"No, countess, for a hermit lives alone, while I have my books and my work; I am never alone."
The countess's face assumed almost a solemn expression.
"Herr von Behrend, give me your hand, and stay here."
Ivan got up, and bowed low before her. "The kind feeling which has prompted your words, as well as the honor you have done me, shall never be forgotten by me. It is a proof to me of your great goodness, and I beg of you to accept my heartfelt thanks."
"Then you will remain? How long?"
"Until to-morrow morning."
"Ah," cried the countess, with a petulant air, "when I ask you to stay!"
Her disappointment was so transparent, her annoyance so sincere, that it was impossible not to feel sorry for her. Theudelinde looked at Angela as if she expected her to come to her help; but Angela never raised her eyes, shaded by their long lashes, while her fingers plucked nervously at the petals of a marguerite, as if she were consulting that well-known oracle.
"Countess," said Ivan, still standing, and with his hand on the back of his chair, "when I answer a friendly invitation such as yours with an apparently uncivil refusal to remain, as you so kindly wish me to do, I feel that it is incumbent on me to give you my true reason for withdrawing myself from your society. I cannot say to you what I would to a mere acquaintance; I cannot make such excuses as 'that I have business at home; that I have been too long here; that I shall return soon.' To you I must confess that I go away because no inducement would prevail on me to remain, and that when I go I mean never to return. Countess, this is not my world; here I could not live. I have spent three months here; I have been a daily guest in the best circles; I have lived with members of the highest and most cultivated society, have studied closely their manner of life. I quite agree that these people have every right to live in what manner they choose; but I, who have been accustomed to a totally different manner of life, who have been taught to consider existence from a different point of view, to reverence the higher aims and obey its finer instincts, I should be acting a lie and violating my own principles were I to remain in such an atmosphere and live after such a fashion. Here, in this exalted rank, you are all solitary rings, while we in the lower order hang together as links of one chain. You are totally independent one of the other, therefore you follow each one his own inclinations. With us the pressure of life knits us more closely together, and we call egotism and generosity by different names from what you do. I am, therefore, not fit for your circle. I am ashamed to be haughty towards those upon whom you look down, and I cannot bend before those whom you delight to honor. I do not recognize the gods whom you adore, neither can I mock at my God, and ignore Him as you do. In this world of yours there is a malicious demon who transforms all that is good in man's nature, and who prompts him to laugh and deny every inclination to virtue. Who tells his friend or neighbor the truth to his face, and who cares for any one who is not present? Dear friends race together over hill and dale; but suppose one makes a false step and breaks his neck, good-bye to him, the dear friend is gone. Another does not break his neck in the race, but he dissipates all his fortune; those who are running with him never say to him, 'Step out of the course; you are going to the bottom.' All at once he stumbles, and his fortune and the honors of his ancestors lie tumbled in the dust. Good-bye to him; his name is struck out of the club-list; that dear friend is no more. It is true we knew yesterday and the day before yesterday that he would surely get a bad fall, but no one else knew of it, so we rode with our dear friend to the last. Now all the world is aware of his tumble in the dust, therefore we know him no more. If any one wishes to go on his own way, and live a rational life to himself, oh, then, he is a coward, a miser, a carpet knight! And how do the women fare in this world of yours? What about domestic life, and the sweet joys of the home? What tragedies are enacted inside those splendid mansions, and outside what fun is made of them by friends and acquaintances! What refinement in sin! what idolatry of false joys! And when these are over, what ennui of life, what endless weariness! No, countess, this life is not for me. I should be poisoned in such an atmosphere. You can bear it, you grace it by your presence; but for me, I should go mad were I to remain. Therefore I go, and all that is now left is to ask your forgiveness for my bold words. I acknowledge my indiscretion; I have spoken bitterly of society, and yet I stand on its parquet floor. I have been ungrateful; I have given expression to my antipathies in the presence of those who have shown tolerance towards my faults and my awkward manners; who have accompanied me to the door of the circle where I have often played a ridiculous part, and, notwithstanding, have never been laughed at before my face. But, countess, the words I have uttered I have felt, so to speak, constrained by your goodness to say. You have, with extraordinary kindness, asked me to remain, and I would prove to you that I am forced to leave by a power stronger than myself."
During Ivan's rather lengthy address Countess Theudelinde had risen to her feet. Her eyes began to light up, her face to wear a glorified expression, her lips to move as if she repeated each word he said; and when he had spoken the concluding sentence she seized both his hands, while she stammered out: