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Introduction

Eliza Orzeszko, the authoress of "The Argonauts," is the greatest female writer and thinker in the Slav world at present. There are keen and good critics, just judges of thought and style, who pronounce her the first literary artist among the women of Europe.

These critics are not Western Europeans, for Western Europe has no means yet of appreciating this gifted woman. No doubt it will have these means after a time in the form of adequate translations. Meanwhile I repeat that she is the greatest authoress among all the Slav peoples. She is a person of rare intellectual distinction, an observer of exquisite perception in studying men and women, and the difficulties with which they have to struggle.

Who are the Slavs among whom Eliza Orzeszko stands thus distinguished?

The Slavs form a very large majority of the people in Austria-Hungary, an immense majority in European Turkey, and an overwhelming majority in the Russian Empire; they are besides an unyielding, though repressed, majority in that part of Prussian territory known as Posen in German, and Poznan in Polish.

The Slav race occupies an immense region extending from Prussia, Bohemia, and the Adriatic eastward to the Pacific Ocean. Its main divisions are the Russians, Poles, Bohemians (Chehs), Serbs, Bulgarians; its smaller divisions are the Slovaks, Wends, Slovinians, Croats, Montenegrins. These all have literature in some form, literature which in respect to the world outside is famous, well known, little known, or unknown.

The Slavs have behind them a history dramatic to the utmost, varied, full of suffering, full also, of heroism in endurance or valor.

The present time is momentous for all nations, the future is a tangled riddle; for the Slavs this seems true in a double measure. To involved social problems is added race opposition in the breasts of neighbors, a deep, sullen historic hostility. Hence when a writer of power appears among the Slavs, whether he takes up the past or the present, he has that at hand through which he compels the whole world to listen. Sienkiewicz has shown this, so has Tolstoy, so have Dostoyevski and Gogol.

The present volume gives in translation a book which should be widely read with much pleasure. The winning of money on an immense scale to the neglect of all other objects, to the neglect even of the nearest duties, is the sin of one Argonaut; the utter neglect of money and the proper means of living is the ruin of the other.

Darvid by "iron toil" laid the basis of a splendid structure, but went no farther; he had not the time, he had not the power, perhaps, to build thereon himself, and his wife, to whom he left the task, had not the character to do so. By neglect of duty Darvid is brought to madness; by neglect of money Kranitski is brought to be a parasite, and when he loses even that position he is supported by a servant.

The right use of wealth, the proper direction of labor, these are supreme questions in our time, and beyond all in America.

Friends have advised Madame Orzeszko to visit this country and study it; visit Chicago, the great business centre, the most active city on earth, and New York, the great money capital. If she comes she will see much to rouse thought. What will she see? That we know how to win money and give proper use to it? Whatever she sees, it will be something of value, that is undoubted; something that may be compared with European conditions, something to be compared with the story in this book.

Eliza Orzeszko writes because she cannot help writing; her works, contained in forty-odd volumes, touch on the most vital subjects in the world about her. She tells the truth precisely as she sees it. We may hope for much yet from the pen of this lady, who is still in the best years of her intellectual activity.

Madame Orzeszko was born a little more than fifty years ago in
Lithuania, that part of the Commonwealth which produced
Mickiewicz, the great poet, and Kosciuszko the hero.

THE ARGONAUTS

By Eliza Orzeszko (Orzeszkowa)

Translated by Jeremiah Curtin
Bristol, Vt., U.S.A.
September 12, 1901.

CHAPTER I

It was the mansion of a millionaire. On the furniture and the walls of drawing-rooms, colors and gleams played as on the surface of a pearl shell. Mirrors reflected pictures, and inlaid floors shone like mirrors. Here and there dark tapestry and massive curtains seemed to decrease the effect, but only at first sight, for, in fact, they lent the whole interior a dignity which was almost churchlike. At some points everything glistened, gleamed, changed into azure, scarlet, gold, bronze, and the various tints of white peculiar to plaster-of-Paris, marble, silk, porcelain. In that house were products of Chinese and Japanese skill; the styles of remote ages were there, and the most exquisite and elegant among modern styles, lamps, chandeliers, candlesticks, vases, ornamental art in its highest development. Withal much taste and skill was evident, a certain tact in placing things, and a keenness in disposing them, which indicated infallibly the hand and the mind of a woman who was far above mediocrity.

The furnishing of this mansion must have cost sums which to the poor would seem colossal, and very considerable even to the wealthy.

Aloysius Darvid, the owner of this mansion, had not inherited his millions; he had won them with his own iron labor, and he toiled continually to increase them. His industry, inventiveness, and energy were inexhaustible. To him business seemed to be what water is to a fish: the element which gives delight and freedom. What was his business? Great and complicated enterprises: the erection of public edifices, the purchase, sale, and exchange of values of various descriptions, exchanges in many markets and corporations. To finish all this business it was necessary to possess qualities of the most opposite character: the courage of the lion and the caution of the fox, the talons of the falcon and the elasticity of the cat. His life was passed at a gaming-table, composed of the whole surface of a gigantic State; that life was a species of continuous punting at a bank kept by blind chance rather frequently; for calculation and skill, which meant very much in his career, could not eliminate chance altogether, that power which appears independently. Hence, he must not let chance overthrow him; he might drop to the earth before its thrusts and contract a muscle, but only to parry, make an elastic spring, and seize new booty. His career was success rising and falling like a river, it was also a fever, ceaselessly bathed in cool calculation and reckoning.

As to the rest, post-wagons, railways, bells at railway stations, urging to haste, glittering snows of the distant North, mountains towering on the boundary between two parts of the world, rivers cutting through uninhabited regions, horizons marked with the gloomy lines of Siberian forests, solitary since the beginning of ages. Then, as a change: noise, glitter, throngs, the brilliancy of capitals, and in those capitals a multitude of doors, some of which open with freedom, while others are closed hermetically; before doors of the second sort the pliancy of the cat's paw is needed; this finds a hole where the broad way is impossible.

He was forced to be absent from his family for long months, sometimes for whole years, and even when living under the same roof with the members of it he was a rare guest, never a real confiding companion. For permanence, intimacy, tender feeling in relations, with even those who were nearest him, Darvid had not the time, just as he had not the time to concentrate his thoughts on any subject whatever unless it was connected with his lines, dates, and figures, or with the meshes of that net in which he enclosed his thoughts and his iron labor.

As to amusements and delights of life, they were at intervals love-affairs, flashing up on a sudden, transient, fleeting, vanishing with the smoke of the locomotive which rushed forward, at times luxuries of the table peculiar to various climates, or majestic scenery which forced itself on the eye by its grandeur and disappeared quickly, or some hours of animated card-playing; but, above all, relations with social magnates, who were on the one hand of use, and on the other an immensely great honor to his vanity. Money and significance, these were the two poles around which all Darvid's thoughts, desires, and feelings circled; or, at least, it might seem all, for who can be certain that nothing exists in a man save that which is manifest in his actions? Surely no one, not the man himself even.

After three years' absence, Darvid had returned only a few months before to his native city, and to his own house, where he was as ever a rare and inattentive guest. Pie was laboring again. In the first week, on the first day almost, he discovered a new field; he was very anxious to seize this field, and begin his Herculean efforts on it. But the seizure depended on a certain very highly placed personage to whom, up to that time, he had not been able to gain admittance.

The cat's paw had played about a number of times to open a crevice in the closed door, but in vain! He desired a confidential talk of two hours, but could not obtain it.

He turned then to a method which had given him real service frequently.

He found an individual who had the art of squeezing into all places, of winning everyone, of digging from under the earth circumstances, relations, influences. Individuals of this kind are generally dubious in character, but this concerned Darvid in no way. He considered that at the bottom of life dregs are found as surely as slime is in rivers which have golden sand. He thought of life's dregs and smiled contemptuously, but did not hesitate to handle those dregs, and see if there were golden grains in them. He called his dubious assistants hounds, for they tracked game in thickets inaccessible to the hunter. Small, almost invisible, they were still better able than he to contract muscles, creep up or spring over. He had let out such a hound a few days before to gain the desired audience, and had received no news from him thus far. This disturbed and annoyed Darvid greatly. He would rush into the new work like a lion into an arena, and spring at fresh prey.

The evening twilight came down into the series of great and small chambers. Darvid, in his study, furnished with such dignified wealth that it was almost severe in the rich lamp-light, received men who came on affairs of various descriptions: with reports, accounts, requests, proposals.

In that study everything was dark-colored, massive, grand in its proportions, of great price, but not flashy. Not the least object was showy or fantastic; nothing was visible save dignity and comfort. There were books behind the glass of a splendid bookcase, two great pictures on the wall, a desk with piles of papers, in the middle of the room a round table covered with maps, pamphlets, thick volumes; around the table, heavy, deep and low armchairs. The room was spacious with a lofty ceiling, from which hung over the round table a splendid lamp, burning brightly.

Darvid's remote prototype, the Argonaut Jason, must have had quite a different exterior when he sailed on toward Colchis to find the golden fleece. Time, which changes the methods of contest, changes the forms of its knights correspondingly. Jason trusted in the strength of his arm and his sword-blade. Darvid trusted in his brain and his nerves only. Hence, in him, brain and nerves were developed to the prejudice of muscles, creating a special power, which one had to know in order to recognize it in that slender and not lofty figure, in that face with shrunken cheeks, covered with skin which was dry, pale, and as mobile as if quivering from every breeze which carried his bark toward the shores which he longed for. On his cheeks shone narrow strips of whiskers, almost bronze-hued; the silky ends of these fell on his stiff, low collar; ruddy mustaches, short and firm, darkened his pale, thin lips, which had a smile in the changeableness of which was great expression; this smile encouraged, discouraged, attracted, repelled, believed, doubted, courted or jeered-jeered frequently. But the main seat of power in Darvid seemed to be his eyes, which rested long and attentively on that which he examined. These eyes had pupils of steel color, cold, very deep, and with a fullness of penetrating light which was often sharp, under brows which were prominent, whose ruddy lines were drawn under a high forehead, increased further by incipient baldness-a forehead which was smooth and had the polish of ivory; between the brows were numerous wrinkles, like a cloud of anxiety and care. His was a cold, reasoning face, energetic, with the stamp of thought fixed between the brows, and lines of irony which had made the mouth drawn.

A jurist, one of the most renowned in that great city, held in his hand an open volume of the Code, and was reading aloud a series of extracts from it. Darvid was standing and listening attentively, but irony increased in his smile, and, when the jurist stopped reading, he began in a low voice. This voice with its tones suppressed, as it were, through caution, was one of Darvid's peculiarities.

"Pardon me, but what you have read has no relation to the point which concerns us." Taking the book he turned over its pages for a while and began then to read from it. In reading he used glasses with horn-rims; from these the yellowish pallor of his lean face became deeper. The renowned jurist was confused and astonished.

"You are right," said he. "I was mistaken. You know law famously." How was he to avoid knowing it, since it was his weapon and safety-valve! The jurist sat down on one of the broad and low armchairs in silence, and now the architect unrolled on the table the plan of a public edifice to which the last finish was to be given during winter and before work began in spring.

Darvid listened again in silent thought, looking at the plan with his steel-colored eyes, in which at times there flashed sparks of ideas coming from the brain-ideas which, after a while, he presented to the trained architect. He spoke in a voice low and fluent; he spoke connectedly and very clearly. The architect answered with respect, and, like, the jurist who had preceded, not without a certain astonishment. Great God! this man knows everything; he moves as freely in the fields of architecture, mathematics, and law as in his own chamber! Darvid noticed the astonishment of those around him, and irony settled on his thin lips. Did those men imagine that he could begin such undertakings and be like a blind man among colors? Some begin thus but are ruined! He understood that in our time immense knowledge is the only foundation for pyramidal fortunes, and his memory alone knew the long series of nights which had passed above his head while it was sleepless in winning knowledge.

Next appeared before the table a young man, lean and slender; his dark eyes expressed genius, his clothing was threadbare, his gestures almost vulgar. This was a sculptor, young but already famous. The man had incipient consumption, which brought excessive ruddiness to his face, a glitter to his eyes, and a short, rasping cough from his breast.

He spoke of the sculptures which he was to finish for the edifices reared by the great contractor; he showed the drawings of them, and explained his ideas; he rose to enthusiasm; he spoke more loudly, and coughed at more frequent intervals. Darvid raised his head; the sensitive skin on his cheeks quivered with a delicate movement; he touched the shoulder of the artist with the tips of two white, slender fingers.

"Best," said he; "it hurts you to speak too long."

"My younger daughter coughs in just this way," remarked he to the other men present, "and it troubles me somewhat."

"Perhaps a visit to Italy," said the architect.

"Yes, I have thought of that, but the doctors note nothing dangerous so far." Then he turned to the sculptor:

"You ought to visit Italy, for its collections of art and—its climate." The artist, not pleased with this interruption, did not answer directly, but went on showing his projects and explaining them; though his short breath and the cough, which was repeated oftener, made his conversation more difficult. Thereupon Darvid straightened himself.

"I know very little of art," said he. "Not because I despise it; on the contrary, I think art a power, since the world does it homage, but because I lack time. Trouble yourself no further to exhibit plans and ideas here. I confirm them beforehand, knowing well what I do. Prince Zeno, whose good taste and intellect I admire, advised me to turn to you. At his house, moreover, I have seen works of your chisel which charmed me. Some declare that we men of finance and business represent only matter, and have no concern with Psyche (the soul). But I say that your Psyche, now in Prince Zeno's palace, produced on me the impression that I am not matter only."

Irony covered his lips, but with increased amiability he added:

"Let us fix the amount of your honorarium, permit me to take the initiative," said he, hurriedly.

In a tone of inquiry he mentioned a sum which was very considerable. The sculptor bowed, unwilling, or unable to conceal his delight and astonishment. Darvid touched him lightly on the arm, and conducted him to a great desk, one drawer of which he opened. The jurist and the architect at the round table exchanged glances.

"A protege of the prince!" whispered one.

"Cleverness! advertising!" whispered the other.

"I know from report," said Darvid, to the young artist, "that sculptors must spend considerable sums before they begin a given work. Here is an advance. Do not hesitate. Money should be at the service of talent."

The sculptor was astonished. He had imagined the millionaire as entirely different.

"Money should be at the service of talent!" repeated he.

"I hear this for the first time from a man having money! Do you really think so?" Darvid smiled, but his face clouded immediately.

"My dear sir," said he, "I would give, I think, much money if a cough like yours were not in the world."

"Because of your daughter—" began the sculptor, but Darvid had grown cold now, ceremonious, and he turned toward the round table.

At the same moment a servant announced from the door a new guest.

"Pan Arthur Kranitski."

The guest entered immediately after the servant, and passed the outgoing sculptor in the door.

This guest was a man who carried his fifth decade of years with youthful elasticity of movement, and with a pleasant, winning expression on his still handsome face. In general he seemed to be clothed with remnants of great manly beauty, from behind which, like soiled lining through rents in a once splendid robe, appeared, carefully concealed, old age, which was premature, perhaps.

A tall man with a shapely oval face, he had dark whiskers, and the black curls of his hair did not cover successfully the bald spot appearing on the back of his head; his mustache was curled upward, in the fashion of young men, above ruddy lips; he passed through the study with a youthful step, and had the express intention of greeting the master of the house in a cordial and intimate manner. But in the cold eyes of Darvid appeared flashes well-nigh threatening; he barely touched with his finger-tips the hand extended by the guest-a hand really aristocratic, white, slender, and greatly cared for.

"Pardon, pardon, dear Pan Aloysius, that I come at this hour, just the hour of thy important, immense, colossal occupations! But on receiving thy invitation I hastened."

"Yes," said Darvid, "I need to talk with you a little—will you wait a while?"

He turned toward the two men standing by the table, who when he greeted Kranitski looked at him with a curiosity impossible to conceal.

Every meeting of Darvid with that eternal guest, that offshoot of aristocratic families, roused the curiosity of people. For a good while Darvid did not know this, but at last he discovered it, and now his quick glance caught on the lips of the famous jurist a barely discernible smile, to meet which a similar smile appeared on the lips of the architect. He discoursed a few minutes more with the two men. When they turned to go he conducted them to the door; when that was closed he turned to Kranitski and said:

"Now I am at your service."

No one had ever seen service so icy cold, and having in it the shade of a restrained threat. Kranitski in view of this spent more time than was needed in placing his hat on one of the pieces of furniture, besides an expression of alarm covered his face, now bent forward, and, in the twinkle of an eye, the wrinkling of his forehead and the dropping of his cheeks, made him look ten years older. Still with grace which was unconscious, since it had passed long before into habit, he turned to Darvid.

"Thou hast written to me, dear Pan Aloysius—"

"I have called you," interrupted Darvid, "for the purpose of proposing a certain condition, and a change."

From a thick, long book he cut out a page, on which, previously, he had written a few words in haste, and giving it to Kranitski, he said:

"Here is a bank check for a considerable sum. Your affairs, as I hear, are in a very disagreeable condition."

Kranitski's face grew radiant from delight, and became ten years younger. Taking the check presented to him he began, with a certain hesitation:

"Dear Pan Aloysius, this service, really friendly, which thou art rendering me, even without request on my part, is truly magnanimous, but be assured that the moment income from my property increases—"

Darvid interrupted him a second time.

"We know each other so long that I cannot be ignorant of what your property is, and what income you receive from it. You have no property. You own a little village, the income from which has never sufficed to satisfy even one half of your needs. In that little village you would have passed your life unknown to the great world if your mother had not been a relative of Prince Zeno, and some other coronets of nine quarterings. But since you had relationship so brilliant through your mother, high society did not suffer from the loss of your presence. I know all that relates to you, you need not try to lead me into error—I know everything."

On the last words he put an emphasis which seemed to bring
Kranitski into a profound confusion, which he could not master.

"Parole d'honneur," began he, "I do not understand such a real friendly service with such a tone."

"You will understand at once. This sum offered you is not a friendly service, but a simple commercial transaction. To begin with, I insist that for the future you cut short all relations with my son Maryan."

Kranitski stepped back a number of paces.

"With Maryan!" exclaimed he, as if not wishing to believe his own ears. "I break all relations with him! Is it possible? Why? How can that be? But you yourself—"

"That is true, I myself began this. I wished that my family, which, during my frequent absences, resided here permanently, should move in that social sphere which I considered most desirable, and I asked you to be the link between my family and that sphere—"

"I did what you desired," interrupted Kranitski in turn, and raising his head.

Darvid, looking firmly into his face, said in a low voice, slowly, but the ice of his tones seemed at moments to break from the boiling of passion confined beneath them.

"Yes, but you, sir, have demoralized my son. Of himself he would never have gone to such a degree of corruption and idleness. You drew him from study, you led him into all kinds of sport, you took him to all places of amusement, from the highest to the lowest. On returning, after three years' absence, I found Maryan withered morally. Luckily he is a child yet, twenty-three years of age, it is possible to save him. The process of salvation I begin by forbidding you to have any further relations whatever with my son."

Darvid grew terrible during his remaining words. His fingers were sinking into the table, on which he rested his hand. The cluster of wrinkles between his brows became deeper, his eyes had the flash of steel in them; he was all hatred, anger, contempt. But Kranitski, who at first listened to him as if unable to move from astonishment, boiled up also with anger.

"What do you say?" cried he. "Does not my hearing deceive me? You reproach me! Me, who during your ceaseless occupations and absences have been for many years, one may say, the only guardian of your family, and director of your son. Well! Then do you not remember our former intimacy, and this, that it was I who made you acquainted with the highest families of this city, and all this country? Do you not remember your confidential statements to me that you wished to give your daughters in marriage within those circles to which my connections might be a convenient bridge for you? Do you not remember your requests that I should introduce Maryan into the best society, and teach him the manners prevailing there? Very well! You were making your millions in peace, going after them to the ends of the earth, while I did everything that you wished, and now I meet with reproaches, which, at the very least, are expressed without delicacy—des reproches, des grossieretes—Mais ca n'a pas de nom! c'est inoui! This demands the satisfaction of honor."

His indignation was genuine and heartfelt; it brought out a deep flush on his still shapely face. A stony amazement fell on Darvid. True, true, that man spoke the truth.

He, Darvid, had used him for his purposes; he had liked the man, almost loved him; he had given him great confidence. He had not looked into his character; he had not tried to know him, though he had found time to analyze and know men who took no part in his business. But the fact in this case was, that whatever had happened, had happened with his own will. From the depth of his bosom, from out their mysterious den, came a coil of snakes, and a repulsive coldness and slime rose toward his throat, still he reared his head.

"There is much truth in what you say; still my decisive and repeated wish is that you cease to appear in my house."

Kranitski's forehead was flushed with blood, and the words were hissing on his lips when he cried:

"In view of such feelings of yours toward me, how am I to explain the service rendered just now?"

"As pay for service which you have rendered me, or my family. I pay, we are at quits, and part forever." "You are not the only power in this world!" cried Kranitski; "not your will alone can open or close the doors of this house to me."

Darvid, so pale that even his thin lips did not seem to possess a drop of blood, took from a letter-case and showed Kranitski, between two fingers, a letter in a small elegant envelope, bearing the address of Pani Malvina Darvid.

The dark flush vanished from Kranitski without a trace; he became very pale and rested his hand on the arm of the chair; his eyes opened widely. Silence lasted some seconds; between those two men with faces as pale as linen hung the terror of a discovered secret. Darvid, with a voice so stifled that it was barely audible, was the first to speak.

"How this letter came into my hands we need not explain! Simply by chance. Such chances are very common, and they have in them only this good, that at times they put an end to deceit and—villainy!"

Kranitski, still very pale except that red spots were coming out on his forehead, looked very old all at once; he advanced some steps and stood before Darvid, the round table alone was between them. With stifled voice, but fixing his black, flashing eyes boldly on Darvid's face, he said:

"Deceit! villainy! those words are said easily! Do you not know that in early youth your wife was almost my betrothed?"

Darvid's lips were covered with irony, and he said:

"You deserted her at command of your mother, when she sent you to this capital in search of the golden fleece."

"And when you went to the ends of the earth for it," answered Kranitski, "you thought proper to place me to guard the woman whom I loved formerly. You considered yourself invincible, even when separated by hundreds or thousands of miles from her—"

"Let us stop this ridiculous discussion," said Darvid.

"As for me," put in Kranitski, with animation, "I will finish it by offering you any satisfaction which you may demand. I await your seconds."

Darvid laughed loudly and sharply.

"A duel! Do you think that the world would not know the cause of it? Your former betrothed would appear in the matter. For that I should care less, though I must care, for she bears my name, but I have daughters, and I have business—"

He was silent a while, then he finished:

"A scandal might injure my business, and most assuredly would injure the future of my daughters; therefore I will neither challenge you to a duel, nor will I direct my servants to thrash you!"

A trembling shook Kranitski from head to foot, as if from the effects of a blow; he straightened himself, he became manful, and crushing in his hand the bank check which he had received, hurled that paper bullet into Darvid's face so directly that it hit him at the top of his bronze colored whiskers and fell to his feet. Then with elastic movement, and with a grace which was unconscious and uncommon, he turned toward the door and strode out. Darvid remained alone. In that spacious, lofty chamber, richly furnished, in the abundant light of a costly lamp, he remained alone. Clasping his inclined head with both hands, he squeezed it with his white, lean fingers, as with pincers. How many vexations and troubles had met him here after an absence of years! There was something greater still than even these vexations and troubles. The coil of serpents rose in his breast and crawled up to his very throat.

That was torture mixed with a feeling of unendurable disgust. But Darvid avoided high-sounding phrases, and would never think or say: torture, disgust. That was a manner of speaking for idlers and poets. He, a man of iron industry, knew only the words vexation, trouble. What is he to do now with that woman? Throw her out like a beast which, bathed in milk and honey by its owner, has bitten him to the blood? Impossible. His children, especially his daughters, his business, his position, his house—scandals are harmful in every way. So he must live on under the same roof with her; meet the sight of her face, her eyes—those eyes which on a time were for him—yes, it cannot be otherwise.

He must endure that and master himself; master himself mightily, so as not to let things reach a scene, or reproaches, or explanation. Naturally, no scenes, disputes, or explanations. For, first of all, what can they profit? Nothing save a useless expense of energy, and he needs energy so much.

Besides, the very best punishment for that woman is unbroken silence, which will raise between her and him an impenetrable wall. From words, even though they be as sharp as sword-edges, some sound may be got, some slight hope of salvation; but silence, concealing hidden knowledge of a deed, is a coffin in which, from the first hour of each day to the end of it, that woman's pride will be placed with all that in her may still be human. Contempt as silent as the grave! She will eat of his millions, seasoned with his contempt. She will array herself in his millions, interwoven with his hatred. Hatred? Oh, beyond doubt he hates her with passion, and only at times does her name move marvellously through his brain with such sounds as if they were the echo of things very dear, things lost forever and irreplaceable. Can it be? Is it possible that she did that? Malvina, once an ideal maiden, and ten years later a woman so loving that when he was going on a journey she threw herself on her knees and wept, and then besought him not to go from her! He remembers the scene perfectly.

Her hair of pale gold, dropping then in disorder to her shoulders and bosom—her magnificent hair, surrounded by which the tears flowing down her face glistened like diamonds! He raised his head, straightened himself. What stupidity! On what sentiment and exaltation is he losing time and energy! He needs them for something else. He needs to concentrate all his forces to bring his new designs to the desired culmination. Why does "that hound" not show himself and bring the answer needed? Ah, if he could only get one hour of that conversation, he would convince; he would capture; he would overcome rivals, and seize into his own sole possession new fields of industry and speculation! There are hindrances, intrigues, dangerous rivalries, he knows of them, and these oppositions it is precisely which attract him most of all. Now especially, with those vexations and troubles, victory and the new work would be as a spoonful of hashish to him, or a glass of strong, invigorating wine. He must go to the club. A game of cards, to which he devotes some night hours frequently, is not specially pleasant, but he plays with persons of high position in society, or with those who are needed in his business. He will find perhaps, also, that man for whom he has been waiting, vainly, some days.

He was extending his hand to the button of the electric bell when from behind the portieres which half hid the door opening to the interior of the mansion a thin and timid voice came; one could hardly tell whether it was the voice of a child or a young lady:

"Is it permitted to enter?"

Darvid went to the door hurriedly, saying, also hurriedly:

"It is! It is!"

At that moment, from the darkness which filled the adjoining room, into the abundant light of the study, came a maiden of fifteen years, in a bright dress; she was tall and very slender, with a small waist and narrow breast. An immense wealth of pale, golden hair seemed to bend back with its weight her small, shapely head somewhat; her oval face, with its delicate features, had the blush of spring on it; her lips were like cherries, and under the arches of her dark brows were large dark eyes. Right behind the bright dress of the girl came a small shaggy creature, a ball of ash colored silk, a little dog.

"Cara!" cried Darvid, "well, you are here, little one! How often have I asked you to come always boldly. How do you feel to-day? You have not coughed much, I think? Have you taken your daily walk? With whom did you go? With Miss Mary, or Irene? Come, come, sit here in this armchair."

He held her small hand in his and led her toward the table, which was surrounded with armchairs. In his movements there was something polished and exquisite, as it were delicacy toward a person who was very dear and not much known, pushed to the degree where it might be called gallantry. Joined with this was a feeling of delight. She was pleased and smiling, but she was blushing and embarrassed. Advancing with short steps at his side, she bent to his hand every moment and kissed it. Her act was full of a timid charm, half capricious. They both looked like persons who were greatly pleased at meeting, but who remained on a footing of ceremony with each other. He received her in his study as a queen; he seated her in an armchair, then, sitting very near, he held her hands in his. Between them, on the edge of his mistress's skirt, sat the dog with the ash-colored coat, in a posture of disquiet and uncertainty; it was evident that he was not accustomed to visit that room. Cara also, with an expression of timid happiness on her lips which were open, cast her glance with a smile on the vases and the walls, uncertain whether she was to speak, not knowing if she might say something; she bore herself very simply; her small hands rested without motion between her father's palms. At last she said, in a very low voice:

"I was so anxious to see you, father, dear; I wished so much to speak with you that I have come."

"You have done excellently, my little one. Why not come oftener?
Your coming gives me great pleasure."

While speaking he looked all the time into her face, which was almost that of a little child. She was so like her mother, that Malvina's youth was simply renewed in Cara.

But Malvina, when he made her acquaintance, was considerably older; the hair was just the same, very bright, and the eyes with dark brows and pupils, the same shape of forehead. With a deepening of the wrinkles between his brows he repeated:

"Why not come offener?"

"You are always so occupied, father," whispered she.

"What of that?" answered he hurriedly and abruptly.

"There is reproach in your voice. Are my occupations a crime? But labor is service, it is the value of a man. My children should esteem my labor more than others, since I toil for them as much, or even more, than for myself."

He did not even think of speaking to that child with a voice so abrupt, and with such a cloud on his forehead; but that cloud came to him from some place within, from a distant feeling of something which he had never looked at directly before. But he hardly knew the girl! When he went away the last time she was a child; now she was almost full grown. But she, in the twinkle of an eye, slipped from the low armchair to the carpet, and kneeling with clasped hands began to speak passionately and quickly:

"Your child is on her knees before you, father. When you were far away she revered you, did you homage, longed for you; when you are here she loves you greatly, above everything—"

Here she turned and removed from her dress the ball of ash-colored silk, which was climbing to her shoulder.

"Go away, Puffie, go away! I have no time for thee now."

She pushed away the little dog, which sat on the carpet some steps distant. Darvid felt a stream of pleasant warmth flooding into his breast from the words of his daughter; but on principle he did not like enthusiasm. In feelings and the expression of them he esteemed moderation beyond everything. He raised with both hands the girl's head, which was bending toward his knees.

"Be not excited, be not carried away. Repose is beautiful, it is indispensable; without repose no calculation can be accurate, no work complete. Your attachment makes me happy; but compose yourself, rise from your knees, sit comfortably."

She put her hands together as in prayer.

"Let me stay as I am, father, at your knee. I imagined that on your return I should be able to talk often and long with you; to ask about everything, learn everything from you."

She coughed. Darvid took her in his arms, and, without raising her from her knees, he drew her to his breast.

"See! your cough lasts! Do you cough much? Well, do not speak, do not speak! let it pass. Does this cough pass quickly?"

It had passed. She stopped coughing, laughed. Her teeth glittered like pearls between her red lips. A gleam of delight shot through Darvid's eyes.

"It has gone already! I do not cough often, only rarely. I am perfectly well. I was very sick when I got chilled at an open window while you were away, father."

"I know, I know. Your enthusiastic little head thought of opening the window on a winter night, so as to peep out and see how the garden looked covered with snow in the moonlight."

"The trees, father, the trees!" began she, smiling and with vivacity; "not the whole garden, just the trees, which, covered with snow and frost in the moonlight, were like pillars of marble, alabaster, crystal, set with diamonds, hung with laces; and whenever the slightest breeze moved, a rain of pearls was scattered on the ground." "Great God!" exclaimed Darvid, "marbles, alabasters, laces, diamonds, pearls! But there was nothing of all this in fact! There was nothing but dry trunks, branches, snow, and hoar-frost. That is exaltation! And you see how destructive it may be! It brought you acute inflammation of the lungs, the traces of which are not gone yet."

"They are!" answered she, in passing, and then she spoke seriously. "My father, is it exaltation to worship something which is very beautiful, or to love some one greatly with all our strength? If it is—then I am given to exaltation, but without exaltation what could we live for?"

An expression of wonder, meditation, thoughtfulness filled her eyes and covered her finely cut face with a freshness like that of a wild rose. With a movement of wonder she opened her arms, and repeated:

"What do we live for?"

Darvid laughed.

"I see that your head is turned a little, but you are a child yet, and your trouble will pass."

Stroking her pale, golden hair, he continued:

"Homage, love, and like things of the sensational sort, are very nice, very beautiful, but should not occupy the first place."

Cara listened so eagerly that her mouth was open somewhat, and she became motionless as a statue.

"But what should stand in the first place, father?"

Darvid did not answer at once. What? What should stand in the first place?

"Duty," said he.

"What duty, father?"

Again he was silent a while. What duty? Yes, what kind of duty?

"Naturally the duty of labor, hard labor."

The flush on Cara's face increased; she was all curiosity, all eagerness to hear her father's words.

"Labor, for what, father, dear?"

"How? for what?"

"For what purpose? For what purpose? because no one labors for the labor itself. For what purpose?"

For what purpose? How that child pushed him to the wall with her questions! With hesitation in his voice, he answered:

"There are various purposes—"

"But you, father, for what are you working?" continued she, with eager curiosity.

He knew very well for what purpose he wished now to undertake the gigantic labor of erecting a multitude of buildings for the residence of an army, but could he explain that to this child? Meanwhile the dark eyes of the child were fastened on his face, urging him to an answer.

"What is it?" said he. "I—labor gives me considerable, sometimes immense profits."

"In money?" asked she.

"In money."

She made a motion with her head, signifying that she knew that this long time.

"But I," began she, "if I wanted to work, should not know what to work for, I should not know for what object I could work."

He laughed.

"You will not need to work; I will work for you, and instead of you." "Well, father!" exclaimed she, with a resonant laugh, "what can I do? To worship, to love, is exaltation—duty is labor, but if I may not labor, what am I to do?"

Again she opened her small hands with astonishment and inquiry; her eyes were flashing, her lips trembling.

Darvid, with marks of disagreeable feeling on his face, reached for his watch.

"I have no time," said he; "I must go to the club."

At that moment the servant announced from the antechamber, through the open door:

"Prince Zeno Skirgello."

Delight burst forth on Darvid's face. Cara sprang up from her knees, and looking around, called:

"Puff! Puff! Come, let us be off! doggy."

"Where is the prince?" asked Darvid, hurriedly. "Is he here, or in the carriage?"

"In the carriage," answered the servant.

"Beg him to come in, beg him to come in!"

In the delight which the unexpected arrival of the prince caused him at that time, he did not notice the expression of regret on Cara's face. Raising the little dog from the floor and holding him in her arms, she whispered:

"This is the third time, or the fourth—it is unknown which time it is!" Darvid sprang toward her.

"You may remain! You know the prince—"

"Oh, no, father, I flee—I am not dressed!"

Her white robe with blue dots had the shape of a wrapper, and her hair was somewhat dishevelled. With the dog on her arm she ran to the door beyond which was darkness.

"Wait!" cried Darvid, and he took one of the candles which were burning on the desk in tall candlesticks. The prince was coming up the stairs slowly. "I will light you through the dark chambers."

Saying this he walked with her to the second chamber, and when passing through that, she, while going at his side with the dog on her arm, and with her short step, which gave her tall form the charm of childhood, repeated:

"This is the fourth time, perhaps—it is unknown how many times it will be in this way!"

"What will be in this way?"

"Just when I begin to talk with you. Paf! something hinders!"

"What is to be done?" answered he, with a smile; "since your father is not a hermit, nor a small person on this world's chessboard."

They went hurriedly, and passed through the second chamber. The flame of the candle which Darvid carried cast passing flashes on the gold and polish of the walls, and the furniture. These were like tricky gnomes, appearing and vanishing in the silence, darkness, and emptiness.

Darvid thought:

"How dark it is here, and deserted!" Cara divined this thought, as it were, and said:

"Mamma and Ira are invited to dine to-day at—"

She gave the name of one of the financial potentates, and added:

"After dinner they will come to dress for the theatre."

"And thou?" inquired Darvid.

"I? I do not go into society yet, and so far the doctor forbids me to go to the theatre. I will read or talk with Miss Mary, and amuse myself with Puff."

She stroked with her palm the silky head of the little dog. Darvid halted at the door of the third chamber, and gave Cara the light, from the weight of which her slight arm bent somewhat.

"Go on alone; I must hurry to the prince."

She bent down to his hands, covered them with hurried, ardent kisses. With the flame of the candle before her rosy face, with the dog at her breast, and the pale, golden hair pushed back on her shoulders, she advanced in the darkness. Darvid returned through that darkness in the opposite direction, and when he had passed the two spacious chambers hastily, he felt in the twinkle of an eye as if from behind, from that interior, some weight had been placed on his shoulders. He looked around. There was nothing but vacancy, obscurity, and silence.

"Stupid! I must have the house lighted!" thought Darvid, and he hurried into the study, where, with movements a little too vivacious, with a fondling smile, and with repeated declarations that he felt happy, he greeted the prince, a man of middle age, of agreeable exterior, affable and pleasant in speech. When they had sat down in armchairs, the prince declared the object of his visit, which was to invite Darvid to a hunt which was to take place soon on one of his estates. Darvid accepted the invitation with expressions of pleasure, a little too prompt and hearty. But he was never so well able to measure his words and movements in presence of those high-born people as in presence of others. He felt this himself, still he had not the power to refrain. In presence of them he found himself under the influence of one of his passions, and it carried him too far. The prince spoke of the sculptor, whose gifts he esteemed highly; the young man had gone directly from Darvid to him and told of all that he had heard, and what he had experienced.

"I was really affected by your kindness toward this youthful genius, and am delighted that he found in you a patron so magnanimous."

Darvid thought that in every case his arrows always struck the mark. To that act of his he was surely indebted for this unusual visit of the prince, and the invitation. With a smile, in which honey was overflowing, he said:

"That young man seems very ill. A visit to more favorable climates might save him. I must try that he does not reject the means which I shall offer him for that purpose. I foresee resistance, but I shall do what I can to overcome it, out of regard for art, and through good-will for a young man who, besides many sympathetic traits, has this on his side, that he rejoices in the exceptional favor of Prince Zeno."

Had he been able, Darvid would have kissed himself for that phrase, he felt so well satisfied with it; especially when the prince answered with animation:

"This, in the full sense of the words, means speaking and acting beautifully! You use the gifts of fortune in a manner truly noble."

"Not fortune, prince, not fortune!" exclaimed Darvid, "but iron labor."

"Such toilers as you are the knights of the contemporary world," answered the prince, with vivacity; "the Du Guesclins and Cids of the present century."

He rose and, while pressing the hand of that Cid, fixed again in his memory the date of the hunt, which was not distant. Prince Zeno was an aristocrat of the purest blood, possessing a wide popularity which was fairly well deserved.

Darvid was radiant. While accompanying the prince to the door of the antechamber he looked as if no coil of serpents had ever crawled up in his bosom, which was now beating with delight and with pride. The prince halted still a moment at the door, as if to recall something.

"Pardon me an indiscreet question, but this interests me immensely. Is there truth in the reports which are circulating in the city, that Baron Blauendorf is to have the honor in the near future of receiving the hand of your elder daughter?"

The expression of Darvid's face changed quickly, it became sharp and severe.

"Were there any truth in the report," answered he, "I should try to destroy it together with the report."

"And you would be right, perfectly right!" exclaimed the prince.
Then he bent his lips almost to Darvid's ear and whispered:

"There is no Pactolus which such a young buck as Baron Emil would not drink up. He is a genuine devourer of fortunes. He has swallowed one already and the half of another."

He laughed and added at once, with immense affability:

"I see your son frequently—that worthy Kranitski presented him a year ago to us; I and my wife are very, very thankful. He is sympathetic, handsome, and a highly intellectual young man, who does you honor."

He went out. Darvid stood at the round table sunk in thought, with pins of irony in his smile and his eyes, with a cloud of wrinkles between his brows. That young sculptor, the favorite of Prince Zeno, with clothing almost in tatters, brought consumption on himself unhindered, till a parvenu appeared with his money-bag and rescued the pocket of the aristocrat, receiving in return a visit and an invitation to hunt. "Behold the significance of money! Almost infinite power—ha! ha! ha!"

Internal laughter bore him away, and in his brain sounded the word: "Wretchedness! Wretchedness!"

What was it specially that he called wretchedness? He was not clearly conscious himself of this, but the feeling of it penetrated him. Again he heard the prince saying "that honest Kranitski," and a wave of blood rushed to his forehead. Everything that he had forgotten a moment earlier returned to his mind; the prince's voice roared in his ears: "That honest Kranitski." He repeated a number of times to himself, in a hissing whisper, "honest! honest!" And then he said:

"Wretchedness!"

That Baron Emil, the young buck capable of gulping down many a Pactolus! And he was to possess the hand of his daughter, with a considerable part of that fortune won by iron labor. Is Irene in love with him? But the baron is a vibrio and a monkey all in one. There is need to think over this family matter, lest a misfortune might happen. He cast a glance at the door behind which was darkness, thick, silent, immovable. It resembled a window opened into a great and impenetrable secret.

"I must have the house lighted up," thought he. At this moment he heard the dull rumble of a carriage in the gateway as it entered. He pressed the button of the electric bell.

"Is that the lady who has come?"

"Yes, serene lord."

"Tell the coachman to wait. He will take me to the club."

When the servant opened the door the rustle of silk came in like the sound of wind. Two long silken robes passed over the floor of the anteroom and farther on in the darkness of the chambers, which was dispelled by the light of the lamp, borne by the servant advancing in front of them.

The glittering gnomes called forth by that light sprang along the gildings, polished walls, and furniture; ran out of the darkness, ran into it again; were lighted up and quenched on the inclined heads, drooping lids, and silent lips of the two women in rich array and gloomy.

CHAPTER II

Malvina Darvid was one of those women to whom old age is very tardy in coming, and whose beauty, modified in each season of life, never leaves them. For this last she was indebted less to the features of her face than to the immense charm of her movements, her smile, her expression, her speech. She retained yet the same pale, golden hair which she had years earlier, which she arranged high above her low forehead, calling to mind the statues of Grecian women. In contrast with that hair, and her slightly faded but delicate complexion, shone, from under dark brows, large eyes, also dark, with a very mild, warm expression, now bright, now tempered by a deep inevitable cloud of pensiveness. In a robe covered with lace, in the glitter of a star of diamonds in the bright aureole of her hair, she greeted the numerous acquaintances who entered her box at the theatre, with the affability and freedom of a perfect society lady. She was even celebrated in that great city for the qualities which constitute so-called society personages, and which, in those who knew her past, roused a certain wonder. It was known to all that that past was very modest. Darvid in his youth, which was far less brilliant than his present, married a poor orphan, a teacher. But Malvina Darvid was of those women who need only a golden setting to sparkle like diamonds. She shone in the great world with a charm, an elegance, a power of speech which were the same as if she had been its own daughter. She was radiant with satisfaction, with serenity, often even with joyous animation, and only now and then did a slight wrinkle, with a barely discernible line furrowing her Grecian forehead, sink itself and cast on her face an expression of weariness, or the corners of her lips, still red and shapely, drop downward and make that oval, white, delicate face ten years older than it seemed to be usually. But those were only short and rare moments, after which Malvina Darvid was again entirely flooded with the brilliancy of her beautiful eyes, her splendid toilet, the sounds of her metallic voice, warm and full of sweetness. She seemed barely a few years older than her elder daughter. Sometimes guests left her box with the words:

"She is more beautiful than her daughter."

And offener still: "She is more charming and sympathetic than her daughter."

Still nature had been no stepmother to Irene Darvid; but life, though so short thus far, had stamped on her exterior a mark which, while it astonished and discouraged, repelled.

If the younger sister seemed a living portrait of her mother, the elder recalled her father, with her high forehead, thin lips, and—a thing wonderful at such a tender age—the mark of irony drawn over them. Her hair, too, like her father's, changed with fiery gleams of gold and bronze, while the pale complexion of her face, which was too long, was lighted by the frequent sharp glitter of her eyes, which, as those of her father, were not large, and had gray pupils with a cold glance, penetrating and reasoning. Her shapely form was somewhat too slender; her posture and movements too stiff and ceremonious. She passed in society for a haughty, cold, unapproachable, original, and even eccentric young lady. On the stage was presented a play which had been preceded by immense praise; in the theatre had collected all that bore the name of high and fashionable society in the city. The boxes were filled, except one, which only just before the beginning of the second act was opened with a rattle and filled with loud, free, and bold conversation. It was occupied by a number of young men of elegant dress and manners; they, as it seemed, were connected by similarity in position, habits, and pleasures. Prom the higher to the lower rows of the theatre all eyes and glasses were turned toward that box, with its princes, young nabobs, sons of ancient families, or heirs to immense fortunes. Through boxes, armchairs, galleries, passed names notorious through deeds of originality, witty sayings, astonishing excesses; names interwoven with anecdotes about money and love-passages; the substance of the love-passages could be repeated only in whispers, while the amounts of money were mentioned with eyes widely opened in amazement. Two among these young men occupied public attention beyond others that winter: Baron Emil Blauendorf, and Maryan Darvid, both of families recently, but greatly, enriched. The Blauendorf house was older by some generations, and had become widely connected; on the other hand, their fortune in possession of the present descendant was vanishing quickly; in comparison with the entirely new edifice of the Darvids, it seemed a ruin. On these two general attention was concentrated with the greatest curiosity; for during that winter and the preceding one the most numerous anecdotes touching them were in circulation among those who frequented that theatre. They were so young, and still so noted! But Baron Emil was considerably older than Maryan; he was thirty and little favored in looks. Small, weakly, with red, closely-cut hair, with features which were too small, and injured by a faded complexion, with small eyes, which, because of nearsightedness, were either covered with eyeglasses, or blinked at the light from behind yellow lids, which gave them an expression of pride and weariness. An unshapely exterior, unimposing, slight, bent, sickly. But through those small, yellowish, thin hands had passed already the fortune of the old baron, who was dead some years, and now a second fortune was passing through them—a fortune left scarcely a year before to her son by the baroness, who was famous for her idolatrous love of him. People looked, and wondered how such a great river of gold could flow through a creature so small and insignificant. With Maryan it was different. He astonished also, but he roused general sympathy. Such a child! And such a perfectly beautiful fellow at the same time! He was not twenty three years of age yet; of fine stature; his manners were elegant and pleasing; he had the head of a cherub, with bright curling locks; a noble fresh face from which gazed eyes as blue as turquoise; and wise, too wise, perhaps, in so youthful a countenance, for these eyes seemed not to confide but to jeer, or to be wearied and seeking something through the world without finding it. Women whispered into one another's ears that that lad, when in England, had joined the Salvation Army; but after he had remained a short time in its ranks, he became, in Paris, a member of the Hashish Club, and brought away the habit of using narcotics to rouse dreams in himself and unusual conditions. If the city at that moment had temporary possession of Bianca Bianetti it was thanks to that lad, who, in a remote land, had won the heart of the singer. Some insisted that he had spent fabulous sums on her; others contradicted, declaring that not Bianca, the singer, had consumed them, but Aurora, that noted Amazon of the circus, for whose favor princes of blood royal had striven in various capitals. That shapely little nabob had come, seen, and conquered; and when he had got his prize at an incredible outlay, he threw it aside and brought home Bianca. But is that all that may be told of him? He and Baron Emil are fountains of histories of this sort. The baron is considerably older, but this lad has a father. That father himself is a source of unbounded credit. Young Darvid has as many debts as there are golden curls on that cherub head of his. What will his papa say? What? Not long since that papa returned from the ends of the earth, after a long absence; will he put an end to the tricks of the boy? will he be able to do so? The white forehead of the youth has an expression of maturity, and at times of something else—namely, weariness—and in his blue eyes gleams of firmness, resolve, and contempt. He looks as if he despised the whole world then. He and the baron occupy themselves much with art and literature. They expend almost as much on art as on women and joyous suppers. They are highly cultured. The baron plays like an artist; Maryan translates poetry into various languages. In the box were a number of others resembling these two, but the others had places elsewhere in the theatre: they had come for a brief time and left the box afterward, then there remained only the baron and young Darvid. Behind their chairs sat some third man, very quietly, as if to attract the least attention possible. This was Pan Arthur Kranitski. People were accustomed to see him here and elsewhere with these two young men, and with others also, but with these two most frequently; his hair curled, freshened; his black mustache, pointed at the ends above his red lips, in the fashion of young men. But to-day he looks considerably more retiring and older than usual. With much bold conversation, with laughter which cast his head back, with movements full of grace and animation, he generally strove to equal, and did equal, those two young nabobs, whose Mentor he seemed to be, and at the same time their comrade and continual guest, as well as their gracious protector. This time he was weighed down and gloomy, with spots on his aged forehead. He was sitting in a corner of the box, turning his attention neither to the play nor the audience; and, what was more, not striving to attract the attention of anyone. But from behind the shoulders of the young men in the front of the box, his hand, as if directed by an irresistible impulse, turned the opera-glass, from moment to moment, toward Malvina Darvid. He felt that he ought not to look so persistently at that woman with the gleaming star above her forehead, so he dropped his hand to raise it again and turn it in the same direction. As if imitating Kranitski, though really he did not even think of his existence, Baron Emil was acting in the same way with reference to Irene, gazing through his opera-glass at her face, which showed indifference and even weariness. He did this with a perfect disregard for the rest of the audience, and beginning at the second act, with an insolence which might have confused or angered another woman. But Irene, indifferent for some time, raised her glass also, and turned it on the baron. With these glasses the two people brought their faces near each other; they looked each other straight in the eyes, separated themselves from the audience, and gazed from the height of their two boxes in full disregard of everything happening around them. These two opera-glasses, planted in permanent opposition, attract the attention of all; but Irene and the baron do not heed that, do not care to know anything what ever about the audience, or the love scenes and tragedy represented in that theatre. They gaze long at each other with such indifference that one might ask. Why do they do that? Perhaps because it is original, perhaps to rouse the curiosity or the censure of the audience. But, after a long time, there appeared on their faces a jeering, self-willed smile, with a tinge of friendly comradeship, mixed in the baron's case with a passing gleam of the eyes; and in Irene's a pale flush, which covered her lofty forehead for a moment and then vanished. Dropping his hand with the opera-glass the baron turned to Maryan: "Tres garconniere ta soeur!" said he. "She is bold and looks down on every thing; she is disenchanted. Une desabusee! Very interesting, and grows more and more so."

"Does she rouse a new shiver in you?" laughed Maryan.

"Yes, an entirely new shiver. That is a type of woman which is barely beginning. Twenty years old, and a perfectly distinct individuality! Twenty years old, and knows painted pots thoroughly!"

"That is a family trait with us," retorted Maryan.

"Your mother," continued the baron, "has undying beauty. Such splendid hair and eyes! But hers is another type entirely."

"A past one," put in Maryan.

"Yes, that is true, a past type, a simple one. But Panna Irene is new and intricate; yes, that is the word, intricate! We are all intricate now, full of contrasts, dissonances, and vexations."

In the theatre a thunder of applause was heard. The two young men looked at each other and laughed almost loudly.

"What are they playing?" asked the baron, indicating the stage with his head. "Ma foi! I have not heard one word."

"Well old man," said Maryan, turning to Kranitski, "what are they doing on the stage?" Kranitski dropped his hand with the opera-glass quickly and blurted out:

"What is the question, Maryan?" His eyes, which were fine yet in their prolonged lids, were glazed with a tear.

"Ho, ho! romantic, there is a tear in your eye. The subject must be affecting! Let us listen!" They began to listen, but quite differently from others. When passions exhibited on the stage quickened the beating of all hearts, or poetry, pulsating in lofty words, brightened faces with enthusiasm, Maryan and the baron laughed inattentively and with contempt; when stupidity, selfishness, or wit called out laughter, or ridicule, they were immovable in cold importance, puffed up and insolent; when the curtain came down at the end, and a deafening, prolonged thunder of applause was heard, their hands rested ostentatiously on the edge of the box. This opposition to the impressions and opinions of the audience might seem a childish wish for distinction; but one could feel besides in it, a bold throwing down of the gauntlet to common taste, and an estimate of the various elements and values in life directly in conflict with that of others.

Toward the end of the last act Kranitski entered Malvina Darvid's box, and saluting each woman silently he stood motionless. Malvina bowed toward him slightly, then a shadow came out on her face; this shadow seemed to have torn itself from an internal cloud. She frowned—a deep wrinkle appeared on her forehead, the corners of her mouth drooped somewhat, and her face, with that brilliant star in the aureole of bright hair above, had an expression of pain when seen on the drapery of the box as a background.

But that did not last long. The box was filled with an assembly of brilliant and agreeable men, one of whom, with his gray hair and bearing of an official, made a low obeisance before the wife of Darvid, and seemed to lay at her feet smiles full of homage. Hence she grew affable, pleasant, vivacious, elegant in gestures, and in the modulation of her beautiful voice, she answered politeness with politeness, requests with promises, and gave opinions in return for questions touching the piece just played.

Baron Emil meanwhile approached Irene and, indicating the excited audience with his eyes, inquired:

"How do those shouting Arcadians please you?"

Taking on her shoulders the wrap which he held for her, she answered:

"They are happy!"

"Why?"

"Because they are naive!"

"You have described the position famously!" cried he, with enthusiasm. "Only Arcadians could be so happy—"

"As to believe in those painted pots—"

"As their great-grandfathers did," added he.

"Who knows," said she, as it were, with deep thought, "whether the great-grandfathers really believed in them, or only—"

"Pretended belief! Ha! ha! ha! Beyond price! excellent! How you and I converse, do we not? This is harmony!"

"Not without dissonance."

"Yes, yes, not without vexation. But that is nothing. That even rouses-"

During this interchange of opinions, which was like the glitter of cold and sharp steel, Kranitski, in the crowd which surrounded Malvina, was able to whisper to her:

"To-morrow at eleven." Without looking at him, and with a quiver of her brows, which drooped a little, she answered:

"It is too early."

"Absolutely necessary. A catastrophe! A misfortune!" whispered he in addition.

She raised to him a glance which showed that she was tortured to her inmost soul by fear, but at the same moment Maryan gave her his arm, and said:

"To be original, to edify the Arcadians, and to give myself pleasure, I shall be to-day a virtuous son, conducting his own beautiful mamma downstairs!"

Adroit, with almost childish delight in his blue eyes, but with a sarcastic smile which seemed to have grown to his lips, which were shaded by a minute mustache, this youth led through the theatre corridor that woman not young, but whose beautiful and original head, and whose rich toilet drew all eyes to her.

"I am proud of you, dear mamma. To-day I have heard whole odes sung in your honor; even Emil declares that you are eclipsing Irene with your beauty."

She was smiling and also angry. Her dark gleaming eyes rose with love to the shapely face of her son, but, striving to be dignified, she said:

"Maryan, you know that I am displeased at hearing you talk to me in such a tone."

He laughed loudly.

"Then, my dear mamma, you should grow old as quickly as possible, put on a cap, and sit in a jacket at the fireplace. I should be filled then with timid respect, and would hurry away with all speed from such an annoying mamma!"

"But since I am not annoying you will be good and come home with us. We shall drink tea together."

"Au desespoir, chere maman! But that cannot be. The rest of this day, or night, I have promised to friends."

"Is to-day the only time promised?" asked she, with a shade of sadness.

"For the true sage to-morrow and yesterday have no existence," answered Maryan.

They were at the open door of the carriage; Maryan bent and kissed his mother's hand.

"Be not angry, mamma dear! But you are never angry. If there is anything on earth that I worship yet it is your marvellous sweetness of temper."

"It is excessive," answered Malvina. "If I only knew how to dominate—"

He interrupted her, with a laugh:

"I should avoid you in that ease; but now, all relations between us are excellent, though they are constitutional or even republican."

"I go for anarchy!" put in Baron Emil, helping Irene to a seat in the carriage.

He spoke somewhat through his nose and teeth, it was difficult to say whether by nature or habit, but that gave to his speech a character of contemptuousness and indolence.

"But of dissonances to-morrow n'est ce pas?" asked he.

"And of vexations!" concluded Irene with a smile, wherewith her hand remained on the baron's palm a few seconds longer than was necessary.

Soon after, Malvina Darvid was sitting at a small table covered with a tea service, in a study which was like the lined and gilded interior of a costly confectionery box. Massive silver artistically finished, expensive porcelain, exquisite tid-bits, enticing the eye by their ornamentation, and the taste by the odor from them, tempered, however, by the strong fragrance of hyacinths, syringa, and violets which were blooming at the window and the walls, and on largo and small tables everywhere.

The dress worn at the theatre was replaced now by a wrapper, composed of lace and material soft as down. Her posture in the low and deep armchair, the very manner even in which she arranged the folds of her robe seemed to exhale the luxury of rest; but her mind was at work, and filled her eyes with an expression of disquiet.

"'Catastrophe! Misfortune!' What could that be?" Marks of pain had begun to wind around her mouth; her hands were firmly clasped on her knees. "It may be that lost letter? A man must have a head filled with exaltation, and a character as weak as Kranitski's to write such a letter. It may be—it is even sure to be so, for during a number of days she has felt in the air a catastrophe. But if?—Well! Is that a misfortune? Oh, rather the opposite?" The supposition that the dark, grievous truth of her life might be discovered by him who would seek vengeance because of it roused no fear in her; it caused her to hope for a thing disagreeable and yet desired. Let that horrid knot in which her life was involved be untied or torn apart sometime, in any way whatever. Alone she would never have strength to untie or to cut it, she is such an eternally weak, weak, weak creature! And still anything would be better than the present condition.

Two glittering tears rolled slowly down her cheeks; above the drooping eyelids a deep wrinkle cut a dark line across her forehead. The diamond star flashing rainbow gleams from her hair, and the flowers, which dotted the room thickly with their pale colors, gave a background of wealth to that woman's life tragedy.

With a teacup in her hand Irene stood in the opposite door and looked at her mother uneasily, keenly, with such attention that her eyelids blinked repeatedly. Far from her now were those dry and sneering smiles in conversation with the baron. But she passed through the room calmly and sat in front of her mother.

"It seems that the play of to-night did not amuse you much, mamma." She looked into the teacup so steadily that she could not see her mother's tears or expression of face. But that face grew bright on a sudden and was covered with an unrestrained smile.

"Is Cara sleeping?" inquired she.

"Of course; her room is quite silent, and so is Miss Mary's. Why do you not drink tea, mamma?"

Malvina raised the spoon slowly to her lips, and Irene began to speak calmly:

"I heard very unexpected news to-day. It seems that father has told Prince Zeno, who inquired about the matter, that he will not consent to my marriage with Baron Blauendorf."

"Why call that news unexpected?" asked Malvina, looking at her daughter.

Irene shrugged her shoulders slowly.

"I did not suppose that father would devote his precious time to things so trivial. This is unexpected and may bring trouble."

"What trouble?" inquired Malvina, with alarm.

"Father's opinions and mine may be in opposition."

"In that case your opinion will yield."

"I doubt that. I have my plans, my needs, my tastes; of these father can know nothing."

They were silent rather long; during this time Malvina raised her eyes to her daughter repeatedly, with the intent to say something, but she was unable, or at least she hesitated. At last she inquired in irresolute, almost timid, tones:

"Irene, do you love him?"

"Do I love the baron?"

These words coming from the lips of the young girl expressed immense astonishment.

"If Baron Emil should hear that question he would be the first to call it Arcadian or great-grandfatherly." And she laughed. "That is one of those things which do not exist, or which, at least, are changeable, temporary, dependent on the state of the nerves and the imagination. I have a cool imagination and calm nerves. I can do without painted pots."

As these words came slowly and coldly from the lips of her daughter, Malvina straightened herself, and her face was covered with a faint blush. She had preserved the rare, and at her age even wonderful, faculty of blushing.

"Ira!" cried she, "I hear these opinions not for the first time, and they give me such pain!"

She clasped her hands.

"Love, sympathy, when a choice is made—"

The voice broke in her throat all at once. Her eyelids drooped; her shoulders fell back on the chair; she was silent.

Irene laughed and made a gesture of despair with her hands.

"What can I do with the situation?" began she in a jesting tone. "It was not I who made this world, and cannot reconstruct it. I might like to do so, perhaps, but I cannot." Then she grew serious, and continued: "Love and sympathy may be very charming. I admit even that most assuredly they are when they exist; but usually if they exist it is for a short period, they flash up and quench—a few years, a few days, most frequently only days, and they pass—they are as if they had never been. Why illusions, when after them disenchantment must conic? They merely cause useless exertion in life, disappointment, and suffering."

Irene's words and sententious, hard tones were in marvellous contrast with the maiden-roundness of her arms, which were bare in the broad sleeves of her dressing-gown, with the fresh red of her delicate lips, and the gleam of her blue eyes.

"Besides," added she, "I feel a sympathy for the baron; a certain kind of sympathy." Malvina, after a moment's silence, asked in a low voice:

"What kind of sympathy is it?"

After a little hesitation Irene answered with a harsh, abrupt laugh:

"What kind of sympathy? A kind very common, it seems known universally. Sometimes his way of looking at me, or his pressure of the hand, moves me. But he pleases me most by his sincerity; he makes no pretence. He has never told me, like those three or four other suitors of mine, that he loves me. He has for me, as I have for him, a certain kind of sympathy; he considers me financially an excellent match, and for these two reasons he wishes to share with me his title of baron, and his relationship with certain families of counts and princes. And as I, on my part, need independence at the earliest, and my own house, so one thing for another, the exchange of services and interests is accomplished. We do not hide from each other these motives of ours, and this creates between us sincere and comrade-like relations, quite agreeable, and leading to no tirades or elegies in which there is not one bit of truth, or to any exaltation or despair which has no title to the future. This is all."

"Ira!" whispered Malvina after a long silence.

"What, mamma?"

"If I could—if I had the right—" Both were silent.

"What, mamma?"

"If I could believe in spite of—"

The gilded and artistic clock ticked among the pinks and lilies: tick-tack, tick-tack.

"What is it, mamma?"

"A cake, Ira!"

As Irene took a cake from the silver basket with her trembling hand, she cried, with glad laughter:

"At last you will eat even a cake! You have changed immensely, mamma. I cannot call you now as I once did, a little glutton, since for some time past you eat so little that it is nearly nothing."

Malvina smiled fondly at the name which on a time her daughter had given her jestingly, and Irene continued in the same tone:

"Remember, mamma, how you and I, with one small assistant in Cara, ate whole baskets of cakes, or big, big boxes of confectionery. Now that is past. I notice this long time that you eat almost nothing, and that you dress richly only because you must do so. At times, were it possible, you would put on haircloth instead of rich silks, would you not? Have I guessed rightly?"

While a faint blush covered her forehead and cheeks again,
Malvina answered:

"Rightly."

Irene grew thoughtful; without raising her eyes to her mother she inquired in a low voice:

"What is the cause of this?"

"Returning currents of life are the cause," answered Malvina after a rather long silence, and she continued, thoughtfully: "You see, my child, currents of a river when once they have passed never come back again, but currents of life come hack. My early youth was poor, as you know, calm, laborious, brightened by ideals, from which I have deviated much! That was long ago, but it happened. In life so many years pass sometimes, that events which precede those years seem a dream, but they are real and come back to us."

Irene listened to this hesitating, low conversation with drooping eyelids and forehead resting on her hand. She made no answer. Malvina, sunk in thought, was silent also.

A few minutes later the tea things vanished from the table, removed without a sound almost, and borne out by the young waiting-maid.

With eyelids still drooping, as if she were finishing an idea circling stubbornly in her head, Irene said with pensive lips:

"A haircloth!" She rose then, and, suppressing a yawn, said: "I am sleepy. Good-night, mamma, dear!" She placed a brief kiss on her mother's hand: "Shall I call Kosalia?"

"No, no! Tell her to go to sleep. I will undress myself and go to bed unattended."

"Good-night!"

Stepping quietly along the carpet Irene passed out. Malvina followed the young lady to the door with her eyes, and the moment she was alone she threw her arm over her head, turned her face upward, and repeated a number of times, audibly: "God! God!" Then she rested her elbows on the arms of the chair, covered her face with both palms, the broad sleeves of her dress fell from her arms like broken wings. Thus, altogether motionless, she dropped into an abyss of regrets, reminiscences, and fears. The night flowed on. The clock among the flowers in that study struck the first hour after midnight, then the second hour, and each time in the darkness of the drawing-rooms another clock answered in tones which were deeper and more resonant. The syringa and hyacinths gave out a still stronger odor, though the cold increased in that chamber. The frosty winter night was creeping in, even to dwellings which were carefully heated, and was filling them with darkness penetrated with cold; along Malvina's shoulders, which were bent over the arm of the chair, shivers began to pass.

In the darkness and cold a slight rustle was heard, and on the background of this darkness, in the doorway, appeared Irene. She wore a short, embroidered dress of cambric, and her fiery tresses were on her shoulders. She stood in the doorway with neck extended toward her mother, then walking in soft slippers silently she passed through the room like a shadow, and vanished beyond the opposite door. There was something ghostlike in those two women; one passed, without the slightest rustle, by the other, who was sleeping in a low chair, without making the least movement. Outside that mansion the streets of the city were entering into a deeper and longer silence.

The clock in the study struck three, in the darkness three strokes, remote and deep, answered. In the air the volatile and languid odor of syringas was overcome by the narcotic and stronger odor of hyacinths. The increasing cold flowed around them with painful contrast. In the door, beyond which she had vanished, Irene appeared again, just as silently as before. She passed through the room and placed a shawl upon her mother's shoulders. Malvina, feeling the soft stuff, woke as if from a dream.

"What is this?" exclaimed she, raising her face, the cheeks of which were gleaming in the light of the lamp; but when she saw her daughter she smiled with relief immediately.

"That is you, Ira? Why are you not asleep?"

"I cannot sleep, and I came for the book which we began to read together. It is growing cold, so I brought a shawl. Good-night."

She went aside but did not leave the room. She had no book in her hand; perhaps she was looking for it in the beautifully carved ease filled with books, for she opened the case and stood before it with arms raised toward the upper shelves, her hair lying motionless on the white cambric covering her shoulders.

Malvina was looking at her daughter, in her eyes was impatience; she was waiting for her to go.

"Is it late?" asked she.

"Very late," answered Irene, without turning her head.

"Does Cara cough to-night?"

"I have not heard her cough to-day." Malvina rose, but tottered so much that she was forced to rest her hand on the edge of the table. She seemed greatly wearied.

"Go to sleep. Good-night!" said she, passing her daughter.

Irene looked at her tottering step and followed her quickly a number of paces.

"Mamma!" cried she.

"What, Ira?"

Irene stood before her mother a moment, her lips were quivering with words which she withheld, till she bent, kissed her mother's hand gently, and said in her usual manner:

"Good-night!"

Then she stood a while longer before the open case, listening to the rustle made by her mother while going to bed, and when that had ceased she closed the case and moved quietly into the darkness behind the outer door.

At that same time a carriage thundered in the silence and passed through the gateway. Restrained movement rose in the antechamber from which one servant ran out into the dimly lighted stairway, and another rushed to the study and bedroom of the master of the mansion to increase quickly the light of the lamps there. Darvid went up the stairs quickly and with sprightliness; he threw into the hands of the servant his fur, which was costly and original, since it was brought from the distant North, and began at once to read at the round table, through an eyeglass, that which he had jotted down recently in his pocket notebook. The book was in ivory binding with a gold monogram, and a pencil with a gold case. While reading Darvid put a brief question to the servant:

"Has Pan Maryan returned?"

The answer was negative. Large and heavy wrinkles appeared between Darvid's brows, but he continued to read his notes. Almost a quarter of an hour later he wrote something more while bending over the desk, and standing. Soon in the bedchamber, furnished by the most skillful decorator of the capital, a night-lamp on the mantel of a chimney illuminated a bed adorned with rich carving; a white and lean hand stretched out on a silk coverlet, and a face also, which was like ivory, and shining with two blue sleepless eyes, keenly glittering. Darvid cast an inattentive glance through the room, over which, in the pale lamplight, two beautiful female heads seemed to hover, reflected and multiplied in mirrors standing opposite each other. This was a most beautiful work—a genuine Greuze. To win this masterpiece Darvid outbid a number of men of high standing; he triumphed and was delighted. But now his sleepless glance passed over that pearl of art inattentively. His night at the club instead of diverting and calming had bored and irritated. His honorable partner was annoying, and rude in addition. Never would he have forced himself to play with the man, had not that relation been an honor, and—what was more—had it not been needful. Women say: one must suffer to be beautiful; men need to change only the last word and say: one must suffer to be powerful. But that was beginning to be repulsive, and, above all, to be wearisome. Only when in bed did he feel that he was weary. He could not sleep. He had slept badly for some weeks—since the time of that wretched letter. At thought of that letter the serpents stirred in Darvid's breast, but he shut them down in their den by hissing: "Stupidity!" And he fell into long and uneasy thought about that man whom he had sent on weighty business, but who had not returned yet.

Perhaps chance will not favor him this time, and another hand will seize the field of action and the great profits. He knows that he has enemies and rivals who envy, who undermine him. Well, he will win also in this case, only he would like something afterward—what? He himself does not know what—perhaps rest. To go for a time to Switzerland or Italy. For what purpose? He is not over curious about art and nature, he has no time to fall in love with them. Without occupation he would be bored in all places, and besides he must finish these family questions. He must tame Maryan, and hinder Irene's marriage to the baron. He is fighting a battle with his own son and daughter. Cara is the only one with whom he has no trouble. She is mild and beautiful. Her head is turned also, but in another, a more agreeable direction. She is greatly attached to him, the dear child! She is frail. He must speak to the doctor about her. Perhaps send her to Italy. With whom? With her mother? He would never permit that. The child is his. He will go himself with Cara. But in that case what will become of his enterprise?

In the interior of the mansion were heard deep, metallic sounds.
The clock struck five.

In that same mansion, at the distant end of it, in a chamber lighted by a blue night-lamp, was heard a low, dry cough, and a frail, tall maiden, in night-clothing covered with lace, sat up in a blue and white bed.

"Miss Mary! Miss Mary!" cried she, with fear in her voice.

From the adjoining chamber came a voice of agreeable tone and somewhat drowsy:

"You are not asleep, Cara?"

"I have slept. The cough woke me, but that is well, for I had a dreadful dream. I dreamed that papa and mamma—"

She stopped suddenly, and, though no one was looking at her, she hid her delicate face in the blue coverlet. So only in a whisper did she tell the end of her dream:

"They were angry at each other—so awfully angry—Ira put her arms around mamma—Maryan went away hissing. I hung to papa, and cried so, and cried."

In fact her eyes were then filled with tears from the dream. But she stretched in the bed, and, with her head on the pillows, thought, till she called again:

"Miss Mary! Are you sleeping?"

"No, dear; do you wish anything?"

Cara began in a loud voice:

"I wish immensely, immensely, Miss Mary, to go with you to England, to your father and mother. Oh, how I should like to be in that parsonage a while, where your sisters teach poor children and nurse the sick, and your mother makes tea at the grate for your father when he comes home after services. Oh, Mary, if you and I could go to that place! It is so pleasant there." In the blue light and in the silence her thin voice recalled the twittering of a lark.

"We will go there sometime, dear. Your parents will permit, and we will go. But sleep now."

"Very well, I will sleep. Good-night, Miss Mary—my dear, good
Miss Mary."

She lay some minutes quietly thinking, till she sat up again in bed coughing. When the cough had passed, she called in a low voice:

"Miss Mary! Miss Mary!"

There was no answer.

"She is sleeping," whispered Cara, and after a while she looked around, and, in a lower voice, called:

"Puffie! Puffie!"

At this call the little dog sprang from a neighboring chair, and in the twinkle of an eye was on the bed.

Cara stroked the silken coat of the dog, and bending toward him whispered:

"Puffie! Puffie! dear, little dog! lie here, sleep for thyself!"

She put him on her breast almost at her chin; with her hand on his coat, and with the whisper: "Puffie! good Puffie!" she fell asleep.

Then was heard the sound of a drozhky, coming quickly, with uproar in front of the house, and again there was an end to voices and movement. Two men ascended the stairway, one much older than the other, with a carefully brushed, but somewhat worn hat, in a fashionable but somewhat worn fur. He spoke in a low voice:

"Yes, yes! c'est quelque chose d'inoui! he commanded me to break off all relations with you, and to stop visiting his house."

"A thousand and one nights! Why is it? What is it for?" exclaimed the other.

Suddenly he stopped part way on the stairs, and asked with a half jeering, half pitying look at his companion:

"If he should find out?"

Kranitski turned his face away.

"My Maryan—with you—of that—"

"Painted pots!" laughed Maryan. "Do you take me for my great-grandfather? Well, has he found it out?"

With red spots on his cheeks and forehead Kranitski blinked affirmatively.

"Sapristi!" imprecated Maryan, and immediately he laughed again. "And why? for what reason? Did he also believe in painted pots? I thought him modern."

"Alas!" sighed Kranitski.

They advanced in silence, passed the first story of the house.
Maryan's bachelor chambers were on the second story.

"My dear old man, I am sorry for you, enormously sorry," began young Darvid again. "I have grown so accustomed to you. You will have to suffer, and poor mamma, too. Where did he get all this? A man of such sense! I thought that his head was better ventilated—"

He could not finish, for Kranitski threw himself on his neck at the very door of his apartments. He wept. Drying his eyes with his perfumed cambric handkerchief, he said:

"My Maryan, I shall not survive this blow! I love you all so much—you are—for me—as a younger brother—"

He tried to kiss him, but Maryan broke away from his embrace, and his tears, the moisture of which he felt on his face, with discomfort.

"But it is absurd!" exclaimed he. "Are we to break our relations because they displease someone? Are we slaves? Laugh at that, my dear. Come to me as before, but pass the night now with me, for it would be difficult for you to go home at this hour."

He touched the button of the electric bell, and when the door opened at once, he said to his companion on the threshold:

"Bianca sings that aria from the 'Cavalier' gloriously, does she not? La, la, la——"

He tried to give the music, but his voice failed. So he disappeared behind the closing door, humming the aria of the splendid singer which he had just heard at supper.

Below, two clocks, one after the other, sounded out six. Through the great windows light began to enter from the snow-covered streets. That seemed the gradual and slow drawing aside of a dark curtain, from behind which came out with increasing distinctness, furniture, pictures, mirrors, candlesticks, vases, rugs, plushes, velvets, polish, gilt, mosaics, ivory, porcelain. Until all standing forth in the full light of that winter morning began like a pearl shell to interchange various colors and lustres, and to drop from the walls and ceilings reflections of gold on the shining floor.

CHAPTER III

Kranitski ascended a carpeted stairway, which was adorned with lamps and statues. His fur coat with a costly collar was over worn somewhat; his hat was shining; his step free, and there was a cheerful smile under his mustaches, which were turned up at the ends carefully. The stairway was almost a street. People were passing up and down on it, and whenever you met them and caught their eyes you noted freedom, self-confidence, elegance; you saw the eleventh commandment of God, which Moses, only through some inconceivable forgetfulness, neglected to add to the Decalogue.

Entering the antechamber he threw the servant his fur, from which issued the odor of excellent perfumes. From the pocket of his coat peeped the edge of a handkerchief. He arranged before a mirror his hair, thick yet above his forehead, but showing from behind a small, circular, bald spot. Hat in hand, and with a springy, self-confident tread, he entered the drawing-room. Only two red spots above his brow interrupted the whiteness of his forehead, which was slightly wrinkled; his eyes, usually gleaming or affable, were mist-covered.

In a door, opposite that by which Kranitski entered, stood Irene, under a crimson drapery of curtains, with an open book in her hand. Kranitski, with that light-swaying of the body, with which elegants are accustomed to approach ladies, approached Irene and, bending easily before her, kissed her hand.

"May one enter?" inquired he, indicating with his eyes the door of an adjoining; chamber.

"I beg you to enter, mamma is in her study."

The inclination of head, and sound of Irene's voice, contained only that measure of cordiality which was absolutely demanded by politeness, but that was her way always and with every one. Cold radiated from her, and such indifference that it was sometimes a contemptuous disregard for people and things. But when Kranitski, hat in hand, passed two drawing-rooms she followed him with her glance, in which, besides disquiet, there was a kindly feeling, and more, perhaps, a feeling of pity. She was accustomed from childhood to see him; he was gentle, as ready as a slave to render service, as ready as a friend to oblige; he noted the wants not only of the lady of the house, but of each of her children. He had the subdued manner and pliancy of people who do not feel that they merit what they have, and are ever trembling lest they lose it. He had, besides, the gift of reading beautifully in various languages. For a number of years Irene could not remember pleasanter evenings than those which, free from society demands, she had passed in her mother's study when Kranitski was present. Sometimes Cara and her governess took part in these domestic gatherings; sometimes, also, though more and more rarely, they were enlivened by the presence of Maryan, who, in the intervals of reading, chaffed with his sister and mother, and argued with Kranitski about various tendencies in taste and literature. Most frequently, however, Cara was occupied with lessons, and Maryan by society, and only she and Malvina, with artistic work in hand, listened in silence and thoughtfully to that resonant, manly voice, which rendered masterpieces of thought and poetry with perfect appreciation and feeling. During such evenings Irene was seized at moments by a dream of certain grand solitudes, pure, surrounded by cordial warmth, remote from the uproar of streets, the rustle of silks, the noise of vain words, whose emptiness and falsehood she had measured; but straightway she said to herself: "Painted pots, ideals! these have no existence!" and she made a gesture, as if driving from above her head a beautiful butterfly, feeling convinced that that butterfly was merely a phantom. To-day, from minute observation, the conjecture rose in her that something uncommon had happened, and that something more must happen, also; she was colder and more formal than ever, with a burning spark of fear in the depth of her blue, clear eyes. Her dress was of cloth, closely fitting, somewhat masculine in the cut of the waist, and on the top of her head was a Japanese knot of fiery hair, pierced by a pin with steel lustres. In her hand was an open book, and she walked along slowly through the two spacious drawing-rooms. She did not raise her eyes from the book, though she did not turn a page in it. At one door she turned immediately, at the other, which was closed, she stopped for a few seconds when she caught the sound of conversation, carried on beyond the door, in low voices, by two people. She did not wish to hear that conversation. Oh, she did not! How long ago was it since she had striven to be deaf as well as blind, and frequently so deal that no glance of the eye, no movement of the face might betray that she had sight or hearing. But now, as often as a louder sound struck her ears from beyond the closed door she stood immovable, and her eyelids quivered like leaves stirred by wind. For a long time it had seemed to her that something terrible might happen in that house some day, something to which she would not be able to remain deaf and blind. Might it not happen just that day? With slow, even step along the gleaming floor, between purple, azure, and various shades of white, which filled the drawing-rooms, she walked, in her closely-fitting dress, from one door to the other, her eyes fixed on the book, her manner colder, more formal than ever, her delicate motionless face, above which the long pin threw out metallic gleams. Suddenly an outburst of silver laughter was heard at another door. Till that moment two female voices had been heard, speaking English, beyond this door, now thrown open with a rattle. Golden strips of light, cast in by the winter sun, were lying on the purple and white of the drawing-room. Into this drawing-room rushed a strange pair; a maiden of fifteen, in a bright dress, golden-haired, rosy, and tall, bent low; she held by the forepaws a little ash-colored dog, and with him went waltzing around the furniture of the room, humming as she moved the fashionable: La, la, la! La, la, la! A pair of small feet, in elegant slippers, and a pair of shaggy, beast paws, whirled over the gleaming inlaid floor, around long chairs, tables, columns holding vases; swiftly, swiftly did she go till she met Irene at the door of the next drawing room. Cara raised the little dog from the floor, straightened herself, her eyes met the strange glance of her sister. Irene blinked repeatedly, as if some disagreeable light had struck her eyes.

"Always so gladsome, Cara!"

"I?" cried the girl. "Oh, so! Puffie made me laugh—and—the sun shines so nicely. The day is beautiful, isn't it, Ira? Have you noticed how diamond sparks glitter on the snow? The trees are all covered with frost. Let us go with Miss Mary for a walk. I will take Puffie, but I will cover him with that blanket which I finished embroidering yesterday. Is mamma well?"

"Why do you ask about mamma?"

"Because, when I gave her 'good-morning,' I thought that she was ill, she was so pale—pale. I asked her, but she said: 'Oh, it is nothing, I am well.' Still it seems to me—"

"Let nothing seem to you!" Irene interrupted her almost angrily. "The surmises of children like you have no sense in them most of the time. Where are you going?"

"To father."

She pointed with her eyes to her mother's rooms.

"Is that—that man there?"

It was not to be discovered why she spoke in lowered tones, but
Irene's voice sounded almost harsh when she inquired:

"What man?"

"Pan Kranitski."

Now Cara's red, small lips, in the twinkle of an eye, formed a crooked line in spite of her; then, bending toward her sister, she said, almost in a whisper:

"Tell me, Ira, but tell the truth. Do you like that man—Kranitski?" Irene laughed aloud, freely, almost as she had never laughed.

"Ridiculous! Ah, what an amusing baby you are! Why should I not like him? He is our old and good acquaintance." And returning to her usual formality, she added: "Besides, you know that I do not like anyone very much."

"Not me?" asked Cara, fondly touching with her red lips the pale cheeks of her sister.

"You? A little! But go away. You hinder my reading."

"I will go. Come Puffie—come!" And with the dog on her arm she went off, but she stopped at the door, and turning to Irene, she bent forward a little, and said, in a low voice: "But I do not like him—I do not know why this is. First I liked him, but for some time I cannot endure him—I do not know myself why."

At the last words she turned away, capriciously, and went on.

"She does not know! does not know!" whispered Irene over her book. "That is why she dances with the dog. What happiness in Arcadian life!"

The little one, going on, began to hum again, but near the door of her father's study she grew silent and stopped. The sound of a number of men's voices in conversation reached her. She dropped her hand, and whispered:

"Father has visitors! What shall we do now, Puffie? How shall we go in there?"

After a moment's thought and hesitation she stepped in very quietly under the drapery of the portiere, and in the twinkle of an eye was sitting on a small, low stool which stood behind a tall case of shelves filled with books, which, placed near the door, formed with two walls a narrow, triangular space. That was an excellent corner, a real asylum which she could reach unobserved, and which she had selected for herself earlier. The books on the shelves hid her perfectly, but left small cracks through which she could see everyone. Whenever there were guests with her father she entered directly from the door, with one silent little step she pushed in, waited longer than the guests, and when they were gone she could talk with her father.

At the round table, which was covered with books, maps, and pamphlets, in broad armchairs were sitting, hat in hand, men of various statures and ages. They had not come on business, but to make calls of longer or shorter duration. Some were giving place to others, who came unceasingly, or rather flowed in as wave follows wave. Some went, others came. The pressing of hands, bows more or less profound, polite and choice phrases, conversation, interrupted and begun again, conversation touching important and serious questions of European politics, local questions of the higher order, and problems of society, especially financial and economic.

Darvid's voice, low but metallic, filled the study, it was heard by all with an attention almost religious; in general, Darvid seemed to ride over that ever-changing throng of men, by his word, by his gestures, by his eyes, with their cold and penetrating gleam, from behind the glasses of his binocle. He was radiant with a certain kind of power, which made him what he was, and the world yielded to the charm of this power, for it created wealth, that object of most universal and passionate desire. He himself felt all its might at that moment. When at the door of the study were heard, announced by the servant, names famous because they were ancient, others known for high office, or for the reputation which science and mental gifts confer, he experienced a feeling like that which a cat must feel when stroked along the back. He felt the hand of fate stroking him, and the delight caused by this became very pleasing. He was eloquent, he was gleaming with self-confidence, judgment, and ease of utterance. Not the least pride was to be observed in him, only the gleam of glory issuing from his smooth forehead, and the mysterious sensation of apotheosis, which pushed an invisible pedestal under the man, and made him seem loftier than he was in reality.

At a certain moment a number of men entered, they seemed almost sunk in humility, and at the same time filled with solemnity. That was a delegation from a well-known philanthropic society in the city; they had come to Darvid with a request to take part in their work by a money contribution and by personal assistance. He began by the gift of a considerable sum, but refused personal assistance. He had not the time, he said, but even had he time, he was opposed in principle to all philanthropic activity. "Philanthropy gives a beautiful witness touching those who engage in it, but it cannot prevent the misfortunes which torture the race; nay, it strengthens them needlessly, and offers premiums to sloth and incompetence. Only exertion of all forces in untiring and iron labor can save mankind from the cancer of poverty which tortures it. Were there no help behind any man's shoulders, no hands would drop down unoccupied; each man would exercise his own strength, and misery would vanish from this earth of ours."

Among those present, a guarded and immensely polite opposition rose, however.

"The weak, the cripples, lonely old men and children?"

"Philanthropy," answered Darvid, "cannot stop the existence of these social castaways, it merely continues and establishes them."

"But they have hungry stomachs, sad souls and hearts—like our own."

"What is to be done," inquired Darvid, with outspread palms which indicated regret. "There must be victors and vanquished in the world, and the sooner the latter are swept from existence the better for them and for mankind."

A look of displeasure was evident on the faces of some, but they were silent, the oldest man rose, and smiling most agreeably, ended the argument:

"But if philanthropy had many patrons like you its activity would correct the injustice of fate very frequently."

"Let us not call fate unjust," retorted Darvid with a smile, "because it favors strength and crushes incompetence. On the contrary its action is beneficent, for it strengthens all that is worthy of life, and destroys that which is useless."

"It has been just to you, and in this case we all owe it gratitude," concluded the oldest man in the delegation, ending the dispute hurriedly. Holding, meanwhile, Darvid's hand in his two palms he shook it with a cordial pressure, and his gray head, and face, furrowed with wrinkles, were bent in a profound obeisance. For those whom his honest heart pitied he carried a gift so considerable that, in spite of words which were not to his mind, the homage and gratitude which he gave came from perfect sincerity.

At last Darvid's study was deserted, and on his lips was fixed a smile which resembled a pricking pin. Why had he poured out such a great handful of money for an object which to him was indifferent, the need of which he did not recognize? Why? Habit, relations, public opinion, expressed orally, and by the printed word. A comedy! Misery! He frowned, the wrinkles between his brows were growing, when he heard a slight rustle behind. He looked around, and exclaimed:

"Cara! How did you come in? Ah! you were sitting in the corner behind the books! Only a reed such as you are could squeeze in through that cranny! What is your wish, my little daughter?"

He smiled at his daughter, though his glance turned to the clock standing in the corner of the room. But Cara, with seriousness on her rosy face, stretched out to him the little dog, which had just wakened and was still sleepy.

"First of all, I beg father to stroke Puffie—Puffie is pretty, and he is good, stroke him just once, father."

Darvid drew his palm a number of times, absent-mindedly, over the back of the dog.

"I have stroked him. But now if you have nothing else to say—"

"I have no time!" added she, finishing her father's sentence. She laughed, and dropping Puff on the armchair, she caught her father in both her arms:

"I will not let you go!" cried she; "father must give me a quarter of an hour, ten minutes, eight minutes, five minutes, I will speak quickly, quickly. 'If I have nothing more to say.' I have piles of things to say! I was sitting in the corner looking and listening, and I don't understand, father, why so many men come to you. When one looks at it all from a corner, it is so funny! They come in and bow—"

Here she ran to the door and began with motions and gestures to enact that of which she was talking. Puff sprang after his mistress, and, stopping in the middle of the room, did not take his eyes from her.

"They come in, they bow, they press your hand, father, they sit down, they listen."

She sat on the chair in the posture of a man, and gave her delicate features an expression of profound attention. Puff fixed his eyes on her and began to bark.

"Or in this way." She changed her expression from attention to gaping. Next she sprang up from the chair. Puff sprang up, too, and caught the end of her skirt in his little teeth. "They rise, they bow again, they all say the same things: I have the honor! I shall have the honor! I wish to have the honor!"

She bowed man-fashion, knocking her heels together, and then pushing apart her little, slippered feet, and Puff tugged at the edge of her dress, sprang away, barked repeatedly, and seized her dress in his teeth again.

"Puffie, don't hinder me! Puffie, go away! Some go out, others come. Again: 'I have the honor! I wish to have the honor!' Puffie, go away! They press your hand, father. Oh, I have tired myself!"

Her breath had become hurried from quick motions and rapid speaking, a bright flush covered her face, she coughed and coughed again, she seized her father's arms.

"Do not run away, father! I have much to tell you. I will talk quickly."

Darvid had been standing in the middle of the room, and following her quick movements with his eyes, at first with an indulgent, and then with a more gladsome smile. That child was beaming with exuberant life, with wit also, which had the power to penetrate things and people; a most delicate sensitiveness, which made her an instrument of many strings, and these never ceased quivering. She reminded him marvellously of Malvina in her youth. When she began to cough he caught her, and said:

"Do not hurry so; do not speak so much; talk less; sit down here."

"I have no time, father, to talk slowly—I cannot sit down—for you will run away that moment. I must hold you and hurry. I want you to tell me why so many men come to you, and why you go to their houses. Do you love them? Do they love you? Is it agreeable and pleasant for you in their company? What do they want? What comes of these visits, pleasantness or profit? And whose profit, theirs or yours? or the profit of someone else, perhaps? What is all this for? Do not these visits remind you of the theatre? Though I have never been in the theatre. Here, as in the theatre, every man plays some part, pretends, puts on a face, does he not? Why does he do so? Do you like this, father? I beg you to tell, but only tell me everything, everything; for father, I want you to be my master, my light—you are so wise, so respected, so great!"

"Enthusiasm put sparks into her dark eyeballs which were turned up to her father's face. Darvid stroked her pale, golden hair.

"My dear child," said he, "my little one!" After a while he added: "Are you a wild girl from Australia or Africa to ask me such questions? You have seen visits from childhood. Have you not seen your mother receiving many visitors, also?"

"Yes, yes, father; but mamma amuses herself with them, and is taking Ira into society. But what are visits to you? Are you amusing yourself, also?"

"How amuse?" laughed Darvid, "they annoy me oftenest of all, though an odd time they give me pleasure."

"What pleasure?"

"You do not understand this yet. Relations, position in the world, significance."

"What do you want of significance, father; why do you wish for a high position in society? What profit does significance give? Does it give happiness? See, father, I know one little history—Miss Mary's father, an English clergyman, has a parish in a poor, far-away corner, where there are no people of significance, and no rich men, but there are many poor and ignorant people there; and he has significance only among those poor people—that is, he has no significance whatever, still he is so happy, and all those people are so happy. They love one another, and live together. It is so warm and bright in that pastor's house, there, among the old trees. Miss Mary came away from there to get a little money for her youngest sister, whom she loves dearly. She lives pleasantly here, but she yearns for her family, and has told me so much of them; and some time, father, I will beg you to let me go with Miss Mary to England, to that poor country parish, and see that great, warm, bright happiness which exists in it."

Tears glittered like diamonds in her gleaming eyes, and Darvid, with his arm around her slender waist, stood silent, in deep meditation. That child, by her questions, had let his thoughts down, as if by a string, to the bottom of things, at which he had never looked before—he had had no time. He might tell her that high significance in the world tickles vanity, flatters pride, helps, frequently, to carry business to a profitable conclusion—that is to pecuniary profit. He might confess to himself, also, that that English clergyman, in his quiet parsonage, under his ancient trees, seemed to him a very happy man all at once in that moment. After a while, he said:

"It must be so. Happiness and unhappiness are one thing for poor people, and another for the rich."

He looked at the clock.

"But now—"

"Now, I have no time!" laughed Cara. "No, no, father, two minutes more, a minute more—I will ask about something else."

"You will ask more!" exclaimed he, with such a laugh as he had hardly ever given.

"Yes, yes—something even more important than the last. I am troubled about it—it pains me so—"

She changed from foot to foot, and embraced her father with all her strength, as if fearing that he might run away.

"Did father mean really to say that one should not uphold the poor, the hungry, the sorrowful, the sad, nor comfort them; that it is only necessary to leave them so that they may die as soon as possible? When father said that I felt sick in some way. Mamma and Ira this long time support two old men, so gray and nice, whom Miss Mary and I visit often. Do mamma and Ira do badly? Should we let them die as soon as possible from hunger? Brrr! it is terrible! Does father think so really, or did he only say what he did to get rid of those gentlemen the more quickly? Father you are good, the best, a dear, golden father. Do you really believe what you said, or was it to get rid of those men? I beg you to answer me, I beg you!"

This time her eyes were fixed on his face, with a gleam which was almost feverish, and again he stood in silence, filled with astonishment. Why could his mouth not open to tell that girl his profoundest conviction?

With all the wrinkles between his brows, he said, without a smile:

"I said that to get rid of them; I wished to be rid of those gentlemen as quickly as possible." The soles of Cara's feet struck the floor time after time with delight.

"Yes, yes! I was sure of that! My best, dearest father—"

Stroking her hair, he added:

"We must be kind. Be kind always. Keep the life in gray-haired, nice old men. You will never lack money for that."

She kissed his hands; suddenly her glance fell on her father's desk, and she cried:

"Puffie! Puffie! where have you climbed to? There you are, you have crawled on to the desk and done so much mischief!" The ash-colored little dog was on the great desk of the celebrated financier, on the top of a huge pile of papers; he was sitting with his nose against a window pane, growling at crows that were flying past and cawing. In that study, which was so dignified as to be almost solemn, Cara's laughter was heard in silver tones:

"Look, father, how angry he is! He is angry at the crows! Oh, how he sticks his little nose up when one of them flies past. Do you see, father?"

"I see, I see! Never has such a dignified assistant been in charge of my desk. Oh, you little one!"

He put his arm around her and pressed her to his bosom, briefly, but heartily. Through his head passed at that moment the recollection of something unimportant which he had seen on a time: a golden sun-ray, which, flashing from behind clouds, had torn them apart, and disclosed a strip of clear azure beyond. He saw this through a window of a railroad car, mechanically, as we see things to which we are indifferent. Now he remembered it.

"The carriage is ready!" called the servant from the anteroom.

"You are a little giddy-head," said Darvid, looking at the clock.
"I should have left the house a quarter of an hour ago."

She ran to bring his hat, and gave it with a low bow. Stooping quickly she raised a glove which he had dropped.

"Don't forget to leave Puffie here to keep my papers in order!"

With this jest on his lips he went to the antechamber, but, while putting on his fur and descending the stairway, he thought of the auction, where he was to buy a house sold for debt—an excellent investment.

"Is Pan Maryan at home?" asked Darvid of the Swiss at the street door.

The Swiss learned from servants that the young master was sleeping yet.

"What a miserable method of life! I must put a curb on this wild buck immediately. Well, lack of time, a chronic lack of time!"

"Quickly! as quickly as possible!" called he to the driver, while entering the carriage.

He had left the house too late, his daughter had broken in on him with her twittering and fondling—but she is a ray of sunlight!

Cara removed Puff from her father's papers, and, putting him on her breast, almost under her chin, as usual, passed through the drawing-rooms hurriedly. She was late for her lessons with Miss Mary. In one of the drawing-rooms she passed Irene. The slow promenade of the tall and formal young lady, with an open book in her hand, continued yet. Cara, while passing, and without stopping, said, with evident gladsomeness:

"But I talked long with father to-day, long."

"You have done that trick!" answered Irene, indifferently.

Cara stopped as if fixed to the floor. In the careless voice of her sister she heard irony; she seemed ready for conflict; her brows contracted suddenly; her eyes were full of sparks. But Irene, absorbed in reading, was already a good number of steps away. After a few seconds, Cara vanished behind the door of her own room and Miss Mary's.

Irene's features, rather meagre and elongated, continued motionless; her paleness increased their formality. But as time passed, weariness settled the more deeply on her drooping eyelids. Whenever she passed a window of the drawing-rooms, the pin in her hair east quick, sharp gleams in the sunlight.

At last the door of Malvina's room opened and out came Kranitski, quite different from what he had been at his arrival. His shoulders were bent; his head drooping; on his cheeks were red spots; his forehead was greatly wrinkled. He looked as though he had been weeping a moment before. Even his mustaches were hanging in woefulness over his carefully shaven chin. Irene stopped, and with the book in her two hands, which she had dropped, gazed at the man approaching her. He hastened his step, took her hand, and said in a low voice and hurriedly:

"I am the most wretched of beings! I was not worthy of such great happiness as—as—your mother's friendship, so I lose it. Je suis fini, completement et cruellement fini. I take farewell of you, Panna Irene—so many years! so many years! I loved you all so greatly, so heartily. Some people call me a romantic old dreamer. I am. I suffer. Je souffre horriblement. I wish you every happiness. Perhaps, we may never meet again. Perhaps, I shall go to the country. I take farewell of you. So many, so many years! O Dieu!" His eyelids were red; he was bent more than ever as he passed out. On Irene's face great alarm appeared.

"It is true, then. It is true!" whispered she. Springing forward like a bird she passed through the drawing-room, quickly and silently. Invisible wings bore her toward the closed door of her mother's room; when entering, her manner was calm and distinguished, as usual, but her eyes, in which there was anxious concern, beheld the form of a woman lying in a deep armchair, her face covered with her hands. Malvina was weeping in silence; her sobs gave out no sound, they merely shook her shoulders at regular intervals. These shoulders were drooping forward, and it seemed as though an unseen weight were crushing them to the earth and would crush them down through it.

Irene hurried, silently; brought a vial from the adjoining bedchamber, poured some liquid on her palm, and touched her mother's forehead and temples with it, delicately. Malvina raised her face, which was deeply agitated by an expression of dread. At that instant one might have thought the woman feared her daughter. But Irene, in her usual calm voice, said:

"Insomnia always harms you, mamma. Again you have that horrible neuralgia!"

"Yes, I feel a little ill," answered Malvina in a weak voice.

She rose, and tried to smile at Irene, but her pale lips merely quivered, and her eyelids drooped; they were swollen from weeping. With a step which she strove to make firm and steady she went toward her bedroom.

Irene followed some steps behind.

"Mamma?"

"What, my child?"

Irene's lips opened and closed repeatedly; it seemed as though some cry would come from them, but she only said in low tones:

"A little wine or bouillon might be brought?"

Malvina shook her head, advanced some steps, looked around:

"Ira!"

The daughter stood before her mother, but now Malvina in her turn was speechless. She inclined her forehead, which covered slowly with a blush; at last she inquired in a low voice:

"Is your father at home?"

"I heard him drive away some moments ago."

"On his return, should he wish to see me, say that I am waiting for him."

"Very well, mamma."

In the door she turned again:

"Should someone else come—I cannot—"

Irene halted a number of steps from her mother in the formal posture of a society young lady, and said:

"Be at rest, mamma; I shall not go a step away, and I shall not let anyone interrupt you. Not even father if you wish—perhaps to-morrow would be better?"

"Oh, no, no!" cried Malvina, with sudden animation. "On the contrary, as soon as possible—beg your father to come, and let me know at the earliest."

"Very well, mamma."

Malvina closed the bedroom door, advanced a few steps, and fell on her knees at her richly covered bed. Amid furniture, finished in yellow damask, on a downy bed, covered with cambric and lace, she raised her clasped hands, and said, in whispers broken with sobs:

"O God! O God! O God!"

She was of those weak beings who to live need heartfelt love as much as air, and who are infected by this love without power of resisting it. To such a love had she yielded once in the chill and emptiness of rich drawing rooms. That was a happening of long ago; she was the weaker at that time because she was caught by a breeze from the spring of her life, passed in the company of that man who was casting himself at her feet then. In that moment of yielding a pebble had dropped on her, the weight of which increased with the course of years and the growth of her children. She had not thought for an instant that she was the heroine of a drama. On the contrary, she repeated, with a face always blushing from shame: "Weak! weak! weak!" and, from a time rather remote, it was joined with another word, "Guilty." She was weak, still to-day she had found strength at last to cut one of those knots in which her life had been involved so repulsively. Oh, that the other might be torn apart quickly; then she could go far from the world into lone obscurity, an abyss occupied only by her endless penitence. In her head a plan had matured. She wished to speak with Darvid as soon as possible, and she doubted not that in the near future he would agree with her. Her daughters? Well, was it not better that such a mother should leave them, vanish from their eyes?

Irene pushed to the window a small table, on which were painting materials; she took her place at the table, and with fixed attention in her eyes began to outline a cluster of beautiful flowers. They were chrysanthemums, and seemed to be opening their snowy and fiery petals to mystic kisses. Deep silence reigned in the mansion, and only after a certain time had passed did the sound of glasses and porcelain come from a remote apartment, and at the door of the study a servant appeared, announcing that lunch was served. Irene raised her head from her work:

"Tell Panna Caroline and Miss Mary that mamma and I will not come to the table."

She added a command to bring two cups of bouillon and some rusks. A while later she stood with a cup in her hand at her mother's door.

"May I come in?"

She held her ear to the door; there was no answer. Her lids blinked anxiously; she repeated the question, adding:

"Mamma, I beg—"

"Come in, Ira!"

Covered with silken materials Malvina was like a glittering wave on the bed. Irene entered with the bouillon and the rusks, then slipped through the room quietly and let down the shades. A mild half-gloom filled the chamber.

"This is better. Light when one has the headache is hurtful." She went to the bed. "You cannot sleep in these tight boots, try as you like, and without some hours of sleep the neuralgia will not leave you."

Before these words were finished, her slender hands had changed the tight boots for roomy and soft ones. She bent down, and with a touch of her fingers unfastened a number of hooks at her mother's breast.

"Now, it will be well!" Irene dropped her arms on her dress and smiled a little. Despite her fashionable robe and fantastic hairdressing there was in her at that moment something of the sister of charity, she seemed painstaking and cautious.

"And now, mamma, be a little glutton," added she with a smile; "you will drink the bouillon and eat the rusk; I will go to paint my chrysanthemums."

She was at the door when she heard the call:

"Ira!"

"What, mamma?"

Two arms stretched toward her, and surrounded her neck; and lips, so feverish that they burnt, covered her forehead and face with kisses. Irene in return pressed her lips to her mother's forehead and hand, but for a few seconds only, then she withdrew from the embrace with a gentle movement, moved away somewhat, and said:

"Be not excited, for that may increase the neuralgia."

At the door she turned again:

"Should anything be needed, just whisper; you know what delicate hearing I have; I shall hear. I shall be painting in your study. Those chrysanthemums are beautiful, and I have a new idea about them which interests me greatly."

In the tempered winter light from the window, in that study full of gilding, artistic trifles, syringas, and hyacinths, Irene sat at the table with painting utensils, sunk in thought and idle. From beneath her brows, which had each the outline of a delicate little flame, her fixed eyes turned toward the past. She had in mind a time when she was ten years old, and was fitting a new dress on her doll with immense interest. At first she did not turn attention to her parents' conversation in the next chamber, but afterward, when the dress was fitted to the doll as if melted around it, she raised her head, and through the open door began to look and listen. Her father, with a jesting smile, was sitting in an armchair; her mother, in a white gown, was standing before him, with such an expression in her eyes as if she were praying for salvation.

"Aloysius!" said she, "have we not enough? Is there nothing in the world except property and profits—this golden idol?"

"I beg you to consider that there is something else," interrupted he, with a slight hiss of irony; "this luxury which surrounds you and becomes you so well."

Then she seated herself opposite him, and, bending forward, spoke somewhat quickly, disconnectedly:

"Do we live with each other? We do not by any means. We only see each other. There is nothing in common between us. You are swallowed up by business, I by society. I have taken a fancy, it is true, for amusement, but in the depth of my heart I am often very gloomy. I feel lonely. My early life, as you know, was modest, poor, toilsome, and often it calls to me reproachfully. You do not know of this, for we have no time to exchange ideas. I am of those women who need to feel guardianship, to have near them an ear which might listen to their hearts, and a mind which would direct their conscience. I am weak. I am full of dread. I fear that in view of your frequent, almost continual absence, I shall not be able to rear the children properly. I only know how to love them, I would give my life for them, but I am weak. I beg you not to leave me and them so frequently; that is, almost continuously—rather let this luxury decrease—I shall be glad, even, for the decrease will bring us nearer together. I beg you!"

She seized his hands, and it seemed as though she kissed them; but it was certain that the pale, golden wave of her dishevelled hair fell on them. Irene, though she was only ten years old then, felt pity for her mother, and waited with intense curiosity for her father's answer.

"What do you wish in particular?" asked he. "I listen, I listen, still I do not know exactly what the question is. Is it this, that I should stop work, which I love and which succeeds with me? You must be in a waking dream. Those are ideas from another society, mere childish fancies."

Here Irene's thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Cara.

"Ira, is mamma sick, since she did not come to luncheon?"

"Mamma has neuralgia often; you know that well." Cara turned to the door of her mother's bedroom, but Irene stopped her.

"Do not go; she may be sleeping." The girl approached her sister:

"It seems to me—" she whispered and stopped.

"What seems to you a second time?"

"That there is something going on in this house—"

Irene frowned.

"What an imagination you have! You are ever imagining something uncommon. Now all these uncommon things are painted pots, or illusions. Life rolls on always in a common, prosaic movement. Stop making painted pots, and go out to walk with Puff and Miss Mary."

Cara listened attentively, but with an incredulous expression of eyes, which were fixed on her sister's face.

"Very well, I will go to walk, but what you have said is not true, Ira. It is not painted pots that mamma is suffering and sick, that father goes out to dine for a whole week, and does not come to her at all; even that—man, going out to-day, began to cry in the antechamber—I saw him by chance—he wanted to say something to me, but I ran away—"

Irene shrugged her shoulders.

"You will be a poetess, perhaps, you exaggerate everything so terribly. Mamma is not troubled, she only has neuralgia. Father does not dine with us because he has so many invitations, and Pan Kranitski struck his nose against something which you, in poetic imagination, took for crying. Men never cry, and sensible girls, instead of filling their heads with painted pots, go to walk while good weather lasts and the sun shines. The doctor tells you to walk every day, not in the evening, but about this hour."

"I am going, I am going! You drive me away!"

She went on a number of steps, and turned again toward her aster:

"Father is angry at Maryan—I see that very clearly. Everything in this house is, somehow, so strange."

She went out, but Irene clasped her hands, and for some seconds squeezed them with all her might, and thought:

"That child will soon look at life just as I have been looking at it for some time past. It is necessary to foresee, absolutely necessary!" She returned to her reminiscences. Her mother said to her father:

"Our fortune is now considerable."

"In that direction," answered her father, "it never can be too great, nor even sufficient."

Then, playing with her beautiful hair, he asked:

"But do you believe that I love you?"

After some hesitation she answered:

"No. I have lost that faith, I lost it some time ago."

Later there were many other words, some of which Irene remembered:

"The very best guardianship in this world," said her father, "is wealth. Whoso has that will never lack mind, even; since, in ease of need, he can buy mind from other men.

"In the training of our children you will expend all that is requisite. You will rear for me our daughters to be grand ladies; will you not? Educate them so that when mature they may feel as much at home in the highest social circles as in their own father's household. As to you, amuse yourself, make connections, dress, be brilliant. The more you elevate the name which you bear, by beauty, wit, knowledge of life, the more service will you render me in return for the services which I render you. Besides, if you have any difficulty with the house, with teachers, with social relations, you have that honest Kranitski, who will serve you with great good will. I am very much pleased with that acquaintance. Just such a man did I need. He has extensive and very good connections; he is perfectly well-bred, obliging, polite. Foreseeing that he might be very useful to us, I became familiar with him. It is true that he has borrowed money a number of times of me, but he has rendered a number of services. Pay in return for value, that is the best method."

He walked up and down through the room repeatedly; on his forehead, in his look, in his movements, he had an expression of perfect confidence in himself, his rights, and his reason. Suddenly, turning toward the door of remoter rooms, he cried with delight:

"Speak of the wolf, and he is before you! I greet you, dear sir."

With these words he extended his hand to the guest who was entering. This was Kranitski, at that time in his highest manly beauty; petted, and a favorite in the best social circles because of it, and for other reasons also.

He gave a hearty greeting of Darvid, who met him with delight, and then he stood before Malvina in such a posture, and with such an expression on his face, as if he desired only one thing on earth, to be able to drop on his knees before her.

That conversation and scene remained fixed in Irene's memory. She drew from it formerly, extensive conclusions, then she ceased altogether to recall it; now she thought again of it, forgetting her painted chrysanthemums, which, on the blue satin, seemed to gaze at her, having as subtle and enigmatical a look as she herself had.

A servant at the door announced: "Baron Emil Blauendorf!"

"Not at ho—" began she at once; but, halting, instructed the servant to ask him to wait. At her mother's desk she wrote on a narrow card of Bristol-board, in English:

"Mamma is ill with neuralgia; I am nursing her, and cannot see you to-day. I regret this, for the talk about dissonances began to be interesting. Bring me the continuation of it to-morrow!"

She gave this card, in an envelope addressed to the baron, to a servant, and sat down again to her chrysanthemums, this time with a smile both malicious and gladsome. With his appearance in that house, though unseen by her, Baron Emil had lent form in her head to a certain whimsical idea. She knew that it was whimsical, but just for that reason it pleased her, and must also please the baron. She began quickly, almost with enthusiasm, to paint dark outlines of imps among the flowers. She disposed them so that they seemed to separate the flowers and keep them apart from one another. Some imps were climbing up, others were slipping down; they peeped out from behind petals, climbed along stems, but all were malicious, distorted, capricious, and pushed the tops of the flowers apart in such fashion that they did not let the half-bending petals meet in kisses. Painting quickly, Irene laughed. She imagined Baron Emil saying at sight of this work: "C'est du nouveau! It is not a painted pot! it is an individual thought. There is a new quiver there. It bites."

The expressions "painted pots," "Arcadians," "it bites," "new quivers," "rheumatism of thought," and many more she had from him. And she was not the only one who borrowed. These expressions had spread in a rather largo circle of people who despised everything existing, and were seeking everything which was new and astonishing. Baron Emil was cultured, had read much. He read frequently Nietsche's "Zarathustra," and spoke of the coming "race," the super-humans. He spoke somewhat through his nose and through his teeth.

The superhuman is he who is able to will absolutely and unconditionally.

When Irene thought that perhaps she would soon become the baron's wife, and leave that house, her brows contracted and her jeering smile vanished. Oh, she would not let him escape her! She had an absolute condition to put before the baron; he would accept it most assuredly, through deference to the amount of her dower. Energy glittered in her blue eyes. She turned her face toward the door of her mother's room with so quick a movement that the metallic pin in her hair cast a gleam of sharp steel above her head.

"One must know how to will," whispered she.

CHAPTER IV

When Kranitski entered his own lodgings, after passing the night with Maryan, and after the long conversation with Malvina, old widow Clemens looked at him from behind her great spectacles, and dropped her hands:

"Are you sick, or what? Arabian adventure! Ah, what a look you have! What has happened? Maybe those pains have come; you have had them a number of times already. Why not take off your fur? Wait! I will help you this minute. Oh, you will be sick in addition to everything else."

She was a squatty woman, heavy, with a striped kerchief on her shoulders, and wearing a short skirt, from under which appeared flat feet in tattered overshoes. She was seventy years old, at least; her large, sallow face was much withered. Bordered by gray hair and a white cap that face was bright with the gleam of dark eyes, still fiery, and quickly glancing from under a wrinkled, high forehead. Her whole figure had in it something of the fields, something primitive, which seemed not to have the least relation to that little drawing-room and its owner. That room contained everything which is found usually in such apartments, therefore: a sofa, armchairs, a table, a mirror with a console, a low and broad ottoman with cushions in Oriental fashion, porcelain figures on the console, old-fashioned shelves with books in nice bindings, a few oil paintings, small but neat, on the walls, a number of photographs, tastefully grouped above the ottoman, a large album on the table before the sofa. But all this was a collection brought together at various seasons, and injured by time. The covering of the cushions had faded, the gilding on the mirror frame was worn here and there, the leather covering on the furniture was worn and showed through cracks the stuffing within, the album was torn, the porcelain base of the lamp was broken. At the first cast of the eye the little drawing-room seemed elegant, but after a while, through spots and rents mended carefully, want was observed creeping forth. This want was hidden chiefly by perfect and minute cleanliness, in which one could recognize active, careful hands, industrious, untiring sweeping out, rubbing out, sewing, mending—those were the lean, aged hands, with broad palms and short fingers, which were now helping Kranitski to remove his fur coat. Meanwhile, a scolding, harsh voice, with tenderness at the base of it, continued:

"Again a night passed away from home. Surely off there with cards, or with madams of some sort! Oi, an offense against God! And this time you come home sick. I see that you are sick, your whole face is covered with red spots, you are hardly able to stand on your feet. Arabian adventure!"

"Give me rest!" answered Kranitski in a complaining voice. "I am sick, the most wretched of men. Everything is past for me—I beg you to look to the door, so that no one may enter; I am suffering too much to let in impertinent people."

There were tears in his eyes, and his appearance was wretched. No one was looking at him then, except his old servant, who was as faithful as a dog, so he let the fetters of artificial youth and elegance drop from him. His shoulders were bent, his cheeks pendant, above his brows were red spots and thick wrinkles. He vanished then beyond the half-closed door of his bedroom, and widow Clemens went back to the work interrupted by his coming. In the middle of the drawing-room, on an open card-table, lay, spread out, a dressing gown of Turkish stuff. That gown, beautiful on a time, was then faded; moreover, its lining was torn. Widow Clemens while repairing that lining and patching it had been interrupted by Kranitski's return; and now, wearing great steel-rimmed glasses, and with a brass thimble on her middle finger, she sat down again. She examined a rent through which wadding peeped out on the world, cautiously. But in spite of her attention fixed on the work she whispered, or rather talked on in a low and monotonous mutter:

"'Look to the door, let no one in!' As if anyone ever comes here. Long ago, comrades and various protectors used to come; they came often at first, afterward very seldom; but now it is perhaps two years since even a dog has looked in here. He could not bear impertinent people. Oh, yes! they come here, many of them, princes, counts, various rich persons. Oh, yes! while he was a novelty and brilliant they amused themselves with him as they would with a shining button, but when the button was rubbed and dull they threw it into a corner. The relations, the friends, the companions! Arabian adventure! Oh, this society!"

She was silent a while, put a piece of carefully fitted material on the rent, raised her hand a number of times with the long thread, and again muttered:

"But is that society? It is sin, not society! Roll in sin, like the devil in pitch, and then scream that it burns! Oi, Oi!"

Silence reigned in the room; only the clock, that unavoidable dweller in all houses, that comrade of all people, ticked monotonously on the shelf, beneath the mirror, among the porcelain figures. Widow Clemens, while sewing, industriously, muttered on. Her unbroken loneliness, the store of thoughts put away in her old head, and the care in her heart had given her the habit of soliloquy.

"And it will be worse yet. He has debts beyond calculation. He will die on a litter of straw, or in a hospital. Oh, if his dead mother could see this! Arabian adventure! Unless Stefanek and I drag him out of this pit!"

She stopped sewing and raised her spectacles to her forehead, their glass eyes gleamed above her gray brows, and she fell into deep thought. She moved her lips from time to time, but did not mutter. By this movement of the lips, and by her wrinkles, it could be seen that she was forming some plan, that she was imagining. Just then Kranitski's voice was heard from the bedroom.

She sprang up with the liveliness of twenty years, and, with a loud clattering of old overshoes, ran to the door.

"Give me the dressing-gown, mother; I am not well; I will not go anywhere to-day."

"Here is the dressing-gown; but if the lining is torn?"

"Torn or not, give it here, and my slippers, too; for I am not well."

"Here they are! Not well? I have said not well! O beloved God, what will come of this?"

But, while helping him to put on the dressing-gown, she inquired, with incredulity:

"Is it true, or a joke, that you will not leave the house to-day?"

"A joke!" answered he in bitterness. "If you knew what a joke this is! I will not leave the house to-day, or to-morrow, or perhaps ever. I will lie here and grieve till I grieve to death. Oh, that it might be very soon!"

"Arabian adventure! Never has it been like this! It is easy to see that the pitch has burnt!" whispered widow Clemens to herself. But aloud she said:

"Before you grieve to death we must get you some dinner. I will run to the town for meat. I will lock the door outside, so that impertinent counts, and various barons should not burst in," added she, ironically.

Kranitski, left alone, locked up in his lodgings, robed in his dressing-gown, once costly, now faded, its sleeves tattered at the wrists, lay on the long-chair in front of his collection of pipes, arranged on the wall cunningly. In the society in which he moved collecting was universal. They collected pictures, miniatures, engravings, autographs, porcelain, old books, old spoons, old stuffs. Kranitski collected pipes. Some he had bought, but the greater number, by far, he had received on anniversaries of his name's-day, in proof of friendly recollection, and as keepsakes after a journey. During years many were collected, about a hundred; among them some were valuable, some poor but original, some even ridiculous, some immense in size, some small, some bright colored, some almost black; they were arranged on shelves at the wall with taste, and effectively.

Besides these pipes there were in the bed-room other objects of value: a writing-desk of peculiar wood, a porcelain frame, with Cupids at the top, surrounding an oval mirror, at which were bottles, vials, toilet boxes, and a rather long cigarette-case of pure gold, which Kranitski kept with him at all times, and which, as he lay now in the long-chair, he turned in his fingers, mechanically. This cigarette-case was a precious memento. He had received it soon after his arrival in the city, twenty and some years before, from Countess Eugenia, his mother's aunt. Prom their first meeting the countess was simply wild about him. Society even insisted, notwithstanding her more than ripe years, that she was madly in love with that uncommonly beautiful and blooming young man, who had been reared by his mother with immense care, and trained to appear successfully in that society to which she had been born. Kranitski's mother, through various causes, had become the victim of a mesalliance; she grieved out, and wept away secretly; her life, in a village corner, after marrying a noble who was perfectly honorable, but neither a man of the world, nor the owner of much property. She desired for her only son a better fate than she herself had had, and prepared him for it long beforehand. He spoke French with a Parisian accent, and English quite well; he was versed in the literatures of Western Europe; he was a famous dancer; he was obliging; he had an inborn instinct of kindness toward people; he was popular, sought after, petted; when the money with which his mother furnished him proved insufficient he obtained a small office, through the influence of wealthy relatives, which, besides increasing his revenue, gave him a certain independent aspect. He passed whole days in great and wealthy houses, where he read books, aloud, to old princesses and countesses, and for young princesses and countesses; he held skeins of silk on his opened hands. He carried out commissions and various small affairs; at balls he led dances; he amused himself; fell in love, was loved in return; he passed evenings and nights in clubs, and in private rooms at restaurants, at theatres, and behind the scenes in theatres, where he paid homage to famous actresses of various degrees and qualities. Those were times truly joyous and golden. At that period he was served not by widow Clemens, but by a man; he dined—if not with friends or relatives—at the best restaurants. At that time, too, he did something magnanimous, which brought reward in the form of great mental profit: He passed a whole year in Italy with Count Alfred, his relative, who was suffering from consumption; Kranitski nursed, amused, and comforted his cousin with patience, attachment, and tenderness which were perfectly sincere, and which came from a heart inclined to warm, almost submissive feelings. In return that year gave him skill in the use of Italian, and a wide acquaintance with the achievements and the schools of art, of which he was an enthusiastic worshipper. Soon after he went with Prince Zeno to Paris, learned France and its capital well, and on his return remained for some time as a reader with the prince, whose eyes were affected. His power of beautiful reading in many languages brought him a wide reputation; he was distinguished in drawing-rooms by the ease of his speech and manners; to some he became a valued assistant in entertaining guests, and a pleasant companion in hours of loneliness; to others he was a master in the domain of amusements, and elegance in the arts of politeness and pleasure. At this period also he made the acquaintance of Darvid, and met his wife, whom he had known from childhood, and who had been his earliest ideal of womanhood. Thenceforth, his relations with other houses were relaxed considerably, for he gave himself to the Darvid house soul and body. Though Malvina's children had many tutors, he taught one of her daughters Italian, and the other English; he did this with devotion, with delight; and, therefore, that house became, as it were, his own, and was ever open to him. Moreover, during the last ten years great changes had happened in that society of which he was the adopted child, and so long the favorite.

Countess Eugenia had given her daughter in marriage to a French count, and resided in Paris; Count Alfred was dead; dead, also, was that dear, kindly Baroness Blauendorf from whom he had received as a gift that mirror with porcelain frame and Cupids. Others, too, were dead, or were living elsewhere. Only Prince Zeno remained, but he had cooled toward his former reader, notably because of the princess, who could not forgive Kranitski; since, as was too well known by all, he was occupied with the wife of that millionaire—the eternally absent.

There were still many acquaintances, and more recent relations, but these had neither the charm nor the certainty of those which time had in various ways broken, brought to an end, or relaxed.

His mother, the foundress of his destiny, had ceased to live some time before that.

"Pauvre maman! pauvre maman!"

How tenderly and unboundedly he had loved her. How long he had hesitated and fought with himself before he left at her persuasion, the house in which she had given birth to him. He regretted immensely the village, the freedom, and that bright-haired maiden in the neighborhood. But the wide world and the great city took on, in his mother's narrative, the outlines of paradise, and his worthy relatives, the forms of demi-gods.

When at last, after long hesitation and struggles, he resolved to go away, how many were the kisses and embraces of his mother! how many were her maxims and advices; how many her predictions of happiness. He began to look at his own form in the mirrors, and to feel in his own person the movement of desires, hopes, ambitions. Once he caught himself bowing and making gestures, almost involuntarily, before the mirrors. He laughed aloud, his mother laughed also, for she had caught him in the act red-handed.

"Pauvre maman! pauvre, chere maman!"

And on the background of that domestic gladness, of those wonderful hopes, only one person by her conduct had raised a cloud on that heaven, beaming serenely. That was widow Clemens, an old servant of the house, and once his nurse, not young even at that time, and a childless widow.

She was morose, grumbling, peevish, but for a long time she said nothing; she did not hinder the thin, gray-haired mother, nor the youth, beautiful as a dream, from rejoicing and imagining; till at last she spoke when alone with the petted stripling. It was the end of an autumn day, twilight had begun to come down on the yard in Lipovka, and the linden grove, in a black line, cut through the evening ruddiness glowing in the western heavens. Widow Clemens, with her eyes fixed on the grove and the red of evening, said:

"Oi! Tulek, Tulek! how will this be? You will go away; you will take up and go away; but the sun will rise and set; the grove will rustle; the wheat will ripen; and the snow will fall when you are gone."

He sat on the bench of the piazza, and said nothing. But in the distant fields, in the growing darkness, a shepherd's whistle gave out clear tones, simple, monotonous, they flew along the field like the weeping of space.

"Why go; do you know why—God alone knows. What are you throwing away? The beauties of God. What will you bring back? Perhaps the mud people cast at you."

A cow bellowed in the stable; a belated working-woman muttered a song somewhere behind in the garden. The evening red was quenched; and above the roof the crescent of the moon came out, thin and like silver.

Widow Clemens whispered:

"Ill-fated! ill-fated boy!"

He was immensely far from considering himself ill fated, but something in his heart felt pain at leaving that village where he was born, at leaving Malvina, and it seemed to him that he ought to stay.

But he went. The Argonaut, of twenty and some years of age, went out into the world, slender, adroit, with eyes dark and fiery as youth, with cheeks shapely and fresh as peaches, with a forehead as white and pure as the petal of a lily; he went for a wife with a fortune, for the pleasures of the world—for the golden fleece.

Now he wrapped himself closely in the skirt of his faded dressing-gown, and let his head droop so low that the bald spot seemed white on the top of it; his lower lip dropped; the red spots came out over his dark brows on his wrinkled forehead. In his hand he held the cigarette-case presented by Countess Eugenia, now living in Paris, and at times he turned it in his fingers, with an unconscious movement, and that glittering object cast on the tattered sleeve of his dressing-gown, on his suffering face, on his long, thin fingers, its bright, golden reflection.

Meanwhile widow Clemens had returned to the kitchen, and there, not without a loud clattering of overshoes, had begun to cook the dinner. But Kranitski neither heard nor saw anything. From time to time the head, with its great cap, looked in through the kitchen door, gazed on him unquietly and pushed back to look in again soon.

"Will you have dinner now?" inquired she at last. "It is ready."

In a low voice he asked for dinner, but he ate almost nothing; the woman had never yet seen him so broken, still she made no inquiry. When the moment came he would tell all himself. He was not of those who bear secrets to the grave with them. She waited on the man, gave him food, brought tea, cleared the table in silence. Once she fell into trouble: Passing hurriedly through the room she lost one of the overshoes which she had on her feet:

"Ah! may thou be!—they fall off every moment!" grumbled she, and for some minutes she struggled with that overshoe, which, dropping from her foot, slipped along the floor noisily. Kranitski raised his head:

"What is that?" inquired he.

She made no answer, but when she was near the kitchen door, he cried:

"What have you on your feet that clatter so? It is irritating!"

She stopped at the door:

"What have I on my feet? Well, your old overshoes! Am I to wear out shoes every day, and then buy new ones? 'Irritating!' Arabian adventure! God grant that you never have worse irritation than overshoes clattering on the floor!"

And she grumbled on in the kitchen while going with an empty glass to the samovar:

"You wouldn't have a pinch of tea in the house if I went around in new shoes all my time!"

Darkness came down. Kranitski smoked cigarettes one after another, and was so sunk in thought that he trembled throughout his body. When widow Clemens brought in a lamp, with a milk-colored globe, which filled the room with a white, mild light, Kranitski looked at the head of the old woman in the white lamp-light, and, for the first time in a number of hours, he spoke:

"Come, mother, come nearer!" said he.

When she came he seized her rude fist in both his hands and shook it vigorously.

"What could I do; what would happen to me now, if you were not with me? No living soul of my own here! Alone, alone, as in a desert."

The onrush of tenderness burst through all obstructions. Confidences flowed on. He had loved for the last time in life, le dernier amour, and all had ended. She had forbidden him to see her. That decision of hers had been ripening for a long time. Reproaches of conscience, shame, despair as to her children. One daughter knew everything; the other might know it any day. She had let out of her hands the rudder of those hearts and consciences, for when she was talking with them her own fault closed her lips, like a red-hot seal. She thought herself the most pitiful of creatures. She did not wish to make further use of her husband's wealth, or the position which it give her in society. She wished to go away, to settle down in some silent corner, vanish from the eyes of people.

Kranitski was so excited that he almost sobbed; here his speech was interrupted by a rough, sarcastic voice:

"It is well that she came to her senses at last—"

"What senses? What are you weaving, mother? You know nothing. Love is never an offense. Ils ont peche, mais le ceil est un don."

"You are mad, Tulek! Am I some madam that you must speak French to me?" Still he finished:

"Ils ont souffert, c'est le sceau du pardon. I will translate this for thee: They have sinned, but heaven is a gift——-They have suffered; suffering is the seal of pardon."

"Tulek, let heaven alone! To mix up such things with heaven—Arabian adventure!"

"Are you a priest, mother? I tell you of my own suffering and the suffering of that noble, sweet being—" In the antechamber, the door of which widow Clemens, in returning from the city, had not locked, was heard stamping, and the youthful voice of a man called:

"Is your master at home?"

"Arabian adventure!" muttered widow Clemens.

"Maryan!" exclaimed Kranitski with delight, and he answered aloud:

"I am at home, at home!"

"An event worthy of record in universal history," answered the voice of a man speaking somewhat through his nose and teeth.

"And the baron!" cried Kranitski; then he whispered:

"Close the drawing-room door, mother; I must freshen up a little," and from behind the closed door he spoke to those who were in the drawing-room:

"In a moment, my dears, in a moment I shall be at your service."

In the light of the lamp, placed by widow Clemens in the drawing-room, he appeared, indeed, after a few minutes, dressed, his hair arranged, perfumed, elegant with springy movements and an unconstrained smile on his lips. Only his lids were reddened, and on his forehead were many wrinkles which would not be smoothed away.

"A comedian! There is a comedian!" grumbled widow Clemens, returning to the kitchen, with a terrible clatter of overshoes.

The two young men pressed his hand in friendship. It was clear that they liked him.

"Why did you avoid us all day?" inquired Baron Emil. "We waited for you at Borel's—he gave us an excellent dinner. But maybe you are fasting?"

"Let him alone, he has his suffering," put in Maryan. "I am so sorry, mon bon vieux (my good old man), that I have persuaded the baron to join me in taking you out. I cannot, of course, leave you a victim to melancholy."

Kranitski was moved; gratitude and tenderness were gazing out of his eyes.

"Thanks, thanks! You touch me."

He pressed the hands of both in turn, holding Maryan's hand longer than the baron's, with the words:

"My dear-dear—dear."

The young man smiled.

"Do not grow so tender," said he, "for that injures the interior. You are, however, a son of that generation which possesses an antidote for melancholy."

"What is it?"

"Well, faith, hope, charity, with resignation and—other painted pots. We haven't them, so we go to Tron-tron's, where Lili Kerth sings. We are to give her a supper tonight at Borel's. Borel has promised me everything which the five parts of the world can give."

"As to the problematic nature of that Lili," remarked the baron, "there are moments in which she takes on the superhuman ideal."

"What an idea, dear baron!" burst out Kranitski. "Lili and superhumanity, the ideal! Why, she is a little beast that sings abject things marvellously."

"That is it, that is it!" said the baron, defending his position, "a little beast in the guise of an angel—the singing of chansonettes with such a devil in the body—and at the same time a complexion, a look, a smile, which scatters a kind of mystic, lily perfume. This is precisely that dissonance, that snap, that mystery with which she has conquered Europe. This rouses curiosity; it excites; it is opposed to rules, to harmony—do you understand?"

"Stop, Emil!" cried Maryan, laughing. "You are speaking to the guardian of tombs. He worships harmony yet."

Kranitski seemed humiliated somewhat. He passed his palm over his hair, and began timidly:

"But that is true, my dears; I see myself that I am becoming old-fashioned. Men of my time, and I, called a cat a cat, a rogue a rogue. If a Lili like yours put on the airs of an angel we said: 'Oh, she is a rogue!' And we knew what to think of the matter. But this confounding of profane with sacred, of the rudest carnalism with a mystic tendency—"

The baron and Maryan laughed.

"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?"

"But a moment ago you looked well!" blurted out Emil, and added: "Do not become wearisome, do not get sick. Sick people are fertilizers on the field of death—and sickness is annoying!"

"Splendidly said!" exclaimed Maryan.

"No, no," answered Kranitski, "this is not important, it is an old trouble of the liver. Returned only to-day—you must go without me."

He straightened himself, smiled, tried to move without constraint, but unconquerable suffering was evident on his features and in the expression of his eyes.

"May we send the doctor?" asked Maryan.

"No, no," protested Kranitski, and the baron took him by the arm and turned him toward the bedroom. Though Kranitski's shoulders were bent at that moment, his form was shapely and imposing; the baron, holding his arm, seemed small and frail; he made one think of a fly. In the bedroom he said, with a low voice:

"It is reported in the city that papa Darvid is opposed to my plans concerning Panna Irene. Do you know of this?"

For some months the baron had spoken frequently with Kranitski about his plans, taking counsel with him even at times, and begging for indications. Was he not the most intimate friend of that house, and surely an adviser of the family? Kranitski did not think, or even speak, of Baron Emil otherwise than:

"Ce brave garcon has the best heart in the world; he is very highly developed and intelligent; yes, very intelligent; and his mother, that dear, angelic baroness, was one of the most beautiful stars among those which have lighted my life."

So through the man's innate inclination to an optimistic view of mankind, and his grateful memory of "one of the most beautiful stars," he was always very friendly to the baron and favorable to his plan touching Irene; all the more since he noted in her an inclination toward the baron. So, usually, he gave the young man counsel and answers willingly and exhaustively. This time, however, an expression of constraint and of suffering fell on his face.

"I know not, dear baron; indeed, I can do nothing, for to tell—for I—" A number of drops of perspiration came out on his forehead, and he added, with difficulty:

"It seems that Panna Irene—"

"Panna Irene," interrupted the baron, without noticing Kranitski's emotion, "is a sonnet from Baudelaire's Les fleurs du mal (The flowers of evil). There is in her something undefined, something contradictory—"

Kranitski made a quick movement.

"My baron—"

"But do you not understand me, dear Pan Arthur? I have no intention of speaking ill of Panna Irene. In my mouth the epithets which I have used are the highest praise. Panna Irene is interesting precisely for this reason, that she is indefinite and complicated. She is a disenchanted woman. She possesses that universal irony which is the stamp of higher natures. Oh, Panna Irene is not a violet unless from the hot-house of Baudelaire! But, just for that reason she rouses curiosity, irritates, une desabusee—une vierge desabusee. Do you understand? There is in this the odor of mystery—a new quiver. But with natures of this sort nothing can ever be certain—"

"Hers is a noble nature!" cried Kranitski, with enthusiasm.

"You divide natures into noble and not noble," said the baron, with a smile; "but I, into annoying and interesting."

Beyond the door the loud voice of Maryan was heard:

"Emil, I will leave you and go to Tron-tron's. I will tell Lili
Kerth that you remained for the night to nurse a sick friend."

These words seemed to them so amusing that they laughed, from both sides of the closed door, simultaneously.

"Good!" cried the baron. "You will create for me the fame of a good Christian. As the Brandenburger fears only God, I fear only the ridiculous, and go."

A few minutes later the two friends were no longer in the dwelling of Kranitski, who was sitting on his long chair again, with drooping head, turning in his fingers the golden cigarette-case. The street outside the window was lonely enough, so the rumble of the departing carriage was audible. Kranitski followed it with his ear, and when it was silent he regretted passionately for a moment that he had not gone to where people were singing and jesting, and eating, and drinking in bright light, in waves of laughter. But, straightway, he felt an invincible distaste for all that. He was so sad, crushed, sick. Why had not those two young friends of his remained longer? He had rendered them the most varied services frequently, he had simply been at their service always, and had loved them; especially Maryan, the dear child—and many others. How many times had he nursed them, also, in sickness, consoled them, rescued them, amused them. Now, when he cannot run after them, as a dog after its mistress, his only comrades are darkness and silence.

Darkness reigned in the little drawing-room, silence of the grave in the whole dwelling. A clatter of overshoes broke this silence; widow Clemens stood in the kitchen door. On her high forehead, above her gray eyebrows, shone the glass eyes of her spectacles; her left hand was covered with a man's sock which she was darning. She stood in the door and looked at Kranitski, bent, grown old, buried in gloomy silence, and shook her head. Then, as quietly as ever was possible for her, she approached the long-chair, sat on a stool which was near it, and asked:

"Well, why are you silent, and chewing sorrow alone? Talk with me, you will feel easier."

As he gazed at her silently, she asked in a still lower tone:

"Well, the woman? Did she love you greatly? Was her love real?
How did you and she come to your senses?"

After a few minutes' hesitation, or thought, Kranitski, with his elbows on the edge of the chair, and his forehead on his palms, said:

"I can tell all, mother, for you are not of our society, and you are noble, faithful; the only one on earth who remains with me."

Throughout the silent chamber was heard, as it were, the sound of a trumpet: that sound was made by widow Clemens, who had drawn from her pocket a coarse handkerchief and held it to her nose. Her eyes were moist. Kranitski quivered and squirmed, but continued:

"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."

Kranitski made no answer; the woman spoke on:

"I have had another letter from Stefanek."

"What does that honest man write?" asked Kranitski.

The widow flushed up in anger:

"It is true that he is honest, and there is no need to call him that—as if through favor, or sneering. Arabian adventure! He is only my godson, but better than men of high birth. He writes that management in Lipovka goes well; that again he has set out a hundred fruit-trees in the garden; that in four weeks he will come and bring a little money."

"Money!" whispered Kranitski; "but that is well!"

"It is surely well, for that Jew would have taken your furniture if I had not pushed him down the steps, and a second time begged him to wait." She laughed. "To push him down was easier than to beg, for I am strong, and he is as small as a fly. Well I almost kissed his hands, and he promised to wait. 'For widow Clemens I will do this,' said he, 'because she is a servant who is like a mother.' Indeed, I am like a mother! I have no children, I have no one of my own in the world—I have only you."

Kranitski looked at her and began to shake his head with a slow movement. She, too, fixing her fiery and gloomy eyes on his eyes, shook slowly her head, which was covered with a great cap.

The lamp burning on the bureau threw its white light on those two heads, which, discoursing sadly, continued their melancholy converse without words; it shone also on the varied collection of pipes at the wall, and cast passing gleams on the golden cigarette-case which Kranitski turned in his hand.

CHAPTER V

Darvid was in splendid humor—he had bought at auction a house and broad grounds very reasonably. He cared little for the house—it was a rubbishy old pile which he would remove very soon—but the grounds, covered then with an extensive garden, represented an uncommonly profitable transaction. Situated near one of the railroad stations, he would, of course, receive a high price for it, because of the need to put there a great public edifice.

Darvid would sell the ground to those who needed it, and then make proposals to build the edifice. This was the third undertaking which had fallen to him since his return, a few months before. What of that, when the most important, for which he would have given the other three willingly, had not fallen yet to him, and he did not know well what had been done concerning it? This affair did not let him sleep sometimes, still it did not disincline him from working at that which he had begun already.

The day was clear, slightly frosty, myriads of brilliants were glittering in the white rime which covered the trees, and in the snow which lay on the extensive garden. Darvid, in company with a surveyor, an engineer, and an architect, walked through the garden, but the object of his walk was in no way the contemplation of nature bound up under marbles, and alabasters sprinkled with brilliants. The engineer brought him a plan for the purchase of the place, and supported the interests of his employers energetically; the surveyor and the architect spoke of their part, pointed out with gestures the proportions and various points of the open area. Darvid, in a closely fitting fur coat, finished with an original and very costly collar, with a shining hat on his head, walked over the ground with even tread; he listened rather than spoke, there was a silent satisfaction in his smile, when suddenly an immense brightness reflected from a tree, directly in front, dazzled his eyesight. The tree, which resembled a lofty pillar, had on each of its branches a plume, cut as it were delicately from alabaster, every feather of this plume flamed like a torch lighted in a rainbow. Sheafs of rainbow gleams shot out of that wonderful carving, and from that fountain of many-colored light. Darvid put his glasses on his nose suddenly, and said with a painful twist of the mouth:

"What unendurable light!"

The architect looked at the tree and said, with a smile:

"No man, not even a Greek master, has ever finished a pillar like that."

"The only pity is that it cannot be used," replied Darvid, smiling also.

"You are not a lover of nature, that is true; while I—" began the engineer.

"On the contrary, on the contrary. During intervals I have looked at nature here and there," said Darvid, playfully. "But to become her lover, as you say, I have not had leisure. To love nature is a luxury which iron toil does not know—a luxury which must have leisure."

With these words he turned from the beautiful work of nature and intended to go on, but again he halted. He found himself at the picket fence, which divided the garden from the street, and in the movement of the street he saw something which occupied him greatly.

It was the hour of departure for one of the railroad trains. The street was wide, and the ground on both sides of it was not entirely occupied yet with houses, many carriages on wheels, and a multitude of sleighs were hastening toward the near railway station. The sleighs shot forward with clinking harness, the snow under wheels squeaked complainingly, the drivers uttered brief shouts. The hats of men and women, various kinds of furs, the liveries of coachmen, the horses puffing steam, covered here and there with colored nets, formed a motley, changing line, moving forward with a rattle and an outcry along the white snow, in an atmosphere glittering from frost and sunlight.

One of the carriages looked like a flower garden. Roses, camelias, pinks, and violets were creeping out—simply pouring out—through its windows. The carriage was filled with bouquets, garlands, baskets. Among these, as in a flood of various colors, appeared in the heart of it the broad-rimmed hat of a woman. Immediately behind the carriage rushed a sleigh drawn by a pair of grand horses, the driver wearing an enormous fur collar, and in the sleigh were two young men, at whose feet again was a basket of flowers, but the finest and costliest, very rare and expensive orchids. The carriage and sleigh shot forward through the many-colored crowd of the street, as if some enchanted vision of spring had risen through the snow and then vanished.

"Who is that lady in the carriage filled with flowers?" asked
Darvid, turning to his companions.

"Bianca Biannetti."

That was a name which needed no commentary. Darvid smiled, with satisfaction. It was not wonderful that Maryan and the little baron were escorting to the station that woman of European fame, and were taking flowers to her. Of course, of course. He himself a number of times in his life—and if it was not offener, it was because time had failed him.

"There will be an amusing history to-day at the station," said the engineer. "A special train for Bianca; it is to leave five minutes after the regular one."

"For what purpose?" asked the architect.

"It is easy to divine: to have five minutes longer to enjoy the society of the great singer."

"An extra train! That is madness!" said Darvid. "Who did this?"

The engineer and architect exchanged significant glances, and the former answered:

"Your son."

The skin on Darvid's face quivered, but he answered with perfect composure:

"Ah, true! I remember Maryan told me something of this. I persuaded him a little, but he insisted. What is to be done? Il faut que la jeunesse se passe (youth must have its day)."

Then he gave his hand to the three men in farewell:

"I am sorry that we cannot finish our discussions to-day, but I remember an important affair. I beg you, gentlemen, to come to-morrow at the usual hour of my receptions."

He raised his hat and left them.

"To the station! Hurry!" said he to the driver while entering the carriage.

At the station stood a row of cars with a locomotive sending up steam. A throng of people were moving toward the snow-covered platform, and hurrying to the train. Darvid came out also, searching with his eyes for a youthful face which filled his sleepless nights with care. At first he could not find it, but when many people had entered the train, those assembled for the passive role of spectators formed a group and turned their glances toward one point upon the platform. There in the hands of a number of people bloomed a garden of beautiful flowers, and near them two persons were conversing with great animation. The opera singer was an Italian, a beautiful brunette, with eyes blazing like dark stars. Conversing with her in her own language was a young man, younger than she, very youthful, light haired, shapely, elegantly dressed. At some steps from this pair, in a careless posture, with an unoccupied air, stood Baron Emil, fragile and red-haired.

The bell, summoning passengers, was heard in the frosty air for the second time. The lady, with a charming smile, bowed in sign of farewell, and made a step toward the train, but the young man barred the way with a movement made adroitly, talking meanwhile, and holding her under the determined glance of his blue eyes. Without showing alarm she delayed, smiled, and listened.

Darvid stood on the platform, lost in that crowd of the curious, and snatches of conversation struck his ear.

"She will not go!" said one man.

"She will! There is time enough yet!" said another.

"He detains her purposely, so that she may not go."

"He does, for she is beautiful. Her smile is as charming as her song."

"He is a daring boy," said some third man near Darvid's other ear. "Look, look, how he talks her down purposely—poor woman, she will go back to the city beaten."

"But no! That would be an impoliteness on his part."

"Who is this handsome young man with golden hair?" asked some woman.

"Young Darvid. The son of the great financier. How young! He is a child."

"A man with millions ripens quickly, like a peach in sunlight."

"What language are they speaking? I cannot hear, but it is not
French."

"Italian; she is Italian."

"But he chatters in that language as if he were her compatriot."

"Millions are like the tongues at Pentecost," said the man who had mentioned peaches, "whoever is touched by them speaks every language on earth right away."

All the passengers had vanished in the cars, the doors of which were fastened now with loud clinking. This time the opera singer stepped forward quickly, but young Darvid spoke a few words which brought to her face astonishment and the most beautiful smile in the world; she nodded, agreed to something, gave thanks for something in the same way that kindly queens consent to receive marks of the highest honor from their subjects.

In the crowd surrounding Darvid someone laughed:

"Ah, he is a stunning fellow! he will not let her go!"

"How handsome he is, that young Darvid!" said a woman.

"He looks like a young prince," added another.

"But what will come of this? She will not go."

"She will go!"

"She will not go!"

"I will bet!"

"I will bet!"

In a moment a number of bets were made behind Darvid as to whether the woman, who was talking to his son, would go from the city that day or not. On his thin lips a smile of satisfaction appeared, the eyes from behind his glasses looked at his son with an expression which was almost mild. A young prince! Yes, that is true. What freedom of manner, what grace! What fine disregard for the common throng gazing at him! Triumphant even with women! That woman, famous throughout Europe, is simply devouring him with those black eyes of hers.

The bell was heard on the platform for the third time, and at the same moment a prolonged whistle pierced the air. The wheels of the train began to turn with a slow, measured movement.

"It is over!" cried someone in the crowd. "She has not gone!"

"I have lost the bet!" said a number of voices.

"How splendid that that handsome youth has carried his point," said a woman.

Meanwhile, from the remotest end of the platform, new whistling of a locomotive came up, and the measured beat of wheels on the rails was heard; at some distance a certain black mass appeared, it pushed forward faster and faster, until under the smoke came out clearly the cylinder of a locomotive, drawing behind it a short row of wagons. This was the train, and small, fresh, elegant. This train glittered in the sunlight with its yellow brass fittings, gleamed in its sapphire-colored varnish. Its rich interior, with cushions of purple velvet, was visible through the windows. A conductor opened the door of a car and stood near it in an expectant position. Maryan, with a motion of request, indicated it to the celebrated singer.

Now the people standing on the platform understood everything, and fell into enthusiasm. The spirit, which rose to that plan and threw out a large sum of money for the sake of it, struck the imagination and roused the sympathy of people inclined to gold and strange acts, without reference to their object or value. On the platform was heard the sharp clapping of some tens of hands, and soon after the locomotive whistled once more, and that small, special train pushed forward into space, only five minutes later than the regular train which preceded it.

Darvid stood near the door of the station whence he could see his son, who passed with slow step along a part of the platform. And he looked at him with unquiet curiosity, for something unexpected in Maryan astonished him. In contradiction to what one might expect, and which seemed natural, there was not in the expression of face and the movements of. Maryan either the pleasure of youth at something accomplished, or sorrow at the departure of the woman, for whom he had accomplished it. When a moment before applause was heard on the platform, he looked around and cast on the hand-clapping crowd a passing glance, as indifferent as if they were an object not worthy of contempt, even. Now, too, his whole person expressed perfect indifference, nay, even annoyance, which contracted his lips, and yellowed the rosiness of his round cheeks somewhat. In his blue eyes, fixed glassily on the distance, was depicted something like dissatisfaction, or a feeling of disappointment, a dreaming, or a pondering in vain over deceitful visions which pass over space, but which no one can seize upon. He did not see his father, for his glassy eyes were looking far away at some point. Even the baron did not see Darvid; he was searching for something in his pocketbook carefully, till he took out a ten-rouble note and threw it at the porters who had borne in the baggage and flowers of the primadonna. At the same time he cast these words through his teeth at them:

"I have no small money!"

Maryan, without rousing himself from thought, said, as if mechanically:

"It is wonderful!"

"What?" asked the baron.

"That everything in the world is so little, so little."

"Except my appetite, which is immense at this moment," cried the baron.

"But those fabulous sums which Maryan must expend!" thought Darvid going to his carriage; before he reached it he heard other snatches of conversation:

"To throw away so much money for a few moments' talk with a beautiful woman—that is a character!"

"It promises trouble, does it not?"

"Especially for papa."

"He has as many debts, no doubt, as curly hairs on his head."

"He borrows, of course, on the security of papa's pocket."

"Or his death."

Others said:

"In such hands ill-gotten gains will go to the devil quickly."

"Why ill-gotten gains?"

"Well, can you imagine Saint Francis of Assisi making millions?"

While his carriage was rolling along the streets of the city, Darvid's head was full of conflicting ideas. True, true; that green youth had a special capacity for devouring the golden sands of Pactolus! But in what a charming and princely fashion he did that! Darvid was proud of his son, and at the same time greatly dismayed and troubled; for this could not last. That lad was making debts in view of—his father's death. And this absolute idleness! What good was a man who did nothing? The results also of idleness were evident in him: a certain premature withering, a certain dreaming without object—a handsome fellow! He looked as if born to a princely coronet. As Darvid was ascending the marble steps of his mansion he said to the Swiss:

"When Pan Maryan comes home say that I request him to come to me."

Darvid passed an hour or more in his study, alone, over papers, writing, taking notes, examining various accounts, and letters; but over his face, from time to time, ran a disagreeable quiver, and the nervous movements of his hand caused sheets of paper to rustle unpleasantly. At last the door of the antechamber opened and Maryan appeared, hat in hand.

"Good-day, my father," began he on entering. "I am glad that you invited me, for it is long since I have had the pleasure of talking with you. We both have been greatly occupied. For some weeks Bianca Biannetti has taken all my time."

He was perfectly unconstrained, though not at all gladsome in his manner. Darvid, standing at the round table, looked at his son quickly.

"Are you in love with that singer?" asked he.

Only then did Maryan laugh unaffectedly, almost loudly.

"What a question, my father; love is a sanctuary, built on a poppy-seed; love then is sacred; while my fancy for that beautiful Bianca—"

"Is a poppy-seed which you are transporting through the world on special trains," finished Darvid.

"Have you heard of that, father?"

"I have seen it."

"Ah, you were at the station! Strange that I did not see you."

He made a gesture of contempt with his hand.

"I was disappointed. I planned that surprise for Bianca, and felt sure of a lively pleasure. When the time came I convinced myself that the affair was a trifle, not new, and, like everything, stupid. So it is always: what imagination builds up in a long time, criticism overturns in a twinkle. It is impossible to invent anything important. The world is so aged that it has come to us a worn-out old rag."

He took a seat on one of the armchairs surrounding the table, and put his hat on the carpet. Darvid replied without changing his posture:

"Nothing wonderful; when imagination builds up stupidities criticism overturns the building in a twinkle—"

"Who can be sure that he is building up wisdom?" interrupted
Maryan.

Then, taking a cigarette-case from his pocket, he asked:

"Do you permit, father?" Then, handing the cigarette-case, with great politeness, to Darvid, he added:

"But, perhaps, you will smoke also?"

Darvid, with thick wrinkles between his brows, shook his head and sat down.

"Why did you leave the university soon after I went away?" asked he. "I inquired of you touching this several times by letter, but you have never given me a definite answer."

"I beg pardon for that, father, but I am wonderfully slow in writing letters. I will explain all to you willingly in words—"

Darvid interrupted:

"I have no time for long talk, so tell me at once. Have you no love for science?"

Maryan let out a streak of smoke from his lips, and spoke with deliberation:

"I feel no repugnance whatever toward science. I read much, and mental curiosity is just one of the most emphatic traits of my individuality. In childhood I swallowed books in monumental numbers, but I have never learned school lessons. All were astonished at this, and still the thing is simple, it lies quite on the surface. Common individualities yield to rules, but energetic and higher ones will not endure them. Rules and duty are stables in which humanity confines its beasts, to prevent them from injuring fields under culture. Cattle and sheep stand patiently in the enclosures, higher organisms break them down and go out into freedom. I need absolute freedom in all things; and,-therefore, I stopped going to inns of science, which give out this science at stated hours, in certain sorts and doses. Though, even in this regard, I showed many good intentions, owing to the entreaties and persuasions of mamma. From legal studies I betook myself to the study of nature, and turned from that to philosophy, thinking that something would occupy me, and that I should be able to still that real storm of desperation which seized poor mamma. But I was not able. The professors were contemptible, my fellow-students a rabble. Society relations amused me in those days, and occupied me: imagination swept me farther and higher. So I stopped a labor which was annoying and irritating, and which, moreover, had no object."

He quenched his cigarette stump in the ash-pan, and, sinking again into the deep armchair, continued:

"So far as I have been able to observe, people study science regularly for one of two purposes: either they intend to devote themselves to what is called the salvation of mankind, or they need to win a morsel of bread for their stomachs. Neither of these objects could be mine; for, as to the first, I hold the principle of individuality carried quite to anarchy. The so-called salvation of society is, for our decadent epoch, a fable, quite impossible; and the naked truth is, that each man lives for himself, and in his own fashion. The man whom fate serves well passes his life in a manner more or less agreeable; if it serves him ill—he perishes. Luck, and the chance meeting of causes, arranges everything. It is impossible to turn the earth into a general paradise, just as it is to change a small planet into an immense one. The salvation of society is one of the narcotics invented to lull the sufferings of people. Altruists possess a whole drug-shop of these narcotics; whoever wishes has the right to use them; but, as for me, I prefer not to be lulled to sleep. I am an individualist, and do not understand why Pavel must suffer for the purpose of decreasing the pains of Gavel. Let Gavel, as well as Pavel, think of himself; and, if they are clever, they will both help themselves somehow without turning to labelled bottles. This is my conviction about one of the objects for which people make regular studies in science. As to the other—"

He took out his cigarette-ease again, and, lighting a cigarette, finished:

"As to the other object, that is a simple thing; since being your son, my father, I shall not need to bake my own bread. Such is my confession of faith which I have laid down before you; all the more readily since I have long cherished a genuine reverence for your strength of mind and independence. I am certain, too, that by no one could I be understood better than by you, my father."

He was mistaken. The man to whom he was talking so fluently and politely did not understand him in any sense.

For the first time in his life, perhaps, Darvid did not understand the person with whom he was talking. The millionnaire was astounded. He had expected to find a frivolous youth, whom passions had pushed into extravagance and idleness; meanwhile, a reasoning, disenchanted sage sat before him, with bitterness on his lips and irony in his speech and eyes. That sour wisdom, the measureless belief in himself and his opinions, with the independence which accompanied it, were found in a slender, delicate, and rosy-faced youth, with eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, and came from lips slightly faded, but marked by a tiny, youthful moustache. Besides, the perfect elegance of manner, the aestheticism and irreproachable grace in movements, in voice, in compliments, the utterance of which he rounded very beautifully.

Darvid was astounded. He had found no time in his life to observe the new directions which thought and character were taking in the world; nor for observing the changed forms in which time moulds the various generations of mankind. He was dumbfounded, speechless, and only after a while did an ironical smile appear on his lips—that lad with his theories was absurd!

"All that you have said is simply ridiculous. You are making a principle out of a thorough absence of principles. At your age such opinions and such coolness are incredible. At your age, which is almost that of a child, and with your scant training, they are, out and out, ridiculous."

Maryan, with a quick movement, raised his head and looked with astonishment at his father. He, too, had expected something entirely different.

"Ridiculous!" cried he; "what does this mean, father? This is not argument. I felt sure that we should agree perfectly. With the profoundest astonishment I see that this is not the case. How is it, my father, then, you do not take up the motto: each for himself, and in his own way? Still, it is impossible for any man to carry contempt for all painted pots farther than you do; than you have carried it all your life. But, perhaps, this difference in our opinions is only apparent? I beg you to give me argument. The charge of ridiculousness is not argument. I may be ridiculous, and be right. A lack of principles? Very well; principles form one of the most brightly painted of all pots, and, therefore, it is most difficult to see the clay. But, never mind; I ask for a closer description. What principles do you value, father?"

Darvid, with a strong quiver in his face, answered:

"What? Oh, moral. Naturally, moral principles—"

"Yes, yes, but I ask for an accurate definition. What are they called; what are the names of those principles?"

Darvid was silent. What are they called? Was he a priest, or a governess, to break his head over such questions? If it were a question of law, mathematics, architecture, guilds, banks—but he had never occupied himself with morals; he had not had the time. A deep anger began to possess him, and his words hissed somewhat through his lips; when, after some silence, he added:

"My dear, you have made a mistake in the address. It is not the office of a father to instil moral principles into children. That is the province of mothers. Fathers have no time for that work. Go back in memory to your childhood; recall the principles which your mother implanted in you, and you will find an answer to your question."

Maryan laughed.

"What you say, father, reminds me of one of my friends who writes books. A poor devil, but we receive him into our set, for he has talent—that legitimizes. Well, on a time, someone asked him: 'What do you do when, in writing, you meet a difficulty?' 'I try to overcome it,' answered he. 'But if you can't overcome it?' 'Then I dodge; or, I run to one side like a rabbit, and avoid saying that which I know not how to say.' Well, you have acted, dear father, like this author. You have dodged! Ha! ha! ha!"

He laughed, but Darvid grew gloomier and stiffer. It was strange, but true, that in presence of that professor he felt himself more and more a pupil.

"Let us leave poor, dear mamma in peace," continued Maryan. "She is the impersonation of charm and sweetness. If there is still anything of this sort which for me is not a painted pot yet, it is the tenderness which I feel for mamma. She has spoken to me often, indeed; and she speaks, even now, of principles, but the best and dearest of women is only a woman. Sentiment, routine, and, besides, want of logic: theory without end and practice nowhere, is not that the case with women? You know them better than I, father; for you have had more time to explore this part of the universe."

His azure eyes glittered with sparks; his golden curls fell low on his white forehead; and from his lips, shaded by a tiny mustache, the words came out with increasing boldness and fluency, and more thickly intermingled with a sarcastic smile:

"As for me, were I an old maid, I should become a Sister of Charity; for that office has always a certain position in the world, and the stiff bonnet casts a saving shadow on wrinkles. Since I am who I am, I think thus of principles: they depend on the place; the time; the geographical position; and the evolution which society is accomplishing. If the heavens had created me an ancient Greek, my principle would have been to battle for freedom against Asiatics, and to be enamoured of a beautiful boy. If in the Middle Ages, I should have fought for the honor of my lady and burnt men alive on blazing piles. In the Orient, I should possess, openly, a number of wives, accommodated only to my wish; in the West, principle commands a man to pretend that he has only one wife. In Europe, it is my duty to honor my father and mother; in the Fiji Islands it would be criminal for me not to put them to death at the proper moment. Wretched makeup—hash, with which our age does not wish now to feed itself. Our age is too old, and its palate is too practised, not to distinguish figs from pomegranates. We children of an advanced age, decadents, know well that man may win much, but will never gain absolute truth. It does not exist. All things are relative. My only principle is, that I exist, and use my will, my only interest is to know how to will. Many other things might be said, but what use? Still, I will add to what is already said. You, my father, are an uncommonly wise man. You must think, therefore, just as I do; you speak differently only because people have the habit of talking in that way—to children!"

Darvid seemed to hear this speech out, only mechanically; and when Maryan, with a short and somewhat sharp laugh, pronounced the last words and was silent, the following words broke from him more quickly than words had ever left his mouth before:

"Not true. You are greatly mistaken. I think and act differently from what you say. I have not had time to meditate over the theory of principles; but all my life has rested on one of them—on labor. Skilled and iron labor was my principle, and it has made me what I am—"

"Pardon me for interrupting," exclaimed Maryan. "I beg you earnestly, but permit one question: What was the object of your labor? What was the object? That will settle everything; for a principle can be found only in the object, not in the labor, which is only the means of obtaining an end. What was your object, my father? Of course, it was not the salvation of the world, but the satisfaction of your own desires—your own—not any put on you beforehand, and accepted obediently; but your own individual desires. The object of them was great wealth—a high position. Through labor you strive to acquire these, and I do not see here any principle except that which I myself possess—namely: it is necessary to know how to will. In the very essence of things we agree; only I, with the sincerest homage, have recognized in you a master. Frequently have I thought with what perfect logic, with what unbending will, you have freed yourself from the labels which other men, even wise ones for the period, have never ceased from pasting on their persons. If in your career you had knocked against painted pots, labelled: birthplace, fatherland, humanity, charity, etc., you would have gone at considerably less speed, and not gone so far. But you were astonishingly logical. With amazing strength and unsparingness you have known how to will. It is from this point precisely that I looked, and I was filled with real admiration. During your absence, of more than three years, I called you frequently, in thought, a superhuman. Friederich Nietsche imagined such men as you when—"

He stopped here, raising a glance full of astonishment at his father's face. Darvid, very pale, with quivering temples, stood up, leaned firmly on the table, and said:

"Enough!"

Unable to conceal the violent emotion which he felt, under an ironical tone and laugh, he continued:

"Enough of this mockery of reasoning and argument, and of all this empty twaddle. If it was your intention to pass an examination before me, I give you five with plus. You have fluent speech, and quite a rich vocabulary of words. But I have no time for those things and proceed to facts and figures. The life which you are leading is impossible, and you must change. You must begin another life."

He put emphasis on the word must. Maryan looked at his father with an amazement which seemed to take away his speech.

"You have not ended your twenty-third year yet, and the history of your romances has acquired broad notoriety in the world a number of times—"

Maryan recovered from his amazement slowly.

"Affairs so completely personal—" began he with a hesitating voice.

Darvid, paying no attention to the interruption, continued:

"The sum which you lost in betting at the last races was, even for my fortune, considerable—thirty thousand."

Maryan had now almost recovered his balance.

"If this shrift is indispensable I will correct the figures—thirty-six thousand."

"The suppers which you give to friends, male and female, have the fame of Lucullus feasts."

Maryan, with sparks of hidden irritation in his eyes, laughed.

"An exaggeration! Our poor Borel has no idea of Lucullus, but that he plunders us, unmercifully, is true."

"He knows how to will!" threw in Darvid.

Maryan raised his eyes to him, and said:

"He is making a fortune."

This time, in his turn, astonishment was depicted on the face of Darvid, indignant to that degree that a slight flush appeared on cheeks generally pale.

"Folly!" hissed he, and immediately restrained himself.

"You are incurring enormous debts; on what security?"

Maryan, at least apparently, had regained perfect confidence in himself. With eyes slightly blinking he seemed to look at a picture on the wall.

"That is the affair of my creditors," said he. "They must have this in view, that I am your son."

"But if I should wish not to pay your debts?"

Maryan smiled with incredulity.

"I doubt that. Such a smash-up, as refusal to pay my debts, would injure you also, my father. Besides, the sums are not fabulous."

"How much?"

"I cannot tell the exact figure, but approximately they are—"

He mentioned figures. Darvid repeated them indifferently.

"About a quarter of a million. Very good. I shall be far from ruin this time, but in future—I make no reproaches; for to do so would be to lose time. What has dropped into the past is lost. But the future must be different."

On the word must he laid emphasis again. With a quick movement he put his glasses on his nose, and taking a cigarette from a beautiful box, he put the end of it at the flame of one of the candles burning on the desk. He seemed perfectly calm; but behind his eyeglasses steel sparks flew, and the cigarette did not ignite, held by fingers which trembled somewhat. Turning from the desk to the table, he said:

"I will pay your debts at once; and the pension which, three years ago, I appointed to you—that is six thousand yearly—I leave at your disposal. But you will leave the city two weeks from now, and go to—"

He named a place very remote, situated in the heart of the
Empire.

"In that place is an iron mill, and also glass-works; in these two establishments I am one of the chief shareholders. You will take the office designated by the director, who is a shareholder, and a friend of mine; under his guidance and indications you will begin a life of labor."

In Maryan's eyes again appeared amazement without limit; but on his lips quivered a smile somewhat incredulous, somewhat jeering.

"What is this to be?" asked he. "Penance for sins? Punishment?"

"No," answered Darvid; "only a school. Not a school for reasoning, for you have too much of that already; but for character. You must learn three things: economy, modesty, and labor."

Quenching in the ash-pan the fifth or sixth cigarette, Maryan inquired:

"But if—perchance—I should not agree to enter that school?"

Darvid answered immediately:

"In that case you will remain here, but without means of independent existence. You will be free to live under my roof, and appear at the parental table; but you will not receive a personal income of any kind. At the same time, I will publish in the newspapers that I shall not pay your debts hereafter. What I have said, I will do. Take your choice."

That he would do what he had said any man who saw him then might feel certain.

The bloom on Maryan's cheeks took on a brick color; his eyes filled with steel sparks.

"The system of taking fortresses through famine," said he, in an undertone; and, then with head inclined somewhat, and eyes fixed on the carpet, he said:

"I am astonished. I thought, father, that in spite of my seeing you rarely, I knew you well; now I find that I did not know you at all. I admired in you that power of thought which was able to strike from you the bonds of every prejudice; now, I have convinced myself that your ideas are not only patriarchal, but despotic. This is a deception which pains. I wonder myself, even, that this affects me so powerfully; but in falling from heights one must always hurt, even the point of the nose. This is one lesson more not to climb heights. I have in me a cursed imagination which leads me astray. One more mirage has vanished; one more painted pot has lost its colors. What is to be done?"

He said this in a low voice, biting his lower lip at times; he was pained in reality, and deeply. After a while he continued:

"What is to be done? I must be resigned to the disappointment which has met me; but as to disposing of my person so absolutely, I protest. Had it been your intention, my father, to make a mill-hand of me, you should have begun that work earlier. My individuality is now developed, and cannot be pounded in through the gate of a given cemetery. To rear me as a great lord and permit—even demand—during a rather long period that I should use all the good things of society, and be distinguished most brilliantly for your sake, and then thrust into a school of economy, modesty, and labor is—pardon me if I call the thing by its name—illogical and devoid of sequence. I might even add, that it lacks justice; but I do not wish to defend myself with arguments taken from painted pots. One thing is certain—namely this: that I shall not be the victim of patriarchal despotism."

He rose, took his hat from the carpet, and calmly, elegantly, but with a brick-colored flush on his cheeks, and a blue, swollen vein on his forehead, he added:

"I know not what I shall do. It may happen me to be the creator of my own destiny. I know how to be this; and I shall decide more readily to be a workman at my own will than at the will of another. I shall surely leave this place. Expatriation has come to my mind more than once, but not in the direction in which you have seen fit to indicate. Besides, I do not know yet, for this has fallen suddenly. I shall look into myself; I shall look around me. Meanwhile, I must go; for I have promised one of my friends to be at a certain collector's place at a given hour, to examine a very curious picture. It is an original; an authentic Overbeck. A rare thing; a real find—I take farewell of you, my father."

He made a low bow and went out. Exquisite elegance did not desert him for an instant; still, in the expression of his face, and especially his excited complexion, and his voice, too, indignation and distress were evident in a degree which bordered on suffering.

The door of the antechamber opened and closed. Darvid was as if petrified. What was this? What had happened? Was it possible that this should be the end of the conversation, and that such a conversation should end in Overbeck, and a perfectly elegant bow? Wonderful man! Yes, for that was no petulant child, with childish requests, evasions, outbursts; but a premature man, almost an old man. A reasoner; a pessimist; a sceptic. A genial head! What elegance! What command of self. A princely exterior. Marvellous man! What could he do with him? If he had asked for forgiveness; had promised, in part, even to accommodate himself to his father's wishes; even to change his life a little. But this iron persistence and unshaken confidence in himself, joined with perfect politeness, and with reason which would not yield a step! What was to be done with him? Fortresses are taken sometimes through famine; but, suppose it is resolved on everything except yielding. Well, he would try; he would keep his word; he would see.

A servant at the door announced:

"The horses are ready."

He was invited to dine at the house of one of the greatest dignitaries in the city. He would have given much to remain that day in quiet. But he had to go. In his position—with his business—to offend such a personage might involve results that would be very disagreeable. Besides, he would meet someone there whose good will also was necessary. He did not wish to go; but he would do violence to himself and go. Is not that the firm and strict observance of principle? What had that milksop said? That he did not recognize principles, and would not observe them? Who could treat himself more sternly and mercilessly than he? How many of the most beautiful flowers of life had he east aside; how many sleepless nights had he passed, and borne even physical toil for the principle of untiring labor—merciless iron labor!

In a dress-coat, his bosom covered with the finest of linen, and with glittering diamond buttons, with ruddy side-whiskers, a pale and lean face, unbending, irreproachable in dress, and correct in posture, he stood in the middle of his study, and was drawing on his light gloves very slowly. Taking his hat he thought that he felt a decided sourness and a bitterness in his person, which would make the most famous dishes, on the table of the dignitary, ill-tasting. What was to be done? He had to go. Principle beyond all things else!

When he was descending the stairway, in his fur-coat and hat, he heard the rustle of silk garments on the first landing, and a rather loud conversation in English. He recognized the voices of his elder daughter and Baron Emil; but he saw Malvina first; she was in front of the young couple. With elegant politeness he pushed up to the wall so that his wife might have more room, and raising his hat, with the most agreeable smile which his lips could give, he asked:

"The ladies are coming from visits, of course?"

There were witnesses of the meeting. Malvina, wrapped in a fur, the white edges of which appeared from under deep black velvet, answered, also with a smile:

"Yes, we have made some visits."

But Irene, who was standing some steps lower, caught up the conversation with a vivacity unusual for her.

"We are coming just now from the shops, where we met the baron."

"What are your plans for the evening?" inquired Darvid again.

"We shall remain at home,'" answered Malvina.

"How is that?—but the party at Prince and Princess Zeno's!"

"We had no intention—" said Malvina, in an attempt at self-defence; but she saw the look of her husband, and the voice broke in her throat.

"You and your daughter will go to that party," said he, with a low whisper, which hissed from his lips. And immediately he added aloud, with a smile: "Ladies, I advise you to be at that party."

Malvina became almost as white as the fur which encircled her neck, and at that moment Irene asked:

"Will you be there, father?"

"I will run in for a while. As usual, I have no time."

"What a pity," said Baron Emil, "that I cannot offer you a part of mine as a gift. In this regard I am a regular Dives."

"And I a beggar! For this reason I must take farewell of you."

He raised his hat and had begun to descend when he heard Irene's voice behind him, calling:

"My father!"

She told her mother and the baron that she wished to exchange a few words with her father, and ran down the steps. The splendid entrance was empty and brightly lighted with lamps; but the liveried Swiss, at sight of the master of the house, stood with his hand on the latch of the glass door. At the foot of the stairs a tall young lady, in a black cloak lined with fur, very formal and very pale, began to speak French:

"Pardon me, that in a place so unfitting, I must tell you that the ball, of which you have spoken to Cara, cannot take place this winter."

Darvid, greatly astonished, inquired:

"Why?"

Irene's blue eyes glittered under the fantastic rim of her hat, as she answered:

"Because the very thought of that ball has disturbed mamma greatly."

After a moment of silence Darvid asked, slowly:

"Has your mother conceived a distaste for amusements?"

"Yes, father, and I need not enlighten you as to the cause of this feeling. There are people who cannot amuse themselves in certain positions."

"In certain positions? In what position is your mother?"

He made this inquiry in a voice betraying a fear which he could not conceal. This thought was sounding in his head: "Can she know it?" But Irene said, in a voice almost husky:

"You and I both know her position well, father—but as to this ball—"

"This ball," interrupted Darvid, "is necessary to me for various reasons, and will take place in our house after a few weeks."

"Oh, my father," said Irene, with a nervous, dry laugh, "je vous adresse ma sommation respectueuse, that it should not take place! Mamma and I are greatly opposed to it; therefore, I have permitted myself to detain you for a moment, and say—" The smile disappeared entirely from her lips when she finished; "and say to you that this ball will not take place."

"What does this mean?" began Darvid; but suddenly he restrained himself.

The Swiss stood at the door; at the top of the stairs was another servant. So, raising his hat to his daughter, he finished the conversation in a language understandable to the servants:

"Pardon me; I have no time. I shall be late. We will finish this conversation another time."

When the carriage, whining on the snow, rolled along the crowded streets of the city, in the light of the streetlamps which fell on it, appeared Darvid's face, with an expression of terror. That pallid, thin face, with ruddy whiskers, and a collar of silvery fur, was visible for a moment with eyes widely open, with raised brows, with the words hanging on his lips: "She knows everything!—ghastly!" and after a while it sank again into the darkness which filled the carriage.

CHAPTER VI

For the first time surely in that city, separated from England by lands and seas, a certain number of people, very limited, it is true, might admire small, bachelor's apartments, fitted up with tapestry, sculpture, and stained-glass, from the London factory of Morris, Faulkner, Marshall & Co. The drawing-room was not large, but there was in it absolutely nothing which had its origin elsewhere than in that factory founded by a famous poet and member of the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. The famous poet and artist, William Morris, had become a manufacturer for the purpose of correcting aesthetic taste in the multitude, and filling people's dwellings with works of pure beauty. The objects in this apartment were really beautiful. The tapestry on the walls represented a series of pictures taken from romances of knighthood, and from marvellous legends: Tristan and Isolde, on the deck of a ship; Flor and Blancheflor, in a garden of roses; the monk Alberich, in a Dominican habit, descending into hell. The tapestry on the furniture was full of winged heads and fantastic flowers; on all sides were seen great art in weaving and masterly borders, which recalled the margins of old prayer-books. Dulled and dingy colors, producing the impression of things which had emerged from the mist of ages, and only glass window-screens, framed in columns and pointed arches, were brilliant with the colors of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. The window-panes were stained with roses and with the figures of saints having pale profiles and wearing bright robes. On one of the tables was a bronze pulpit in the form of a Gothic chapel; in another place was a lamp-support, which represented the Triumph of Death; Death was a woman with the wings of a bat; she was in a flowing robe; she had curved talons on her feet, and a scythe in her hand. This was a sculptured copy of Orcagna, from the Campo Santo of Pisa. In the middle of the dining-room, which was seen beyond an open door, stood a table, in the style of the eighteenth century. Altogether simple was this table, and like those under which, instead of carpets, men (of that century) used to put a layer of hay. The side table (fourteenth century), with painted carvings; a box (fourteenth century, a copy from the Museum of Cluny), with fantastic beasts carved on its cover, and with small figures on the front side, on very narrow niches, figures representing the twelve peers of France; another box, which was in the bedroom, was like this one, but the carving which covered it represented the anointing of Louis XI at Rheims (Museum of Orleans). It stood at the feet of Brother Alberich, who, in his white habit, was entering the black jaws of hell; it took the place of a sofa, there being no sofa in the room. Both these boxes of wood and iron, immensely artistic, though merely copies of authentic relics, served as places in which to keep objects of art, and served as seats also. Besides these, there were only a few stools, with arms carved in trefoil shape (fourteenth and fifteenth century), and still fewer armchairs, immensely deep and wide—so-called cathedras—covered with most wonderful stuffs; but everything was there which was needed, if the dwelling was to preserve a purely Middle Age character as to style. In the air, slightly colored by the brightly stained-glass, hovered something archaic and exotic—hoary antiquity reigned—and a critical spirit with the odor of mysticism might be felt floating around there. But all this seemed quite comprehensible and natural to anyone who knew Baron Emil, the owner of that dwelling—a trained and exacting aesthete—moreover, the baron was of that school called Mediaeval; and as a Mediaevalist he professed homage for Middle Ages romances and legends; for subtle works of art and for inspirations touching a world beyond the present which resulted from them.

Three years before Maryan Darvid, in company with, or more strictly under the protection of Kranitski, entered for the first time this dwelling, which had been recently furnished. The baron had brought home, from one of the Mediterranean islands, the mortal remains of his mother, who had died just before; he had received from her a great inheritance, and to put his interests in order he had settled in his native city for a period. Kranitski, long a friend in the house of his father and mother, had known him from childhood, and exhibited on greeting him an outburst of tenderness. This amused the baron, but pleased him also a little. "He is a trifle odd, good, poor devil—on the whole: gentle, perfectly presentable, and active." Kranitski was very active. He went to the boundary to take out of the custom-house everything which had come to the baron's address from England; and then helped him in the arrangement of the dwelling, which was attended with considerable labor. Upholsterers and other assistants lost their heads at sight of those knights, ladies, monks, peers of France, and the Triumph of Death, which came out of the boxes. Kranitski was astonished at nothing, for he had read much, and knew many things also, but he could not be very enthusiastic in this case. When the installation was accomplished, with his active and skilful assistance, he thought: "The place is funereal, and there is little comfort here." He looked askance somewhat at the boxes with the peers of France and Louis XI. on them. The covers of these boxes, rough with carving, did not seem to him the most agreeable places to sit on. He said nothing, however, for he was ashamed to confess that he did not understand or did not favor that which was the flower of the newest exotic fashion. He visited the baron and spent many hours in his dwelling, and soon he took there a second man—a young friend of his. When Maryan Darvid found himself for the first time in the company and at the house of a Mediaevalist, he was confused, like a man who is standing in the presence of something immensely above him. Almost ten years older, the baron surpassed Maryan immeasurably in all branches of knowledge, both of books and life; and his little dwelling was a marvel of originality and outlay. Maryan felt poor both in body and spirit. Though a yearly allowance of six thousand received from his father had not been enough up to that time, it seemed to him then a chip, only fit to be kicked away. As to the mental side, he was simply ashamed that he could still find any pleasant thing in that world which surrounded him, and in the life which he was leading. Commonness, cheapness, vulgarity! The meaning of these words he understood clearly after he had been in the baron's society. Even earlier he had begun to feel the need of something loftier; something beyond those pleasures of the senses—of fancy and of vanity—which he had experienced, though these were considerable. The substance and nature of these pleasures lay on the surface—they were accessible to a considerable number of people. The baron, in the manner usual with him, speaking somewhat through his nose and teeth, said:

"We, the experienced and disenchanted, seek for new shivers, just as alchemists of the Middle Ages sought for gold. We are in search of the rare and of the novel."

In search of the rare and the novel in shivers, or universal impressions: sensuous, mental, and aesthetic, Maryan went once with the baron, and a second time alone, on a journey through Europe. He visited many countries and capitals. To investigate the Salvation Army, he joined its ranks for a period in England. In Germany he was connected with the almost legendary, politico-religious sect which bears the name Fahrende Leute; and, again, for some time, in an immense wagon drawn by gigantic Mechlenburgers, he wandered through the mountainous Hartz forest and along the banks of the picturesque Saal; he spent most time in Paris, where, with the theosophists he summoned up spirits, and with the decadents, otherwise known as incoherents, and still otherwise as the accursed poets; in the club of hashish-eaters he had dreams and visions brought on by using narcotics. Besides, he saw many other rare and peculiar things; but he was ever hampered by slender financial means and the need of incurring great debts; and was irritated by the impossibility of finding anything which could satisfy him permanently, or, at least, for a long period. He felt satisfactions, but brief ones. Everything of which he had dreamed seemed less after he had attained it—more common, weaker than in his imagining. The brightness was dimmed; on the glitter there were defects; the warm inspirations which came from afar, grew stiff when they were touched, stiffened, as oil does when floating on water. In the taste of things, sweetness and tartness became insipid and nauseous, the moment they reached his palate.

This was by no means a surfeit devoid of appetites; but, on the contrary, such an immense flood of appetites that the insurgent wave of them struck the region of the impossible with fury, because it could not rush over that barrier. This was also an inflammation of the fancy, which had risen from an active mind, and which early and numerous experiences had turned into a festering wound. Finally, it was also the placing of self on some imagined summit, standing apart and aloft, beyond and above all. I—and the rabble. What is not I, and a handful like me—is the rabble. What is to be mine cannot be of the rabble; what is of the rabble must be not of mine. This pride was not of birth or money; it might be called nervous mental arrogance. Mental summits other than those of the rabble, and other requirements of the nerves; the highest bloom of human civilization—sickly, but the highest; the crash, but also the coronation of mankind. In all this there was a principle—one, but indestructible: the respect of individuality; the preservation of it from all limitations and changes which might come from outside; a respect reaching the height of worship. Everything might be, according to time and place, a painted pot; but individuality (that is, the way in which a man's wishes, tastes, way of thinking were fashioned) was sacred—the only sacred thing. It was not permitted to give this into captivity to anyone or anything, or to submit it to criticisms, or corrections. I am what I am; and I will remain myself. I will and I am obliged to know how to will—something like the superhuman preached by Friedrich Nietsche. The baron's dwelling was not only original and fabulously expensive, but it had in itself besides, that which the Germans define by the word Stimmung. A number of young polyglots examined for a long time various languages of Europe to find a word which would answer best to the German Stimmung, till Maryan first, possessing the greatest linguistic capacity, came on the Polish expression nastroj (tone of mind). Yes, they agreed, universally, that the baron's dwelling produced a tone of mind; an impression not of what was in it, but of something of which it was the mysterious expression or symbol. It produced an impression which had its cause beyond this world. To believe in something beyond this world does not mean to profess a religion—as that of Buddha, Zoroaster, or Chrystos. No, of course not; that would be well for early ages and infantile people; ..old ones, too, run wild after fables, for the principle of the beautiful is in these fables; but they do not let fables lead them off by the nose. An impression from beyond the world is something entirely different; it is a shiver of delights which are unknown here, and only anticipated, coming from a world inaccessible to the senses. That such a world exists is shown by the enormous poverty of this one, and the mad monotony of those sources of pleasure which are contained in the world accessible to human senses. A poet is so far a poet, an aesthete so far an aesthete, as he is able, by intuition and unheard-of delicacy of nerves, to burst into the world above the senses and to experience the taste, or rather the odor, which goes before it. For it is an absolute condition that the feeling should be hazy, something in the nature of an odor; or, better still, the echo of an odor. No key of a musical instrument is to be touched; no definite features are to be drawn; the tone of mind alone is to be produced. The baron's dwelling gave the tone of mind for another world. He and his associates believed in another world, beyond the earth and the grave; on the basis of the poverty and commonness of the world before the grave—that is, in despair of the case. For them it was not subject to doubt—that world, the slight odors of which flew to them in moments when they were in the tone of mind, was filled with perfect beauty, nothing but beauty; a beauty which, in this world, even by itself alone, raises men above the level of the rabble. If this beauty did not exist, we should be justified in accepting Hartmann's theory of the collective suicide of mankind, and in throwing a "bloody spittle of contempt" at life. A "bloody spittle," as is known from Arthur Rimbaud's sonnets on consonants, stands before the eyes of everyone who pronounces the vowel i, just as the vowel a brings up the picture of "black, shaggy flies, which buzz around terribly fetid objects."

"Ah, no, my friend! No, no! That passes my power! In heaven's name I beg you not to say another word!"

With this exclamation Arthur Kranitski, like a pike out of water, struggled in the immensely deep cathedra; and, with his arms in the air kept calling out:

"Terribly fetid objects! Bloody spittle! that is not poetry—it is not even decent! And those shaggy flies whirling around—that—No! I feel a nausea, which mounts to my throat. No, my friends, I will never agree that that is poetry!"

His voice broke, so wounded was he in his aesthetic conceptions. The young men laughed. That dear, honest Pan Kranitski is an innocent. In spite of his forty and some years clearly sounded, and his romantic experiences, his love for good eating and other nice things, the highest point of extravagance of all sorts for him were Boccaccio, Paul de Kock, Alfred Musset—simpletons, or babies.

Kranitski, after his first impression, had a feeling of shame.

"Pardon, my dears! An innocent! Not so much of an innocent as may seem to you. I am far from being an innocent; I understand everything and am able to experience everything. But, do you see, there is a difference in tastes. Clearness, simplicity, harmony, these are what I like, but yours—yours—"

Again he was carried away by aesthetic indignation, so, throwing himself back in the chair, with outspread arms, he finished:

"Your making poetry of spittle and foul odor is—do you know what? it is sprinkling a cloaca with holy water! That is what it is."

In the little drawing-room between the screens of stained glass and that part of the wall on which a knight of the Pound Table was bowing to Isolde stood a small organ, and before the organ, at the midday hour, sat Baron Emil playing one of the grandest fugues of Sebastian Bach. Small and fragile, in his morning dress of yellowish flannel, in stockings with colored stripes, and shoes of yellow leather with very sharp tips, he was resting his shoulder against the arm of the chair carved in a trefoil (fourteenth century); he stretched his arms stiffly and rested his long bony fingers on various keys of the piano. His delicate, sallow features had an expression of great solemnity; his small, blue eyes looked dreamily into space, and from the glass shade, brightened by the sunlight falling in through the window, purple and blue rays fell on his faded forehead and ruddy, closely cut hair.

Besides the baron, who was playing, was present Kranitski, who had come an hour before and heard from the servant that the baron was sleeping yet. But that was not true, for a few minutes after Kranitski heard farther back in the building an outburst of female laughter, to which the nasal voice of the baron, who spoke rather long about something, gave answer. The guest smiled and whispered to the "Triumph of Death," at which he was looking, "Lili Kerth."

Then he sank into the cathedra so that in spite of his lofty stature he almost disappeared in it. Soon the baron appeared at the door, and, accustomed to seeing Kranitski at various times, he nodded to him with a brief "Bon jour!" and turned to the organ. Sitting at the organ he threw these words over his arm:

"We expect Maryan at lunch."

"But she?" inquired Kranitski from the depth of the long and high arms of the cathedra.

"She will finish her toilet and go."