"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."

Then he played the Bach fugue. He played, and Kranitski, sank in the chair, listened and grew sadder and sadder. During recent days he had grown evidently old; he had become thin; wrinkles had appeared on his forehead. His person had lost elasticity and self-confidence, lie looked like a man who had received a heavy blow, but he was, as always, dressed carefully, the odor of perfumes was around him, and a colored handkerchief appeared in his coat pocket. In presence of the baron's music he grew sad and then sadder. That music made the place more and more church-like. The figures of saints on the shade under the golden haloes seemed to melt in profound adoration. The "Triumph of Death" spread its wings on the background of subdued colors in the chamber; in that atmosphere the organ and silence sang a majestic duet. Kranitski began to feel the tone of mind mightily. His shoulders bent forward mechanically; he took out of his pocket the gold cigarette case, and thought, while turning it in his fingers:

"Everything passes! Everything is behind me—love and the rest! The grave swallows all things. The days fly, like dust, fly into the past—into eternity! Eternity! the enigma."

All at once into the duet, sung by the organ and silence, broke the loud rattle of a door, then the rustle of silk skirts, till there had shot through the dining-room, and halted in the door of the drawing-room, a creature who was pretty, not large, excessively noisy, and active of body. She had a short skirt, small feet, a fur-lined cape of the latest style, and a gigantic hat which shaded a small, dark, thin, wilted face, with eyes burning like candles and hair gleaming like Venetian gold. The silk, the sable, the incredibly long ostrich feathers, the diamonds in her ears, and the loud burst of laughter cut through the music of Bach like a silver saw.

"Eh bien, ne veus-tu pas me dire bon jour, toi, grand beta? Tiens, voila!" (Well, wilt thou not say good-day to me, thou great beast? Here it is!) With the expression voila! was heard a loud kiss, impressed on the check of the baron, then Lili Kerth, the gleaming of silk, diamonds, eyes, and hair turned toward the door of the antechamber and saw Kranitski.

"Oh, te voila aussi, vieux beau!" (Oh, here thou art too, old beau!) She sprang toward the cathedra, and, wringing her hands, exclaimed:

"What a funereal face!" And she spoke on, or rather babbled on in French: "Hast disappointments? That is bad! But one must not think of them. Do as I do. I have disappointments, but I mock at them. This is how I treat disappointments."

She made a stop so elastic that her little foot flew into the air, and she touched Kranitski's chin with the point of her shoe. That was a model indication of the method with which one should treat disappointments.

"Now adieu to the company!" cried she, and rattling her bracelets she vanished.

In the chamber there was silence again, in the midst of which Tristan gave a knightly bow to Isolde, and the monk Alberich let himself down into the jaws of hell; "Triumph of Death" spread her bat-wings, and the saints with their golden haloes crossed their pale hands on their bright robes.

The baron was sitting before the organ with his head dropped to his breast. Kranitski, buried in the cathedra, panted aloud for some seconds till he said, with a complaining voice:

"It is abominable! I do not wish a cocotte to throw her foot on my neck when I am thinking of eternity. What confounded tastes you have! Immediately after leaving Lili Kerth to play that divine Bach. Nonsense! mixture! I am not a monk, far from it—but such shaking up in one bottle of the profane and the sacred, no, that is vileness swaddled in art. Yes, yes, I beg forgiveness once more, but in the Holy Scriptures something is said about a gold ring in a pig's nose. Voila!"

The baron smiled under his ruddy mustache and said, after a while:

"That is subtle and not to be understood by everyone. Bach after Lili Kerth—that is the bite, that is the irony of things. Do you know Baudelaire's quatrain?"

He stood up, and, without declamation, even carelessly, through his nose and teeth, gave the quatrain:

"Quand chez le debauche l'aube blanche et vermeil,

Entre en societe de l'Ideal rongeur,

Par l'operation d'un mystere vengeur,

Dans la brute assoupie un Ange se reveille."

With his hands in the pockets of his flannel sack he paced through the room.

Maryan had translated that quatrain quite beautifully. Without interrupting his pacing he repeated the translation.

The bell rang in the antechamber; Maryan entered the drawing-room. He was paler than usual and had dark lines under his eyes, which were very bright. Kranitski rushed from the cathedra, and, seizing the young man by both hands, looked into his face with tenderness:

"At last, at last! I have not seen you for almost a fortnight. I have not left the house. I had a little hope that you would visit me."

"All right, all right!" answered Maryan, and touching the hand of the baron, he sat down on the box on which was the anointing of Louis XI, he rested his shoulders on the bare foot of Alberich and became motionless.

Maryan continued to be so motionless that not only the limbs of his body, but the features of his face seemed benumbed. Had it not been for his eyes, which were gleaming brightly, he might have been mistaken at a distance for a stuffed and elegantly dressed manikin. Baron Emil and Kranitski knew what this meant. According to Maryan that was a chill into which he fell always after disappointment or disenchantment. He was possessed at such times by a lack of will, which made all movements, even those which were physical, unendurable and difficult. At the same time he had such a contempt for all things on earth that it did not seem worth the while to him to move hand or lips for any cause. Some French writer has called such a condition of desiccation of the heart's interior. Maryan found that definition quite appropriate. When he sat motionless, deaf and dumb, or walked like an automaton moved by springs, he felt exactly as if the interior of his heart were drying up.

The baron, too, passed through similar states with some differences, however, for feeling contempt instead of lack of will, he felt a "red anger," or what the French call colere rouge. He was carried away then by the wish to shut his fist, heat and break, in fact he did beat the servants sometimes, and break costly articles. He considered the desiccation of his friend's heart in its interior portions with respect, even with sympathy. He, with hands thrust into his yellowish flannel pockets, walked up and down in the chamber and hissed through his teeth:

"We are all stunted. We are breaking down! bah! it is time. The world is old. Children of an aged father born with internal cancer."

Kranitski, hearing this, thought: "Why should a man break down and get a cancer when he is young and rich?" But he did not oppose. He pitied Maryan. He looked at him with an expression of eyes similar to that with which loving nurses look on sick or capricious children.

At lunch Maryan's handsome face was sallow and motionless as a wax mask; as a wax mask it stood out on the background of the high arms of the chair. He was as silent as a stone. He had no appetite. He ate only a little caviar, and then fell to swallowing an endless number of small cups of black coffee, which the baron himself prepared, according to some special recipe, and poured out. The baron himself drank goblet after goblet of wine, and as to the rest he yawned a great deal more than he ate. But Kranitski's appetite was a success. After some weeks of Widow Clemens' meagre kitchen he ate eggs, cutlets, cheese, till his eyes were gleaming. According to his old acquaintances gastronomy had always been his weak point—and women. But he drank little and did not play cards. In spite of hearty eating he did not forget the duties of a welcome guest. He kept up conversation with the master of the house, who told him carelessly of a rare and beautiful picture found at some collector's.

"A real, a genuine Overbeck. We were to examine it with Maryan, but since Maryan did not come—" He turned to young Darvid: "Why did you not come?"

There was no answer. The waxen mask, supported on the arm of the chair, remained motionless and gazed with gloomy eyes into space.

"Overbeck!" began Kranitski, and added, "a pre-Raphaelite."

Over Maryan's fixed features ran a quiver caused by better thoughts. Without the least movement of features or posture he grumbled:

"Nazarene."

Kranitski corrected himself hurriedly and with a shamed face.

"Yes, pardon! A Nazarene."

"But, naturally, a Nazarene pure blood," said the baron, growing animated, "the uninitiated confound Nazarenes with pre-Raphaelites quite erroneously. They form a separate school. This Overbeck is a find. I will say more, it is a discovery. If it were dragged out of that den and taken abroad one might do a splendid business with it."

Warmed by a considerable quantity of wine, his complexion made somewhat rosy, the baron fell to giving Kranitski an idea which had circled long in his brain: "There is in Poland a number of ancient families who are failing financially, and who possess many remnants of former wealth. There are frequently things of high value not only objects of pure art, but the most various products of former wealth and taste; as, for instance, hangings, tapestry belts, china, tapestry, furniture, and jewellery. The owners, pushed to the wall by evil circumstances, would sell willingly, and for a trifle, articles which have great value now in both hemispheres. One must search for them, it is true, almost as the humanists once sought for Greek and Latin manuscripts, but whoever could find, purchase, and sell these would open a real mine of great profits. In Europe, England is the country most favorable for commercial operations of this kind, but the richest field is America. To buy here for a trifle and sell in the United States for gold weighed out to you. But, before beginning business, one should go to America, examine the field, form connections, take initial steps. Above all approach the undertaking with considerable capital and great knowledge."

While explaining his idea and the plan of operations which had come to his head long before, and drawing from the glass excellent liquid, the baron became animated, grew young, his little eyes under their ruddy brows gleamed sharply. And even Maryan said all at once in grumbling tones:

"It is an idea!"

"Is it not?" laughed the baron.

Kranitski listened in silence, with curiosity. Then, halting a little, he said, with some indecision:

"If your project becomes a fact then you will take me as your agent. I know a little of those things; I know where to look for them, and I offer you my earnest services—very earnest."

In spite of the jesting tone one could note in his imploring look, and in his smile full of timid, uncertain quivers, that he felt keenly the need of fixing himself to someone or something and escaping from the great void yawning under him.

All three lighted cigars and went to the drawing-room where Maryan sat again on the Louis XI box, Kranitski sank into a cathedra, and the baron opened at the window one sheet of an English paper, which shielded him before the light from his knees to the crown of his head. He was silent rather long, then from behind the paper curtain was heard his nasal voice:

"Crushing!"

"What?" inquired Kranitski.

"The fair at Chicago."

And he read aloud an account of the preparations for the colossal exhibition which was to be in that American city.

He accompanied the reading with judgments which contained comparisons: The old part of the world—the old civilizations, the old common methods and proceedings.

Besides narrow spaces, familiar horizons—too familiar. But America was something not worn to rags yet. By a wonderful chance the baron had not been there, but when he thought of America Rimbaud's verses occurred to him. He rose, and, walking through the chamber, gave the following:

"Divine vibration of green seas,

The peace of fields spotted with animals;

Silences traversed by worlds, by angels."

"And by millions!" called Maryan from the foot of the white monk Alberich.

He took his shoulders from the monk's robe, and added:

"Nowhere are there such colossal fortunes, and such powerful means of getting them, as on those fields spotted with animals."

And all at once, as it were, the desiccating interior of his heart became animated, he rose and began to walk quickly through the chamber, passed the slowly walking baron, and said:

"It is an idea! One must dwell on it. I must go there, or somewhere else—do something with myself. I am driven from this place by one of the greatest disappointments which I have ever known. I reached the bottom of disenchantments yesterday. That is why I did not come to look at the Overbeck. I was buried. My last painted pot burst. I was disappointed in a man for whom I had felt something like honor."

He spoke English. The baron asked him in English also:

"What has happened?"

And Kranitski, with a little worse accent in the same language, repeated the question a number of times.

Maryan, continuing to walk through the chamber, narrated the conversation with his father and the ultimatum given him. The baron laughed noiselessly, and inquired; Kranitski gave out cries of indignation. Maryan, with a fiery face and feverish movement, added:

"I had thought that man worthy of my admiration. Logical, consequent, unconquerable, formed of one piece. A magnificent monolith. No sentiments, no prejudices. Permitting no one to disturb the development of his individuality. I understood that his method of rearing me, and then pushing me to the highest spheres of life, pointed to this, that I was to live for his honor. I was to be one of the columns of that temple which he had raised to his own glory. But just that absoluteness with which he used everything for his own purposes roused in me homage. The power of producing was in him equal to his power of egotism. So must it be with every individuality fashioned by nature not on a model, but originally. I did not know him much, and desired a nearer acquaintance. I was certain that we should understand each other perfectly; that I should behold from nearby a magnificent monolith. Meanwhile it was stuck over with labels of various kinds of trash, and covered with half a hundred stains of the past—"

"He remembered the school of training and labor in time," laughed Kranitski.

"Peste!" hissed the baron. "What a rheumatism of thought!"

"Moral principles!" added Kranitski, "he himself practises them beautifully. Let him give even half of his millions to that poverty which is ashamed to beg. Oh, he will not! He will not do that! By the help of moral principles it is easy to put sacred burdens on other men's shoulders."

"That is it," added Maryan, "on other men's shoulders you have hit the point, my old man. Yes! So many years he cared for nothing; he considered nothing; now on a sudden he has thrown down the edifice which he himself built. I know not as to others; but, as for me, I shall stick to my rights. I cannot permit myself to fall a victim to this sad accident, that my father is a mental rheumatic."

He stopped, meditated a moment, then added:

"That is even more than rheumatism of thought; it is the exudation of a decaying past, filling the brain with the corruption—of a corpse."

"Corruption of a corpse! very apt this expression!" exclaimed the baron.

Kranitski made a wry face in the cathedra, and muttered:

"No, no. What horror! I will never agree to that phrase."

But no one heard this quiet protest. Now the baron in his turn, walking more and more quickly through the room, spoke on.

Maryan remained sitting on the Louis XI box while the baron walked and complained of the narrowness of relations and the low level of civilization in the city:

"This is the real fatherland of darned socks. Everything here has the mustiness of locked up store-houses. There is a lack of room and ventilation. In England William Morris, a great poet, establishes a factory for objects pertaining to art, and makes millions. I beg you to show anything similar in this place. Darvid has made a colossal fortune only because he was not blind, and did not hold on to his father's fence. Nationality and fa-ther-land, each is a darned sock—one of those labels which men with parti-colored clothes paste on a gate before which diggers are standing. One must escape from this position. One must know how to will."

The baron said, that as soon as he could bring certain plans of his to completion and regulate certain property interests, and even before regulating them, he would occupy himself with completing his new plan. He turned to Maryan:

"Will you be my partner? It would be difficult for me to get on without you. You have an excellent feeling for art—you are subtle—"

"Why not," answered Maryan. "But one should go first of all and examine the field; one should go to America before the exhibition."

"Naturally, before the exhibition, so as to begin action before it is over. In the question of capital—"

"I will sell my personal property, which has some value, and incur another debt," said Maryan, carelessly.

The baron halted; he thought awhile; his faded face took on that expression of roguery which the French call polissonnerie; joyousness seized him.

"We will shoot off!" cried he; and he made a movement with his foot like that which a street-sweeper makes to catch a bark shoe thrown up in the air.

Maryan rose, shook himself out of his lethargy, and said, almost with delight:

"It is an idea. To America!"

Then from the abyss of the immensely deep and broad cathedra Kranitski's voice was heard, orphan-like, timid:

"But will you take me with you, my dears? When you shoot off you will take me with you, will you not?"

There was no answer. The baron was sitting already before the organ and had begun to play some grand church composition; in the dignified sound of that music Tristan made a knightly bow to Isolde, and the "Triumph of Death," with its dark outline, was reflected on the background of Alberich's white habit, while the saints painted with golden haloes on the windows clasped their pale hands above their bright robes.



CHAPTER VII

Baron Emil said at times to Irene:

"You have the aristocracy of intellect. Your mind is original. There is in you much delicate irony. You are not deceived with painted pots."

These words caused her pleasure of the same sort as that which the praise of a mountaineer causes an inexperienced traveller when he tells him that he knows how to climb neck-breaking summits. Much irony had flowed into her mind from certain mysterious sides of her life. But she had become conscious of this now for the first time, under the guidance and influence of the baron. He awed her by the originality of his language and ideas, by the absolute sincerity of his disbelief, and his egotism. During childhood she had seen a mask which astounded her, and struck her in the very heart. Thenceforth everything seemed better to her and more agreeable than masks. Moreover, the baron was to her thinking a finished aesthete, an excellent judge in the whole realm of art, and in this regard she did not deceive herself greatly. The opinions on art and philosophy, which he proclaimed, interested her through their novelty, and the expressions which he used purposely, though sometimes brutal and verging on the gutter, roused her curiosity by their singularity and insolence. She imitated him in speech; in his presence she guarded her lips lest they might let something escape through which she would earn the title of "shepherdess."

"You are very far from the Arcadian condition, in which I meet people here at every step. You are intricate; you are like an orchid, one stem of which has a flower in the form of a butterfly, while the next seems like a death's head."

She interrupted him with a brief laugh:

"A butterfly is flat."

Her laugh had a sharp sound, for the cold gleam of the baron's eyes fell on her boldly and persistently.

"No," contradicted he, "no; the combination of a death's head with a butterfly makes a dissonance. That bites and sticks a new pin in the soul."

"But the Greek harmony?" she inquired.

With a flattering smile, which conquered her, the baron answered:

"Never mention harmony. That is the milk with which babes were nourished. We subsist on something else. You like game, do you not? but only when it begins to decay. There is no good game, except that which is rank. Very well, we subsist on a world in decay. This is true, but you speak of that darned sock; namely, harmony—ha! ha! ha! You think sometimes one way and sometimes another. Your soul is full of bites! You are idyllic and also satirical. You jeer at idyls, and still, at odd times, you yearn for one somewhat. Have I touched the point accurately? Are my words true?"

"True," answered Irene, dropping her eyelids.

She dropped her lids because she was ashamed of the discovery which the baron had made in her, and for this cause as well, that she felt his breath on her face, and caught the odor of certain strange perfumes which came from him. His eyes sought hers and strove to pour into them their cold gleam, which was also a burning one. He strove to take her hand, but she withdrew it, and he, with lowered, drawling, and somewhat nasal tones, said:

"You wish, and again you do not wish; you feel the cry of life in you and try to turn it into a lyric song."

The cry of life! Over this phrase Irene halted later on, but briefly, touched as she had been by premature knowledge, its meaning became clear to her straightway. The baron, small, fragile, with a faded face and irregular, was a master in calling forth the "cry of life" in women. His manner with them was exquisite, but also insolent. In his gray eyes, with the reddened edges of their lids, he had a look which was hypnotising in its persistence and cold fire. It resembled the glitter of steel—pale and penetrating. In the manner in which he held the hand of a woman and placed a kiss on it, in the glances with which he seemed to tear her away from her shelter, in the intonation given to certain words, was attained the primitiveness of desire and conquest under cover of polished refinement. Amid the tedium and dissatisfaction of ordinary and exercised lovemakers this method seemed cynical, but bold and honest. It might have been compared to the shaggy head of a beast sticking out of a basket of heliotropes, which have ever the character of sameness as has their odor. The head is ugly, but smells of a cave and of troglodytes, which among common flowers of dull odor lend it the charm of power and originality.

Irene thought at once of "great grandfatherliness;" when in presence of the baron her nerves quivered like chords when touched in a manner unknown up to that time. She asked herself: "Am I in love?" But when he had gone this question called from her a brief, ironical smile. She analyzed and criticised the physical and moral personality of the baron with perfect coolness, and at moments with a shade of contempt even.

A vibrio! This expression contained the conception of physical and moral withering, almost the palpable picture of an existence which merely quivers in space, and is barely capable of living. In comparison with this picture she had a presentiment of some wholesome, noble, splendid strength. Disgust for the baron began to flow around her heart and rise to her lips with a taste that was repulsive, and to her brain with a thought that was bitter: Why is this world as it is? Why is it not different? But perhaps it was different somewhere else, but not for her? She had ceased to believe in an idyl. She had looked too long, and from too near a point, at the tragedy and irony of things to preserve faith in idyls. Maybe there were idyls somewhere, but not in the sphere where she lived—they were not for her! To yearn for that which perhaps did not exist at all, which most assuredly did not exist for her! What a "rheumatism of thought" that would be! Her head, with a Japanese knot of fiery hair on the top of it, bent down low, for the stream of lead from her heart was rising. With a movement usual to her she clasped her long hands, and, squeezing them violently, thought:

"Well, what of it? I must in every case create some future, and why should any other be better than this one? Here at least is sincerity on both sides, and a just view of things."

As time passed she said to herself that what she felt for the baron was love of a certain kind, and that at the foundation of things there is no other love, and if there is any other kind it does not signify much, for each kind passes quickly. She began in general to attach less and less weight to that side of life, and also life itself had for her a charm which was continually decreasing. In the gloom of weariness, and the apathy into which she was falling, that which connected her with the baron was like a red electric lantern shining on a throng in the street and in the darkness. It was not the bright sun, nor the silvery moon; it was just that red lantern which, shining on a throng in the street, enabled one to see many curious or brilliant objects.

She knew of Lili Kerth, and the role which she played as to the world in general and the baron in particular. The baron in that case, as in others, wore no mask; sometimes he accompanied Lili Kerth to public promenades, and sometimes even showed himself with her in a box at the theatre. That was in contradiction with morals, especially in view of his relation with Irene; but subjection to morals, would not that be standing guard over graves, or the "darned sock?"

In this case Maryan, without knowing why, did not applaud his friend.

"C'est crane, mais trop cochon," judged he, and he pouted a little at the baron, but looked with curiosity at his sister, also present in the theatre. Irene sat in her box as usual, calm and full of distinction, a little formal, never charmed with anything, or laughing at anything. As usual she conversed with the baron between acts, till Maryan, looking at her, sneered, and asked:

"How did your vis-a-vis please you?"

"Qui cette fille?" asked Irene, carelessly. "The color of her hair is superb. Pure Venetian gold."

No feeling of offence, or modesty.

"Bravo!" said Maryan. And with comical solemnity in his voice he added: "Dear sister, you have a new mentality altogether. You have surpassed my expectations, and now I shall call you my true sister."

Why? Was she to be naive in a theatre? She knew well that such things were done everywhere, and they must exist in the life of the baron. And, if they must exist, then let them be open, for mysteries—Oh! she preferred anything to masks and mysteries. Besides the question was mainly in this, that that history of the baron and the famous singer of chansonettes did not concern her in any way.

One evening outside the windows of the house began the twilight, which was rather pale from snow. In the drawing-room sat Irene amid the cold whiteness of sculpture, which adorned the walls, and the reflection on polished furniture of blue watered-silk. The young lady was seated at one of the windows on a high stool. On the background of the window-pane, filled with the whitish twilight, her figure seemed tall, with narrow shoulders, and her profile somewhat too prolonged. Over this profile rose a knot of fiery hair, and the whole figure reminded one of a statue of a priestess, erect and smiling enigmatically. Her eyelids were drooping, her long hands were clasped on her robe; but the smiles wandering over her lips and ever changing, were not those of satisfaction. She remembered that in recent days she had met the baron offener than before. He strove more and more to see her—to meet her. He simply pursued her—found her frequently in shops which she visited with her mother, or alone. When he came he did not shield himself with the excuse of chance, but said with his usual sincerity:

"I willed to-day to see you, and I see you. I know how to will!"

This day she had barely entered the shop of a celebrated tailor when he entered also, and immediately, with unusual animation, began to tell her of his great project of going to America and settling there for a long time, perhaps permanently. He was roused by that idea; he was almost enthusiastic; the hope of new scenes and impressions, perhaps great profits, had fired his imagination. Of these last he spoke also to Irene.

"One must move, rouse courage, bring the nerves into action, otherwise they may wither. One must conquer and win. He who does not gain victories deserves the grave. Money is an object worthy of conquest, for it opens the gates of life. William Morris is a famous poet and artist, but he became a manufacturer. He understood that contempt for industry is like many other things, a painted pot. Men made this pot and poets painted it in beautiful colors, then the poets died of hunger. America holds in reserve new horizons."

He spoke long, and was astonished himself at his own enthusiasm.

"I thought," said he, "that I should never know enthusiasm, and I supposed even that it was a rheumatism of thought. Meanwhile I feel enthusiasm, yes, enthusiasm! And it pervades me with a delightful shiver. Do you not share it? Are you not attracted, as well as I, by distant perspectives, new horizons, 'the divine vibrations of blue seas, the silences traversed by worlds, by angels '—And plagiarizing he repeated the addition made by Maryan: 'And by millions'?"

Yes, she was attracted. Not by the millions; she was too familiar with them, but the distant perspectives, the new horizons, the shoreless expanses of oceans, and the endless quiet of spaces which in the twinkle of an eye were unfolded before her imagination. The dull pain, and the gloomy disgust which tortured her not long before, cried out: "Yes! yes! go, fly far, as far as possible under new skies, among people of another nationality! Go, fly, seek."

With a slight flush on her cheeks, which were delicate to the highest degree, she told all this to the baron, whose crumpled, faded face was gleaming with delight.

"You make me happy, really happy!" whispered he, and added: "Command me to bow down before you; I will obey and bow down."

Meanwhile a door-bell was heard every moment in the great shop, and a wave of people passing by reminded Irene of the reason why she was there. She turned to an elegant apartment, in which a flood of materials disposed on the furniture was waiting for her. The baron had a knowledge of the wearing apparel of ladies; he liked to speak of it; and more than once, with the accuracy of a tailor, and the pleasure of an artist, he told of the original and peculiar toilets seen in capitals. On this occasion, in the tailor's apartment between great mirrors, in the flood of unfolded materials, he said:

"I beg you not to dress according to pattern; I beg you not to spoil my delight by forcing me to see on you any of the ridiculous styles of this city. I meet no ladies here of subtle taste. There is wealth, frequently there is even taste, but common, according to pattern. For you it is necessary to think out something new—something symbolic, or rather something which symbolizes. A woman's dress should be a symbol of her individuality. For you it is necessary to think out a dress which would symbolize aristocracy of soul and body."

And he fell to thinking out; and they both fell to thinking out. They selected among colors and kinds of materials; they examined specimens, drawings, the baron corrected them, completed them with details taken from his own fancy. After a certain time they agreed to one thing: her dress should be flame color. With Irene's delicate complexion and her fiery hair this would, as the baron thought, form a whole which would be irritating.

"In this robe you will be novel and irritating."

The proprietor of the shop, elegant and important, came in and went out, inquired, advised, and again left them to their own thoughts and decisions. They, on their part, amused themselves better and better, surrounded by a light cloud of perfumes which rose from their clothing, and by the rustle of silks which fell to their feet, like cascades of many colors. The flame-colored material was selected, still they went on selecting. The baron, with a flush appearing on his cheeks, exclaimed:

"We are passing the time most delightfully, are we not? And who could have expected it? At a tailor's! But you and I know how to experience sensations which no one else can experience. For that it is necessary to have a sixth sense. You and I have the sixth sense."

Irene began to lose her usual formality and air of distinction; she spoke quickly and much; she laughed aloud, and, a number of times, the movement of her bosom and arms became irregular, too lively at moments, but they were full of a half dreamy gracefulness. The baron grew silent and looked at her for a while, then, with rapturous eyes, he began:

"How you are changed at this moment. How charmingly you are changed! Such surprises interest one—they irritate. You have the rare gift of causing surprises."

With gleaming eyes he begged her insistently to tell him whether the change which had taken place, the humor into which she had fallen, was spontaneous or artificial, the result of feeling, or of coquetry.

"You are without doubt the product of high training, so it is difficult to know in you that which is nature and that which is art. And such a person in that changed form is problematical—I beg you, I beg you to tell me whether in you this is nature, or art?"

Listening to these words, in which a very insolent idea was contained, she laughed and turned her eyes away. But bending toward her with a smile which might remind one of a satyr, and with a request in his voice, he asked:

"Is this nature? is it art?"

With a sudden resolve she answered:

"It is nature!"

And she wished to equal the boldness of her answer with the boldness of her look, but a flaming blush shot over her face, and the lids covered her eyes, into which shame had gushed forth. Though maiden modesty was a painted pot, this new change, to which Irene had yielded, exercised on the baron a new irritating influence. In the midst of the rustling materials he seized both her hands, his eyes flashed magnetic rays into her flushed face; he drew her delicate form toward him. She tried to twist her hands away, and with a violent effort strove to throw her bust backward, but the fragile baron was very strong at that instant; he pressed her hands in his as in a vice, and whispered into her very face:

"Do not fight against that cry of life which is heard within you—I am a despot—I know how to will—"

With the last word he pressed his lips to hers. But that moment she, too, gained unexpected strength, and in a flash she was some steps away from him, very pale now and trembling throughout her whole body.

"This is too much of nature!" cried she.

Her head was erect, and from her eyes came flashing sparks, which soon melted, however, into cold irony. Shrugging her shoulders, with a smile she exclaimed:

"Dieu! que c'etait vulgaire!"

Then holding her skirt with both hands, as if she wished not to take one atom of dust from that room with her, she went out into the shop; the baron saw her talk to the tailor for a moment with her usual coolness, and then turn to go with the ordinary words of brief leave-taking.

But now Irene sitting there on that tall stool at the window, surrounded by the fading gleam of the blue watered-silk, and against the background of the pane which was covered with a whitish gloom, seemed a statue with a delicate bust, and a somewhat prolonged profile settled in stony fixedness. The "cry of life" possessed as words the charm of novelty and daring, but when changed into an act it roused in her every feeling of offence and maiden modesty. The shaggy beast had ventured out too far from behind the heliotropes, and had given forth too rank a smell of the den and the troglodytes. "It is vulgar!" cried she to the baron, but she understood immediately that what had taken place was neither new, nor a rare thing, but as old as the human race and as vulgar as the street is. The tailor's shop full of people, the ceaseless ringing at the door-bell, the noise of selling and buying, the passage beyond the window—is the street. A kiss received on the street. Street adventure! A quiver shot downward through her shoulders. Before her imagination passed the wretched forms of women trailing in the dusk of evening along the sidewalks. On her inclined face a blush came out; that painted pot called maiden, modesty, under the form of inherited instinct and woman's pride, was laboring in her untiringly and painfully. After a while its place was taken by disgust beyond expression.

The baron, whose single charm was in his subtlety, appeared now as a vulgar figure. That kind of mutual love, which she had thought they felt for each other, when closely analyzed, reminded her of pictures in which Fauns with goats' beards were chasing through the forest after Nymphs. On Irene's lips a jeering, almost angry smile, now fixed itself. What did he say: "a sixth sense." Why a sixth sense in this case? Empty words! The baron jeers at painted pots, but he makes them himself, and paints them in the ancient colors. An idyl is an old thing, and a den is old also, but the idyl would be better than the den if only it existed. But where is it? Her eyes had never seen an idyl, but they had seen, ah, they had seen what happens and takes place with loves of men and women, 'and with bonds which bear the name of sacred! Well, what is to be done with the baron—and America? Such contempt for everything, such disbelief in all things, such a contemptuous despising of everything, and of her own self as well, embraced her and possessed her, that at the end of the meditation she said to herself: "It is all one!" She crossed her hands and pressed them firmly across her breast, bent her head somewhat, and thought: "It is all, all, all one!"

A few tears, one after another, fell on her tightly clasped fingers. "All one! If only the sooner!"

What sooner? Why sooner? With a slow movement she turned her face toward her mother's apartments; her lips which quivered, and the glistening tear which had fallen on them had the same kind of expression that a child has when crying in silence. With brows raised somewhat, she whispered:

"Mamma!"

After a while, under those brows which were like delicate little flames, her eyes began to grow mild, to lose their tears and their irony, until they took on an expression of such delight, as if they were looking at an idyl.

Meanwhile the air, modified by the gray twilight, was cut by a bright moving line. This was Cara going from her father's study with Puff tugging at her skirt. She hummed a song as she went forward. When she saw her sister she ceased humming, and called out from the end of the drawing-room:

"Do you know, Ira, father will dine with us to-day?"

In her voice a note of triumph was heard. After many weeks her father would sit for the first time with them at the family table, and then everything would go on as it should go. What it was that went ill, and why it went so, she knew not. But she had been observing, was astonished, and had fears. With that real sixth sense, which persons of keen sensitiveness possess, she felt something. She felt in the air a certain oppression, a certain trouble, and, not knowing what these signified, nor whence they were coming, she suffered. In the very same way, organisms with supersensitive nerves feel the approach of atmospheric storms. Now she advanced with a short step, erect and slender, with Puff at her skirt, while she hummed joyously.

When Irene entered her mother's study soon after, she saw, by the lamplight, a group composed of three persons. Sitting on the sofa, with glitters of black jet in her light hair, was Malvina Darvid; nearby, in a low armchair, inclining toward her, was Maryan, elegant as usual, and before him, with elbows resting on her mother's knees, knelt Cara, a bright, blue strip lying across the black silk robe of her mother.

"A picture deserving the eyes of Sarah and Rebecca!" suggested Irene, going straight to the mirror before which she began, with raised arms, to arrange and modify the knot of hair on her head. Maryan, in good humor, was imploring his mother to let him have her portrait painted by one of the most noted artists in the city.