"When we met the first time after parting, the spring season was around us. You know that we parted only because I had too little fortune to marry a portionless maiden, and my mother would not hear of my marrying a governess. Soon after, that rich man married her. Fiu! fiu! what became of that governess, that girl more timid than a violet? She became a society lady, full of life, elegance, style—but springtime breathed around us, memories of the village, of the flowers, of the fields, of our earliest, heartfelt emotions. Did she love her husband? Poor, dear, soul! It seems that at first she was attached to him, but he left her, neglected her, grasped after millions throughout the whole world. He was strong, unbending—she was ever alone. Alone in society! Alone in the house—for the children were small yet, and she so sensitive and weak, needing friendship and the fondling of a devoted heart. I fell on my knees in spirit before her—she felt that. He, when going away, left me near her as an adviser, a guardian for the time, even a protector, yes, a pro-tec-tor—the parvenu! the idiot! So wise, yet so stupid—ha! ha! ha!"
Sneering, vengeful laughter contorted Kranitski's face, the red spots spread over his brows and covered half of his forehead, which was drawn now into thick wrinkles.
"Do not vex yourself, Tulek, do not vex yourself, you will be ill," urged widow Clemens; but once his confessions were begun he went on with them.
"For a year or more there was nothing between us. We were friends, but she held me at a distance; she struggled. You, mother, know if I had success with women—"
"You had, to your eternal ruin, you had!" blurted out widow
Clemens.
"From youth I had the gift of reading; I owe much to it."
"Ei! you owe much to it! What do you owe to it? Your sin against God, and the waste of your life!" said the widow, ready for a dispute, but he went on without noting that.
"Once she was weak after a violent attack of neuralgia; it was late in the evening, the great house was empty and dark, the children were sleeping—I gave her the attention that a brother or a mother would give; I was careful; I hid what was happening within me; I acted as though I were watching over a sick child which was dear to me. I entertained her with conversation; I spoke in a low voice; I gave her medicine and confectionery. Afterward I began to read. More than once she had said that my reading was music. I was reading Musset. You do not know, mother, who Musset is. He is the poet of love—of that love exactly which the world calls forbidden. She wanted something from the neighboring chamber; I went for it. When I returned our eyes met, and—well, I read no more that evening."
He was barely able to utter the last words; he covered his face with his handkerchief, rested his head on the arm of the long-chair, was motionless; wept, perhaps. Widow Clemens bent down, the corner of her coarse handkerchief came from her pocket, and through the chamber that sound of a trumpet was heard for the second time. Then she drew her bench up still nearer, and, with her hand in the stocking-foot, touched Kranitski's arm, and whispered:
"Say no more, Tulek; despair not! Let God up there judge her and you. He is a strict judge, but merciful! I am sorry for you, but also for her, poor thing! What is to be done? The heart is not stone, man is not an angel! Only drive off despair! Everything passes-, and your sorrow also will pass. You may be better off in the world than you now are. You may yet enjoy pleasant quiet in Lipovka, in your own cottage. Stefanek and I may think out something, so that you will escape from the mud of this city."