"For you this is all Greek, and will remain Greek. You wore born in the age of harmony, you will remain on the side of harmony. But a truce to talk. Let us go. Come, you will hear Lili Kerth; we shall sup together."
"Come, we have a place in the carriage for you," said the baron, supporting young Darvid's invitation.
Kranitski grew as radiant as if a sun-ray had fallen on his face.
"Very well, my dears, very well, I will go with you; it will distract me, freshen me. A little while only; will you permit?"
"Of course. Willingly. We will wait." He hurried to his bedroom, and closed the door behind him. In his head whirled pictures and expressions: the theatre, songs, amusement, supper, conversation, the bright light—everything, in a word, to which he had grown accustomed, and with which he had lived for many years. The foretaste of delight penetrated through his grievous sorrows. After the bitter mixture he felt the taste of caramels in his mouth. He ran toward his dressing-table, but in the middle of the room he stood as if fixed to the floor. His eye met a beautiful heliotype, standing on the bureau in the light of the lamp; from the middle of the room, in a motionless posture, Kranitski gazed at the face of the woman, which was enclosed in an ornamented frame.
"Poor, dear soul! Noble creature!" whispered he, and his lips quivered, and on his forehead appeared the red spots. Maryan called from beyond the door:
"Hurry, old man! We shall be late!"
A few minutes afterward Kranitski entered the drawing-room. His shoulders were bent; his lids redder than before.
"I cannot—as I love you, I cannot go with you! I feel ill."
"Indeed, he must be ill!" cried Maryan. "See, Emil, how our old man looks! He is changed, is he not?"