visited her father: Prince Zeno, Count Charski, and a third person whose name she did not remember, but he was a large man, tall and broad; his breast glittered with stars and crosses. She, Cara, wished to hide from the guests behind the bookshelves—there were shelves behind which she sat often, invisible herself, she saw and heard everything. It was a wonderfully comfortable hiding-place, in which her only trouble was Puff; for, when anyone came to the study he wanted to bark, but she squeezed his nose with her hand tightly, and he was silent. That day she did not go behind the book-shelves, for her father commanded her to sit in the armchair. So she sat there with dignity.

Now she sat on the stool, and showed them in what a posture she had sat in presence of her father's guests, her hands on her knees, bolt upright, with dignity on her rosy face. Puffie alone interrupted this dignity, she said; he crawled up behind her, put his paws on her shoulder, and touched her with his moist nose. One of the gentlemen turned then to her, and said:

"You have a beautiful dog, young lady."

"He is very nice," answered she.

"And what is his name?" asked the man.

"Puffie," explained she.

She did not laugh, for there was no cause. Puffie was really very nice, and he had a good name, but those gentlemen, while looking at her, smiled very agreeably, and one of them said to her father:

"How time passes! Not long ago I saw your younger daughter a little child, and now—"

The other interrupted: "She is almost grown. And as tall it seems as her elder sister."

"We have only very rarely the pleasure of seeing your family in society this winter," said the other.

"Your wife and daughter pass a very secluded life this year," said the second visitor.

"My wife complains of frequent neuralgia," answered father, and then the unknown, large man talked.

Hitherto Cara, while giving the conversation of the two gentlemen, changed her voice, imitating the tones, and posture of each; now she repeated the words of the large man in the rudest voice that she could command:

"I have not yet had the honor of being presented to your wife and elder daughter, but I have heard so much, etc."

Then they talked longer with her father about something else, and when going away gave her some nice compliments. She courtesied. She might say with confidence that she had played the role of a mature young lady brilliantly. Her father said, after the departure of the guests, that he was glad to receive the large man's visit. The large man might aid him greatly. Then he thought a while, and said:

"Do you know what, little one, you must show yourself in society."

Here Maryan muttered in an undertone:

"He needs a new column in his temple."

Irene smiled. Malvina feigned not to hear; Cara, given up to her twittering, twittered on:

"Then father said that mamma and Ira were leading almost the life of a cloister, that they received few persons, and went out little. That had the appearance of domestic misfortune, or of bankruptcy. Such an appearance was ugly in general, and harmful to business. To avoid this there was need to arrange a reception, but grand, and as splendid as possible. The carnival would be over soon, and at the end of the carnival we would give a ball in which the 'little one 'would appear in society for the first time. Today, an hour ago, father said he would come to us at dinner, and would talk at length about this ball with mamma."

Here Cara finished the narrative which was somewhat of a dramatic representation. Maryan rose suddenly from his seat.

"I must go," said he, standing rigidly, and with a serious face.

"Stay, Maryan," said Malvina, in a low voice.

On her face was a look of pain; a deep wrinkle appeared on her forehead; her voice was imploring. Maryan looked at her, hesitated a while, then dropping into an armchair with the movement of an automaton, muttered:

"Let thy will be done! Let a pot be painted with the color of a son's love—for you, mother."

From the thought that he must meet his father soon, the interior of his heart began to desiccate.

A servant announced the dinner. Cara sprang up from the stool:

"I will go to conduct father!"

She went to the door, but turned back from it, and, dropping on her knees before her mother, put a number of long, passionate kisses on her knees and her hand. Then hanging on her neck, she whispered in a low voice:

"Golden, only, dearest mamma." And springing from her knees she flew out of the room like a bird.

What did that violent outburst of tenderness for her mother mean? No one knew, neither did she herself, perhaps. Was it a prayer for someone, or the assurance that she loved greatly not only that one, but her mother too? or was it delight that at last she would see them both together? She flew like a bird through the drawing-rooms, lighted by lamps burning here and there, till she pushed quietly into her father's study, and put her hand under his arm at the writing-desk. All rosy, imitating the deep and solemn voice of the servant, she said:

"Dinner is served!"

Darvid felt a stream of warmth and sweetness flowing to his breast.

"Oh, you rogue!" said he, "you sunray! You little one!"

When he was entering the dining-room soon after with Cara, Maryan led in his mother through the opposite door; she was all in black silk and jet.

Darvid inclined and touched his wife's hand with his lips; on
Malvina's face there was a pleasant smile.

"I am so immensely occupied," said he, "that I have not time every day to inquire after your health."

"I thank you, my health is excellent."

At a rich side-table two servants were occupied; at the table gleaming with crystal and silver stood Miss Mary, graceful and still young, with puritanic simplicity in her closely fitting garment, and with smooth hair over her calm forehead. The master of the house greeted her and expressed his regret that, because of business, he could see her only rarely. When all were seated at table, Malvina, with the experience of a trained lady of the house, began conversation:

"We have been talking just now of the United States, with which
Ira and Maryan have begun to be greatly interested."

"No doubt because of the exhibition at Chicago," said Darvid; "it must be something colossal indeed."

Miss Mary mentioned the congress of women which was to meet there. Malvina and Irene supplemented that statement with details; the conversation flowed on smoothly, easily, coolly; it was filled with various kinds of information. Maryan took no part in it. He sat stiff, deaf, dumb, with fixed features. When he ate, his movements had the appearance of an automaton, even his eyelids winked very rarely. He was a picture of apathy, contempt, and biliousness. Even his fair complexion had grown sallow, and his lips had paled. He caused exactly the impression of a wax doll in an elegant dress, with glittering eyes.

Darvid, with some humor and playfully, spoke of the edifice which was to be erected in Chicago according to a plan by a female architect.

"I tremble for those who are to visit the building. In architecture, equilibrium has immense meaning, and for women equilibrium is most difficult. Women lose equilibrium so easily, so generally, so inevitably, almost."

This was said in a manner quite airy and trifling; still—it was unknown why—in the voice of the speaker certain biting tones quivered, and a pale flush came out on Malvina's forehead. Irene fell at once to talking most vivaciously with Miss Mary about the latest movement among English women toward emancipation, and Darvid himself, with some haste, expressed quietly, though with some irony, opinions touching these movements.

A great bronze lamp cast abundant light on the table, which was covered with the brightness of silver and crystal. White-gloved servants, as silent as apparitions, changed the plates adorned with painted and gilded monograms; with bottles in their hands they inquired about the kind of wine which they were to pour out; they served dishes from which came the excellent odor of truffles, pickles, rare meat, and vegetables. A number of wall-lamps, placed high, lighted the sides of the dining-hall, which was decked with pictures in brightly shining frames, and with festoons of heavy curtains at the doors and windows. When it left America, the conversation, carried on in French and English, turned to European capitals and to the various phenomena of life in them. English was spoken out of regard for Miss Mary, but French sometimes, for Darvid and his wife preferred that language to English. Irene and Cara might have been considered as genuine English. The ready and accurate English; the pure Parisian French; the varied information, in an atmosphere of light falling from above on a table glittering with costly plate; the order and the dignified ornaments of the great hall; the grand scale of living seemed undoubted high life. There was a moment in which Darvid cast his glance around and threw back his head somewhat; his forehead freed itself from wrinkles—smooth, clever, shining somewhat at the temples—it seemed to be carved out of ivory. His nostrils, delicate and nervous, expanded and contracted, as if inhaling, with the odor of wines and delicacies, the more subtle and intoxicating odor of his own greatness. But this lasted only a short time; soon certain pebbles of seriousness and breaths of distraction began to interrupt his conversation and to dull his clear thought. Balancing in two fingers a dessert knife, he said to Miss Mary:

"I respect your countrymen greatly for their practical sense and sound reason. That's a people—that's a people—"

He stammered somewhat now—a thing which, in his low and fluent speech, never happened. He was thinking of something else.

"That is the nation which said to itself: 'Time is money,' which also—"

Again he faltered. His eyes, attracted by an invincible power, turned continually toward that point of the table where black jets glittered richly and gloomily, and then his lips finished the judgment which he had begun:

"Which also possesses to-day the greatest money-power."

Here Maryan spoke for the first time:

"Not only money; England now leads the newest tendencies in art."

This was spoken at the edges of his lips, without cooperation of other parts of his face, which continued fixed; and on Darvid's lips appeared his smile, of which people said that it bristled with pins.

"The newest tendencies of art!" repeated he, and the words hissed in his mouth somewhat. "Art is something splendid, but the pity is that it is turned into a plaything by wrongly reared children!"

Maryan raised at his father a look from which a whole flood of irony rushed forth, and answered, with the edge of his lips:

"He alone is not a child who knows that we are all children, turning everything into playthings for ourselves. The point is that there are various playthings."

"Maryan!" whispered Malvina, with an alarm which she could not suppress.

Darvid turned his face to her suddenly, and their glances which till then had avoided each other carefully, met for a few seconds; but during that time Darvid's eyes filled with the glitter of keen steel, and Malvina bent her face so low over the plate that, in the sharp light, one could see only her forehead, with its one deep wrinkle. But that same moment Irene began to converse with her father about London, where he had spent a considerable time on two occasions. He answered her at once; spoke long, fluently, and interestingly, engaging also in the conversation Miss Mary, to whom he turned frequently and with pleasure.

Again the conversation went on smoothly, easily, deliberately. Above the table, in place of the odors of meats and sauces, hovered the light odors of fruit and vanilla. When the dessert was served, Darvid spoke of fruits peculiar to various climates which he had visited in his almost ceaseless journeys; all at once he stopped the conversation in mid-career, and turned to Cara, who struggled a few times with a dry and stubborn cough.

"I thought that you had recovered entirely. But you are coughing yet. That is sad!"

On the girl's face, which was flushing in a fiery manner, there was an expression of sorrow or anger. Quickly and broken came the words from her lips which were pouting like those of an angry child:

"There are so many sad things in the world, father, that my cough is a bit of dust compared with them."

This was an answer thoroughly unexpected, but the impression which it might have made was hindered at once by Irene through a laugh and an exclamation too loud, perhaps:

"See where pessimism is going to fix itself! Is Puffie sick?"

"Cara's remark is precocious but pointed," said Maryan, with the edges of his lips.

Malvina, too, began to speak. Giving a small cup to her son, she inquired:

"You like black coffee so well that I ought to reserve another cup, ought I not?"

Maryan made no answer; with a wrinkle on her forehead, and a smile on her lips, she continued quickly and hurriedly:

"I share your taste for coffee, Maryan. Some time ago I drank much coffee, but I saw that it injured my nerves and deprived me of sleep. It is very disagreeable not to sleep, and better to give up a favorite luxury than suffer from insomnia."

Smiling and moving her head she talked, and talked on with great charm, and with a sweetness which always filled the tones of her voice. She mentioned mere nothings, connecting opinion with opinion, just to talk, to kill time, or avoid other topics. Darvid raised his head somewhat and looked at her through the glasses with which he had shaded his eyes until she bent her head before the gleam in those glasses, and her face sank very low over the cup, and was covered with an expression not to be hidden by a woman who wants to vanish through the earth, dissolve in air, become a shade, become dust, become a corpse; if she can only escape from where she is and from being what she is. Then Irene, with a light tap, dropping her cup on the saucer, began:

"You must know well, father, how they make coffee in the Orient?"

He knew, for he had been in the Orient; and, in a way which was picturesque enough, he told about the Turks; how, sitting around in a circle, they put the favorite drink into their mouths slowly.

"They delight themselves with it, as dignified as Magi, and silent as fish. The time in which they give themselves to this absolute rest, composed of black coffee and silence, bears with them the name 'keif.'"

This word called laughter to the lips of all. Darvid laughed, too. On all faces weariness grew evident. Cara's thin voice called out:

"The Turks do well to be silent, for what good is there in people's talk? What good is there?"

"Here is a little sage, she is never satisfied with questions," said Darvid, jestingly.

"Capacity for criticism is a family trait of ours," laughed
Irene.

"Cara had been distinguished by curiosity from childhood," added
Malvina, with a smile.

Even Maryan, looking at his younger sister, said:

"The time always comes when children begin to speak instead of prattling."

Miss Mary, with an anxious forehead under her puritan hair, said nothing.

On the faces of all who spoke, anxiety was evident, and above the smiling lips weariness was present in every eye.

Malvina rose from her chair; Darvid left his place, bowed to all with exquisite politeness, and, advancing some steps, gave his arm to his wife.

They passed through a small, brightly lighted drawing-room and halted in the following chamber, where the walls were adorned with white garlands and the curtains and upholstering were of blue watered-silk. Beyond, in a small drawing-room. Miss Mary sat down to play chess with Maryan; Cara took her place near them in the character of observer, and Irene unrolled in the lamp-light a piece of church stuff, very old and time-worn, which the baron had brought her as a rarity, and which she intended to repair by embroidering it with silk and gold thread.

Darvid and Malvina stopped among the pieces of blue furniture in the tempered light of a shade-covered lamp. Malvina was very pale, and her heart must have beaten with violence, for her breath was hurried. At last that had come which she had waited for long and vainly: a positive and decisive conversation.

With all her strength she desired an explanation, a change of some kind, and in any shape, if it would only bring a change in her position. She was waiting, ready to yield to everything, to endure everything, if he would only speak. He spoke, and said:

"To-morrow I shall go to a hunt on the estate of Prince Zeno, and as I go from there to a place where I have business, I shall return in ten days, more or less. Immediately after my return, and during the last week of the Carnival, there will be in our house a reception, a ball simply, the most brilliant possible. My business requires it, and public opinion concerning this family requires it also. I wish, too, that Cara should make her first appearance in society at that ball. I have drawn up, and will send you a list of persons to whom it is necessary to send invitations, persons of whom you might not have thought; the rest of society you know better than I do. I know that you can arrange such matters excellently, and I trust that this time you will do all that is best. The check-book will be brought you by my secretary, whose abilities and time you may use without limit, as well as the check-book. There is no need to hesitate at outlay; everything should be in a style rarely seen in any house, or rather in a style never seen except in this house. This ball is needed for my business and for—public opinion concerning our family, which opinion is a little, even more than a little, lowered."

He spoke slowly and politely, with an accent of command at the basis of the politeness. At the last words he cast into her face a gleam of his eyes which was firm and penetrating, then he bowed, and made a move to go.

"Aloysius!" cried Malvina, with tightly clasped hands, and she began to tremble. How was this? A ball, and nothing more! The question with her was of things as important as human dignity, conscience, unendurable restraint, and fear in the presence of her children.

He stopped and inquired:

"What is your command?"

She bowed her head and began:

"I require; I wish to speak with you at length and positively."

He smiled.

"For what purpose? We have nothing pleasant to say to each other, and unpleasant conversation injures the nerves more than—black coffee."

She raised her head, and with an effort, to which she brought herself with difficulty, said:

"Things cannot remain as they are. My position—"

With an expression of profoundest astonishment on his face, he interrupted:

"Your position! But your position is brilliant!"

He made a gesture which seemed to indicate everything which was in that drawing-room, and in the whole house; but she blushed deeply, and like one in whom the sensitive place is touched, exclaimed:

"But this is just what—what I do not wish any longer. I have the right to desire to be free, to withdraw, to cast from myself this glitter, and go somewhere."

With all her strength she struggled against the tears which were overpowering her. He repeated with the profoundest astonishment:

"You do not wish? You have the right?"

Everything in him—cheeks, wrinkles on his forehead, pale lips—trembled with excitement now beyond restraint. But he was master of his voice yet. He spoke in low tones, but with a hiss:

"What right? You have no right! You have lost every right! You do not wish? You have no right to wish, or not to wish. You must live as it happens you, and as is needed. As to conversations and serious theatrical scenes, I want none of them—I, who have not lost the right to wish. I am silent, and I will enforce silence. That is, and will always be, our modus vivendi, which, moreover, should be for you the easiest thing in the world to preserve. You have everything: a high position, luxury, brilliancy, even the love of your children as it seems. You have everything except—except—"

He hesitated. His habit of preserving in all cases correctness of form, struggled with the excitement which had overcome him, and these words hissed through his lips in a low though envenomed voice:

"Except—the lover whom you have dismissed, on which deed I congratulate you, and—my respect, which you have lost, but without which you must live on to the end. On this subject we are talking now for the first and last time. We are talking too long. I am in a hurry to my work. I wish you good-night."

The bow which he made before his wife might seem from a distance full of friendly kindness; he withdrew with perfect calmness and freedom of manner, still Irene went to her mother with a firm though hurried step, and with the piece of ancient stuff in her hand, she said:

"I am sure that without your assistance I shall not be equal to my task. To restore this Middle Age wonder requires taste, an eye, shading of colors; all this is beyond my poor ability."

She stood before her mother, and among the large flowers on the cloth, which was changing from silver to sapphire, she indicated certain defects produced by time. Her eyelids blinked with marvellous quickness, and therefore, perhaps, she did not notice her mother's chalky pallor, trembling hands, and despairing expression of eyes. Apparently noticing nothing she spoke in a loud voice and joyously:

"You have an ocean of various silks left after so many things which we made in company. Let us search among them. Shall we go? They are in your chamber. Come, mamma! I am so impatient to begin the restoration of this beautiful ruin! You will help me to match the silks, will you not? Oh, how many beautiful things you and I have made together with these four hands of ours, which were always in company."

And they were in company then. She thrust her hand under her mother's arm, and holding the strip of silver and azure stuff she escorted the very pale woman in black jets through the brilliantly lighted drawing-room, past the chess-table at which were sitting three persons, through the dining-hall, where servants were hurrying, through her mother's study, in which both had passed most hours of their life, till she came to Malvina's bedroom, where, amid the yellow damask furniture a shaded lamp was burning. In the twinkle of an eye Irene drew the brass door-bolt, and with face turned toward her mother, with cheeks which flushed immediately, she took Malvina's two hands in her own.

"Enough of these secrets, of things partly said, and of barriers raised between our hearts and lips."

This hurried whisper burst from her like a current from a covered vessel filled with heat and opened suddenly.

"Let us tell each other everything—or no, say no word, I know everything and neither will I speak—but let us counsel—let us meditate together—Oh, mamma!"

Her form, usually erect and distinguished, bent, and trembled like a reed, and her lips, famous for irony and coldness, scattered a shower of kisses on the hands and face of her mother, whose chalky paleness was covered by a flame of blushes.

"Ira!" she exclaimed, "forgive. May God forgive me."

Unable to utter more than these words she dropped on her knees and touched the yellow cushion of the low sofa with her head. She seemed shattered, annihilated. Then Irene grew cold again. Sober thought and strong will shone in, her eyes. She bent over her mother, placed her delicate hand on her shoulder, and began almost with the movement of a guardian:

"Mamma, I beg you not to despair, and above all not to torture yourself with that which you consider a reproach and a sin. Never say to your children 'forgive,' for we cannot be your judges—I, least of all. You have ever been kind to us and as loving as an angel; we have lived with you; we love you—I most of all. Remember at all times that a loyal heart is near you and—a kindred one—for it is the heart of a daughter. You must stand erect, have will, think out something, frame something, have decision, save yourself."

Looking into her mother's face with a strange smile, she added:

"And save me, perhaps, for I, too, am a poor, unwise creature; I know not myself what to do."

Malvina raised her head, straightened herself, and rose from her knees slowly.

"True," whispered she. "You—you, so long and so earnestly have I wished to speak—of you—and had not the courage."

"Well, let us speak now," said Irene.

And again putting her hand under her mother's arm, she led her to the ottoman, which stood in the tempered lamplight.

"The door is bolted, no one can disturb us; we will have a talk, a long one. Only we must be reasonable, calm. Look at things and ourselves clearly; know definitely what we want; try to bring our plans into action; know how to wish."

At these last words she imitated the nasal voice of Baron Emil, laughed at it, and dropped down on the carpet before Malvina had seated herself on the low ottoman. Irene, taking her mother's hands in her own, fixed her eyes on her eyes, and began:

"Mamma, if you wish I shall become very soon the wife of the famous Mediaevalist, Baron Emil, and we shall all three of us go to America—beyond the seas—"

"Oh, no! no! no!" exclaimed Malvina, who bent toward her daughter, and put her arms around the young woman with such terror as if she were shielding her from a falling house. "Not that! Not that! Something different—entirely different."

At that moment some impulsive, or impatient, hand shook the door-latch.

"Not permitted!" cried Irene, and she asked:

"Who is there?"

There was no answer, but the latch moved again, though in a timid, and, as it were, imploring manner.

"You cannot come in," repeated Irene.

There was a rustle against the sofa outside, a light and quick step moved away.

"Cara!" whispered Malvina.

"For her as well as for ourselves there is need to end this position at the earliest," said Irene, with a sudden frown.

It was Cara; she had left the door of her mother's room with drooping head, with a great frown on her forehead, and no thought for the little dog, tugging at her skirt as usual. Half an hour before, when Maryan and Miss Mary had risen from chess, she rose, too, pushed her hand under her brother's arm and said:

"I have something to say to you."

Her seriousness was so evident that Maryan answered, with a smile:

"If your speech is to be as solemn as your face is we shall have little joy. What have you to tell me?"

Without answering she led him through the blue drawing-room to the next one more faintly lighted. Here she halted, looked around, and, seeing only inanimate objects, asked:

"Why have you quarrelled with father?"

This question in her mouth astonished him, and he asked in turn:

"Why do you wish this information? You might dream of the role of peacemaker."

Without a shade of laughter, with forehead somewhat wrinkled beneath bright curls of hair, she repeated the question:

"Why have you quarrelled with father? Do you not love him? Why can you not love him? For me, father is an ideal! He is so wise, noble, great. When he was so long away I dreamed about him, wanted his return, imagined how happy we should all be when he came. But that is not the case in any way. All in the house seem to be at variance, angry, disappointed—I see this well, but I cannot understand why. Why? why is it?"

Maryan fixed his eyes on her attentively and laughed, but his laugh was not sincere, it was forced.

"Curiosity," said he, "is the first step toward hell, and the surest road to premature age. You will grow old before your time, little one."

"This is not curiosity!" interrupted Cara. "There is some kind of trouble here, I know not what it is; but something so unpleasant and—dreadful. Sometimes it seems to me that someone will die, or that something will vanish, and that, in general, something awfully bad will happen to somebody—I—know not what it is, but it is very bad. I know not what it is, but it is something—it is something—"

Maryan frowned and interrupted her:

"Since you know not what it is, nor to whom it will happen, nor how, what do you ask me for? Am I a master of the cabala, to interpret childish dreams for you?"

"This is not a dream; it is something of the sort that wanders in the air, touches, breathes, goes away and comes again, like a haze—or the wind. You are grown up, and all say that you are clever. I beg you to explain this—I think, too, that, if you wished, you might so arrange matters that all would go better. It is your duty to do this. Do you not love mamma, father, Ira? I love them immensely—I would give up everything for them. I do not understand even how any person could live without loving somebody with full heart, and all strength—I could not. But what use—I am not grown up, not wise, I cannot even understand anything. With you it is different, but you have quarrelled with father. You do not even love him, I see that well. For what reason? Why? My brother, you might, at least, tell me something to explain."

She stopped, and he stared at her, a look of indecision increased on his face. Something of concern, and a trifle of tenderness gleamed in his eyes. It might have seemed for some seconds that he would put his arm around her, or stroke her with his palm and smooth away the wrinkles from her childish forehead. But—"Arcadian" feelings were in the past, so he began to speak coldly and deliberately:

"My dear, you are torturing your little head for nothing with affairs of this world; you are not equal to them yet. I cannot tell anything to you, or explain anything, for you and I are at the two opposite poles of thought. You speak of devotion, duty, and love, like a governess, for you have a governess yet. As to my disagreement with father, you know nothing of what caused it; but, to be a kindly brother, I will answer a few words. Two developed and energetic individualities have met in this case and come into collision, like two planets. Two egotisms also—do not show such frightened eyes. Stupid nurses frighten children with a beggar, a gypsy, or an egotist, but mature people know that egotism is a universal right; and, moreover, good business. Be an egotist. Take no trouble about what does not concern your own self and strive to develop your own individuality. Keep this in view, play joyously with Puffie, and go to sleep early, for long watching spoils the complexion of young ladies. Begin to think to-morrow of the dress which you will wear at that brilliant ball—planned by our father to torment mamma—and you will have success. Do not mind those mists, dreams, and other visions which come and go. They are conditions of mind which are very much subject to fancy, and other painted pots. This is all that I, your great-grandfather, can tell you, or mention as advice. Look at Ira and imitate her wisdom, which knows how to make sport of the world around her. Good-night to you, little one!"

He pressed her hand in such a friendly manner that he hurt it, and then went away, disappearing at the other end of the chamber.

Cara stood for a time with her eyes fixed on the floor, then she raised her head and looked around at the void in which silence had fixed itself. The globe-lamps burning, here and there, at the walls, filled the drawing-room with a hazy, half-light, in which, here and there, glittered golden reflections, and the features of faces, and landscapes flimmered on pictures. Farther on, from the shady corner of the other drawing-room, slender and swelling vases appeared, partially; portions of white garlands on the walls; the delicate dimness of dulled colors on Gobelin tapestry. Farther still, in the small warm and bright drawing-room, lights were burning in the candelabra, and a crown of glittering crystals were hanging like icicles, or immense frozen tears. Farthest off, in the dining-room, with its dark walls, gleamed a great lamp, in its hanging bronze, like a point of light, above the table. This point seemed very far from where Cara was standing, and in all the space between her and it there was not a voice, not a rustle, nothing living. Only once a waiter, dressed in black, passed on tip-toe through the dining-room, emerged into the full light of the lamp, and disappeared behind a door. After that there was no voice, no step, no noise—nothing living. All at once a clock began to strike nine. Its metallic sound inclined to bass, and was heard clearly in the silence which had settled in the vacant chambers. One, two, three—at the fourth stroke another clock was heard in a distant study. Its sound was thinner and more like singing—these two seemed to be a voice and its echo; the sounds from these resembled a mysterious conversation carried on by things that were inanimate.

Cara hurried then, and hastened through the drawing-rooms on tip-toe toward her mother's boudoir. Through her widely opened eyes looked fear, and under bright curls her forehead was thickly wrinkled.