"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: