But at that moment appeared on his lips the smile, which, as people said, was bristling with pin-points.

"What is this? Is it exaltation?"

He discovered exaltation in himself. A few days before, nay, down to that very night, he would have laughed at the supposition that in him it could darken judgment and clear vision. He thought, however, that a man is at times to himself the most marvellous of all surprises. Under various influences forces spring up in him, the presence of which he is farthest from suspecting. Darvid discovered, now in himself, the thing most unexpected: exaltation. The habit of a life-time; that which he had always considered as an unshaken conviction, rose now with loud laughter at itself. Will he begin now as a poet to write a threnody over his dead daughter, or like a monk yield himself to thoughts about death? Misery! Earlier, that word had occurred more than once to him, but only now does it career through his head freely. Still, he will not let exaltation master him. He must stand erect and look at things soberly.

He straightened himself; removed his shoulders from the wall; calmed his face and glance; by strength of will brought a greeting smile to his lips; and moved toward his guests. The moment the hymn stopped he gave his hand to those present, in very polite welcome, and thanked them with a few, but pleasant phrases. This was the beginning of one of those herculean struggles, the like of which he had fought many times in the past. This, in its farther course, had an orgie of labor, which he continued for a number of weeks, and which roused admiration, or curiosity, in every on-looker.

One day, between his return from the city and the hour of reception, he was standing in the blue drawing-room at the window, thinking: What that peculiar movement was which on returning from the city he noted while walking up the stairway. Porters were bearing out articles of some sort, which he did not examine, but which seemed to him pictures, and other things also. Was Maryan leaving the house? Perhaps. It was impossible to foresee what that self-sufficient and stubborn youth was capable of doing. But whatever happened he would not yield, and he would permit no longer that vain method of life, with its mad excesses, excesses which are costly. But in those recent hours everything, not excepting Maryan, had concerned him considerably less than before. Why was this? He did not answer that question, for he heard a noise of steps, and a whisper:

"Aloysius!"

He looked around. It was Malvina greatly changed. Beneath her hair, dressed with stern simplicity, her forehead was furrowed with a dark, deep wrinkle; the corners of her pale mouth were drooping; on the back of her head a heavy roll of hair, coiled carelessly, dropped to her dress of black material, which was almost like the robe of a religious. She stood in the descending darkness, some steps from him. She had pronounced his name, but was unable to go further. Her white hand, resting on a small table, trembled; her head was inclined, and she raised to him eyes which were dim but had a painfully timid and anxious expression. They looked at each other for a moment, and then he inquired:

"In what can I serve?"

The question was polite and formal. After a moment of hesitation, or of collecting her strength, she began:

"Irene and I are to leave here in a few days. It is impossible for me to do this without speaking to thee, Aloysius. I have waited for a convenient moment, and seeing thee here, I have come."

She was silent again. She breathed quickly, and was excited. Standing toward her in profile, the definite and sharp outline of his face was fixed on the background of the window, beyond which was darkness; he inquired:

"What is the question?"

She answered in a whisper:

"Be patient—this is hard for me—"

And as if fearing to exhaust that patience for which she was begging, the woman began hurriedly, and therefore without order, to say:

"A common misfortune has struck us—thou hast been, Aloysius, so kind, so immensely loving to our poor Cara—when I go from here with, thou wilt be so much alone—Maryan has some project of travel—so perhaps—if it were possible—if thou couldst forget the past—I do not know even—forgive—if thou shouldst wish, I and Irene would remain—"

While speaking she gained some courage; some internal motive was to be felt in her, which forced her to speak.

"I will not try to justify myself before thee, Aloysius, nor to deny that I am guilty—I will say only this, that I, too, was unhappy, and that my fault has caused me dreadful suffering. I wished to say to thee, Aloysius, that, perhaps, even on thy part also, for thou didst not know me—that is, thou didst know my face, my eyes, my hair, the sound of my voice, and they pleased thee, hence thou didst make me thy wife, but thou didst not know my soul, and didst not wish to be its confidant, or its defender. This soul was not devoid of good desires; not without some small beginning of heartfelt happiness—though it was the unfortunate soul of a woman attacked by wealth and idleness. But thou, Aloysius, didst make a rich woman of a girl who, though poor and a toiler, held her head high—thou didst make her a rich and unoccupied woman, who—was left to herself at all times. Still, it was thy wish and demand that I should represent thy name in society with the utmost effect; thy name; thy firm, as thou didst call it."

She was silent, for her eyes met his smile which was bristling with pin-points.

"It seems to me," said he, "that in this tragic piece which it pleases thee to play, the role of villain will fall to me."

"Oh, no!" cried she, clasping her hands. "Oh, no! I did not wish to complain of thee in any way, or to make reproaches—I have not the right—but—I think that since all of us in this world are guilty in some way, and life is so sad, and all is so—poor, it would perhaps be better to forgive each other—to yield, to renounce. This is what I think, and though my pride is wounded this long time because all that I must use is thine, I yield, and I will use it, though my only wish is to go from here, to withdraw from the world, to vanish forever in some lonely corner—"

Her voice quivered, shaken by sobbing, but she restrained herself and finished:

"I will renounce this desire, and remain, if—only thou wish—if only thou wilt not despise me—"

With his profile outlined more and more sharply on the window-pane, which grew darker from the gloom, he answered, after a moment of silence:

"I have not the strength for it. I am very sorry; but in me is not stuff to make the hero of a Christian romance. Thou hast perfect freedom of movement; Krynichna belongs to thy daughter. Thou mayst vanish with her in that 'lonely corner,' in which I cannot wish pleasant lives to you, or remain and live here as hitherto, which I could understand better; but in no case—"

He stopped suddenly, and was silent.

While speaking with that woman he had felt beneath his throat a coil of snakes stifling him, but in his brain certain memories were sounding, as it were voices, the echo of something distant. This echo issued from that woman's features, changed and faded, though the same in which on a time he had fixed his eyes with rapture, from the sound of her voice, which, at all times, had possessed for him a charm beyond description. His head, as if pressed by something above him and invisible, dropped with an almost indiscernible movement. Shall he forgive? And what would the result be? An idyl? Harmony? A return to family happiness? Folly!

That can never be. Only one thing in this world is undoubted and indestructible: a fact. A fact has taken place, and there is no power in existence to cause that fact not to be. All views except this are exaltation! After a moment of silence he finished coldly and with deliberation:

"In no case can my feelings, or our relations be subject to change."

She rested her hand against the table more firmly, and bent her head lower—through that head were still wandering certain thoughts of a return to pure womanly honor through expiation, through yielding obediently to the will of the offended.

Then she began in a very low voice:

"Can I aid thee in any way?"

After a moment of silence he answered:

"No."

"Can I be of use to thee in anything?"

He was silent a little longer, and said:

"No," a second time.

The profile which had been turned to her was looking now through the window-pane to a ruddy cloud, which was moving on in darkness above the roof opposite, that cloud reminded him of something. She looked at him, and, after a moment, added:

"Our daughter will write to thee, Aloysius."

He interrupted her, hurriedly:

"Thy daughter!"

She began in astonishment:

"Irene—"

He knew now that that ruddy cloud moving over the darkening sky reminded him of Cara. He turned his face toward the face of the woman standing there.

"Irene is thy daughter," said he—"for what meaning have blood-bonds when there are no others? I had a child who was my own—"

At that moment desire for revenge boiled up in him; the desire to crush, so he finished:

"And I lost her—through thee!"

"Through me?"

Her questioning cry was full of amazement.

"Thou knowest of nothing then? They have hidden it from thee? A proper regard for the delicate nerves of a woman! But my rude nerves of a man feel the need of sharing this knowledge with thy nerves."

Slowly and emphatically he uttered his words; words which, from moment to moment, were hissed through his pallid lips, and thus he concluded:

"Once thy daughter had an interesting conversation with me; a very interesting conversation about—everything which took place in our family idyl. The little girl, hidden behind some furniture, heard the conversation, and became mentally disordered—oh! temporarily, of course, and this would have passed, but under its influence she exposed herself to the cold night air so as to die. Inflammation of the lungs was complicated by mental disorder. Her death—was suicide."

The last words went out of his straitened throat in a suppressed whisper, still they were so definite as to be heard in every part of the great chamber. They were deadened, however, by the overpowering shriek of the woman and the noise made as her body fell to the floor. Pani Darvid's knees bent under her, and dropping, with her face in her hands, her head struck the corner of the table near which she had been standing. At that moment Irene shot into the chamber; like a skylark, flying forward to defend its little ones, she ran to her mother, and surrounding her bent form with both arms, she raised to her father a face covered with a flood of tears.

"A needless cruelty, father," cried she. "Ah, how I hid this from her; how I tried to hide it! This is a needless cruelty! I thought that a man as wise as thou would do nothing so uncalled for. But thou hast committed a vileness!"

Darvid made an abrupt movement, but restrained himself, and with his face toward the window he heard the retreating footsteps of the two women. There was a second of time during which he turned his head, and his lips moved as if some word, a name was to escape from him. At that moment the two women, holding to each other, moved slowly through the next drawing-room, advanced in the increasing darkness, and vanished. He uttered no word. What was his feeling when she shrieked and struck her head against the edge of the table? Was it pity? Perhaps. Was it a quiver of sorrow for that past which had left him forever, and for that daughter who went out with the word "vileness" hanging on her lips? Perhaps. But he said nothing; he uttered no name. He remained alone. It was silent around him and empty. Emptiness occupied that part of space beyond the window, for the rosy cloud which had passed there a while before had vanished. The figure of Darvid standing at the window became darker in that gloom, which, growing denser, dimmed and then concealed the white, the blue, and the gilding of the great drawing-room. By degrees the lines of his face became invisible; his trembling hands and the quiver of the skin on his cheeks were no longer to be distinguished, and Darvid appeared on the gray background of the window as a narrow and perfectly black line. He did not go away, for he was riveted there, fixed in thought, filled with amazement. In this way, in this manner then, all things on earth are ended. Those invisible giants, Death, Insanity, Anguish, Rage, go about the world trampling, crushing, rending, and no man has power to arrest them! He had never thought about those giants. How could he? Was he a philosopher? He had not had time to think. Now he was thinking, and at the bottom of his stony meditation he beholds a pale, dreadful visage. Something which recalls a Medusa-head, which he had seen some time in a picture. It has struggled out of raging waves, and is resting on them face upward; its hair is torn; its gaze has endless depth; and on its blue lips is a jeering smile. What is it jeering at? Perhaps at the grandeur of the man who appears as a narrow line on the gray background of that window, black, and alone as he is, in the gathering gloom and the silence?

Now something soft and timid touches his feet, and he sees a little dark point moving. He stoops and calls:

"Puffie!"

At the floor was heard thin barking. Puffie had always barked that way to call the attention of his mistress.

Darvid bent low with his hand on the silky coat, and repeated:

"Puffie!"

Then he straightened himself, and, leaving the window, called several times in succession:

"Puffie! Puffie!"

The black line moved on, in the gray darkness, through two drawing-rooms, and behind it, on the floor, rolled the dark small ball-like object, till a space of bright light gleamed before them. This was the widely open door of his clearly lighted study.

In the door the footman pronounced loudly a name, at the sound of which Darvid's step quickened. At last the man had returned—the envoy, the agent, the hound had come hack! Beyond doubt he brings favoring news, otherwise he would have no cause to come. Hence, that colossal business; that immense arena of toil and struggle, through which an enormous vein of gold runs, may belong to Darvid. How timely this is! The business will freshen him; snatch him out of the evil dreams into which he has fallen for some time past. Indeed, all these exaltations, all these elements of feeling, which have risen in him with such power, are an unwholesome and nervous dream, out of which he must shake himself and return to clear, sober, sound reality.



CHAPTER XI

A rather long series of days had passed when Darvid entered his clear, brightly lighted study, after winning one of the very greatest triumphs of his life. In the antechamber he had thrown into the hands of a footman, not his fur, but a somewhat light overcoat; for that day, which for him had been lucky, was succeeded by a warm, spring evening. Whoever might have seen him when he was leaving the lofty threshold of the highest dignitary in that city must have said to himself: "Happy man!" Though he had grown evidently thin during recent days; gladness and pride were beaming from his smile; from his eyes; from his serene forehead. He possessed now that for which he had striven long in vain: he held in his hand the colossal enterprise; before him was a broad arena for iron toil and a great vein, of gold. It is true, that while making ready for that moment of triumph, he had spent days and nights like a Benedictine over piles of books and documents, calculating, combining, covering many folios of paper with arguments and figures. He had toiled immensely, thinking of nothing save the toil; and now, when he stood at his object as a conqueror, all people said: he is happy! He had received a multitude of congratulations already; in the eyes of men he had read much admiration. He had just returned from a meeting where, by accurate and fluent speech, he had convinced and won over a numerous assembly of men of uncommon keenness and significance. Thus had he passed the day; now, in the middle of the evening, he returned to his house; and when he had given the servant in attendance the brief command: "Receive no one!" he asked:

"Where is the little dog?"

After that he dropped into a deep armchair near the round table, and had the face, for a while, of a man who is waking from sleep. For a number of days he had been so buried in thought over this weighty enterprise, and that day from early morning he had been so absorbed by the feeling of that victory which he had won, that he had had no time to think of any other thing; now, after a long time, in the first moment of inactivity which had fallen to him, he felt as if waking from sleep, and he was brought to thinking by the question:

"Well? What is it for?"

Just this question was to him at that moment reality, while every other thing was accomplished by the power of habit. He had toiled, calculated, triumphed, just as a round body rolls over an inclined plane by the force of acquired motion. Under this surface-life, which had been the one which he had led so long exclusively, was now another one which seized a continually increasing area; this new life, a mystery to every other man, had become for him more tangible than the entire visible universe. Out of it was growing an irresistible, importunate riddle, enclosed in the brief words: What for?

These two brief words kept returning to his mind during every moment of rest, so that hours of noise and movement seemed to him a dream, and only those two words—unceasingly recurrent—the one true reality over which there was reason to be anxious.

Why had he taken on his head and hands this new burden of toil, which was greater than all the others? Why, in general, this climbing a sky-touching ladder with exertion of all his strength of nerve and brain? To what kind of heaven could he climb upon that ladder? New profits, ever-increasing wealth? But he had ceased to desire these! Although that seemed marvellous to the man himself, he had ceased really. Why? Did he own little? He was the possessor of enormously much. He had never been of those who make a golden chariot so as to sit in it with Bacchantes and with Bacchus. But pride? He laughed. Yes, pride, but that was before he had known, intimately, those giants who sit in various corners of the earth. He knows them now; he knows what they can do; and he knows his own power. Why toil? What for? But his worth; that worth which people esteem so immensely that they almost cast themselves at his feet, or do they cast themselves before his golden chariot? For, if that chariot were to shoot away from under him, would he retain the title of modern Cid, Titan, superhuman? It was wonderful with what clearness he saw then Maryan, sitting in that chair, and how distinctly he heard his voice inquiring: "What is the object of your toil, father? The object; the object? That decides everything. What was the object? Of course, not this world's salvation!" He laughed again. What cause was there for long thought here! His object had been to win new profits continually; to gain ever-increasing wealth; and now, since he had ceased to desire these, the question was—what for? But the genius of that Maryan with his questions! He had gone down so deeply into his father's being that those questions remained there and continued their inquisitorial labor. A beautiful and genial fellow! A young prince; almost a sage. But what does that signify if—he lacks something? What is it that he lacks, and so lacks that he is as if he had nothing? What is it that he lacks?

With a slow movement, in which weariness was evident, Darvid turned his head toward the desk, which was lighted abundantly with tapers burning on lofty candlesticks. What did those candlesticks bring to his mind? Ah, yes, he remembers! On a time he gave one of them, in the inner drawing-room, to Cara, so that the candle burning in it might light the way to her. He remembers how her slender arm bent beneath its weight when her small hand took it, and how beautifully the flame of the candle was reflected in the dark pupils gazing at him with such—with such what? With such exaltation! But how wonderful, how intense was his happiness when that child lived and loved him as she did! That was his only happiness! Then, holding the light in the heavy candlestick straight on before her rosy face, she went on into the darkness.

Again he looked around, not with a wearied movement as before, but abruptly. He looked around at the door beyond which thick darkness was hiding, impenetrably, a series of drawing-rooms. This darkness was like a black wall outside the door. Along Darvid's shoulders ran a movement of the skin, the same as a man feels when something heavy from behind is placed upon his shoulders, or rides onto him. That black wall, in which an enchanted row of empty drawing-rooms stood silent, seemed to put itself down on him. But again he looked toward the desk; there, among a multitude of papers, lay a letter from Maryan, received many days before. Darvid had not destroyed or put away this letter, and not knowing himself the reason why, had left it on the desk there. The letter, in that great study, appeared definitely with its white color on the green of the malachite writing utensils. Moreover, it was not a letter. A number of lines merely. He had written that, wishing to spare his father and himself a new personal interview; he gives notice, in writing, of his trip to America. But as he is slow to write letters he confines himself to a few words. Since an incomprehensible lack of logic in directing his life had forced him to become a laborer, he desired to choose the field and the manner according to his own individuality. He had turned his personal property into money; this had brought him a considerable sum; he had borrowed another sum; he did not ask pardon for acting thus, since this borrowing was the natural outcome of a position of which he was not the cause, but on the contrary the victim. He makes no reproaches, since he is ever of opinion that all such things as offences and services, crimes and virtues, are soup prepared from the bones of great-grandfathers, and served in painted pots to Arcadians. All this was concluded with a compliment which was smooth, rounded, exquisite as to style, plan, and execution.

Lack of logic. Those three words had fixed themselves in Darvid's memory, and after the words "what for?" appeared in it most frequently. Could they really relate to him? Had he in fact committed an error in logic? Yes, it seemed so. In that case his clear, sober, logical reason had deceived him. He rose, and with his profile toward the door, felt again, rather than saw, a black wall of darkness beyond. Again a shiver ran along the skin of his shoulders, which quivered and bent somewhat. He went to the desk, from which he took another letter, thrown down a moment before, and unread yet. Something in the room was moving; certain little steps ran along the carpet quietly. Puffie had woke; had run to the man, and begun to squirm at his feet.

"Puffie!" said Darvid, and he began to read the letter. It was an invitation from Prince Zeno to a grand farewell ball. The prince and his family were going abroad, and wished to take farewell of their acquaintances in the first rank of them with the "modern Cid." Prince Zeno had often given this title to Darvid. But to-day the "modern Cid" read the letter of invitation while his mouth was awry from disgust. It had not the famous smile bristling with pin-points, but simply that disfigurement of the lips which accompanies the swallowing of something which is nauseating and repugnant. He placed before his mind the society in which some time before he had passed a few days at the hunting trip. This society would fill the prince's drawing-rooms on that day, and not only did he note in himself an utter absence of desire to be in that society, but a repulsion for it. Not that he cherished hatred toward those people, but they were perfectly indifferent to him. He did not reproach that society; but when he thought of it he was conscious again of a boundless space and a vacuum, which divided him from those who formed it. He imagined to himself Prince Zeno's drawing-rooms filled with faces, costumes, conversations, card-tables; and, it seemed to him, that it all existed at an immense distance—on the other side of a space that was infinite and empty—on one edge of this space was he; on the other were they; between him and them lay a vacuum; no bond between them; not even one as slender as a spider-web.

In the midst of the lofty chamber, above the round table, burned the lamp with a great and calm light; on the desk, in massive candlesticks, burned candles. In that abundant light Darvid stood near the desk, with bent shoulders; a number of wrinkles between his brows; his face inclined low toward the paper which he held in his hand. At his feet, on the rug, like a tiny statue, sat the motionless Puffie; with upraised head, and through silken hair, the dog looked into the face of the man. But Darvid did not see the little animal, and did not read the flattering phrases on the paper; he only repeated the words which, on a time, he had heard from his daughter:

"What do you want of so many people, father? Do you love them? Do they love you? What comes of this? Pleasure or profit? What is it all for?"

"I do not love them, little one, and they do not love me. Profit comes to me from this—significance in society."

"But what is significance to you, father? What do you want of significance? Does it give you happiness?"

This time there appeared on his lips the smile full of pinpoints, which was famous in society.

"It has not given it, little one!"

His child had let down on her question his thought to the basis of life, as if on threads. Now he looked around, and his smile was bristling with pin-points of irony, increasing in sharpness. He thought a long time before he said, aloud:

"What comes of this?"

And afterward, in an inquiring tone, he almost cried:

"An error?"

In the light of this thought that his life with its toils, its conflicts, and its triumphs could be an error, he saw, again, that Medusa-face, pale with terror.

Puffie, perhaps frightened by the cry which had been rent from his master, fell to barking. Darvid turned from the desk, and his glance met the black wall beyond the door.

"Was it an error?" he repeated.

The darkness was silent, and a face without eyes seemed to gaze at him persistently, with attention. He moved forward a few steps quickly, and pressed the bell-knob. To the incoming servant he indicated the door, and said:

"Light up the drawing-rooms!"

After a few moments the series of drawing-rooms emerged from the darkness, and stood in the light of blazing lamps and candles. Globe-lamps, burning at the walls, cast a hazy half-light, in which glittered, here and there, golden gleams, and appeared the features of painted faces and landscapes.

From shady corners emerged, partially, the forms of slender and swelling vases; portions of white garlands on the walls; the delicate mists of dim colors on Gobelin tapestry; the bright scarlet and blue of silk drapery. Farther on, in the small drawing-room, burned, in two chandeliers, a bundle of tapers, beneath which hung a crown of crystals, glittering like icicles, or immense congealed tears. Farther on still, in the dining-room, with its dark walls, gleamed a bright spot in the grand lamp of pendant bronze above the table. This point seemed very distant from Darvid's study; but on the whole expanse which divided him from it there was neither voice nor sound—there was nothing living. Notwithstanding the multitude of objects scattered, or collected, this was a desert on which silence had imposed itself.

From the threshold of the study to that door, beyond which the largest of the lamps was suspended as a shining object in its bronze above the table, Darvid moved, stepping with inclined face; at his lips the fire of a lighted cigarette; now, as it were, extinguished; and, now, shining up again. Behind him, right there near his feet, with the end of its snout almost touching the floor, rolled along little Puffie, like a bundle of raw silk.

After a while, the step of the advancing man grew more hurried and uneven; increasing disquiet was expressed in him; now the light scattering along the unoccupied and silent space the extent of that space, and he himself wandering along through it. What did all this signify? Here and there, in the gildings and polished surfaces, quivered flashes like playful gnomes; at other points, on bluish backgrounds, pale faces looked from tapestry thrown over furniture; still, farther, a great mirror reflects two clusters of lights, beneath which hang crystal pendants, and, increasing the perspective, made the space still greater, and the light more peculiar; in another place, from behind bluish folds depending from a door, appears a vase of Chinese porcelain; and, at that moment, it assumes, in Darvid's eyes, a strange appearance. Large, covered with blue decorations, it has a form which is swollen in the middle, but slender above, with a long neck, and not altogether visible; it seems to lean forward from behind the curtains, gaze at the passing man, follow his steps, and laugh at him. Yes, the Chinese vase is laughing—its body seems to swell more and more from laughter, and in the blue painting the white background has, here and there, a deceptive similarity to grinning teeth. Darvid strives not to look at the vase, and hastens on; behind him Puffie's shaggy feet tread the floor more hurriedly, but as he returns, the porcelain monster thrusts out its long neck again from behind the curtain, jeers, bares its teeth, and seems ready to burst from laughter. At the opposite side of that drawing-room, on a blue background, is the pale face of an old man, and from above a gray beard the sad and inquisitive eyes of the patriarch are settled on Darvid.

What does all this mean? Darvid halted in the centre of one of the drawing-rooms, right there behind him the bundle of raw silk halted also, and stood on its shaggy paws. What was he doing in those empty drawing-rooms; why had he commanded to light them? This act seems like madness. He called to mind recent acts of an insane king, who, in a brilliantly lighted edifice, listened alone to the rendering of an opera. Is he also becoming insane? Why is he not at work? He has so much to do! Darvid advanced quickly, and halted again. The Chinese vase inclined half way from behind the curtain, it seemed bursting from laughter. Work? What for? The object? The object? That decides everything! He turned his glance from the gnashing teeth of the Chinese monster, and it met the pale face of the patriarch, whose eyes, looking out at him from the blue background, and from above a gray beard, said with sadness, and inquiringly: "The wrong road!"

He had lost the road! Only the habit of restraining internal impulses, and the expression of them, kept him from crying "Help!" But he had the cry within him, and with a quick and uneven tread he went toward the great lamp burning at the end of the perspective, in the centre of the open space between the walls of the dining-room. Behind him ran along Puffie, with all the speed of his shaggy feet.

Meanwhile, in one of the drawing-rooms, the clock began to strike eleven—one, two, three. Its deep sounds penetrated slowly the empty space on which silence had imposed itself, until somewhere, at the other end of the perspective, a second clock began to strike, as if answering this one in a thinner voice and more hurriedly. This seemed a voice, an echo, a conversation carried on by things that were inanimate.

Darvid returned to his study, and pressing the knob of the bell again, said to his servant:

"Put out the lights!"

He sat in one of the armchairs at the round table, and felt an unspeakable weariness from the crown of his head to his feet. Some light body sprang to his knee. He placed his hand on the silky coat of the creature nestling up to him, and said:

"Puffie!"

He considered that he must renounce absolutely that colossal affair to obtain which he had struggled so long, because strength, and especially desire for such immense toil, seemed to fail him. He was so tired. But if he abandons toil what will he do; what is he to live for? What is the object of life? The darkness was silent, and as a face without eyes seemed to gaze on him with stubbornness and attention.

A few hours later, in a sleeping-room, furnished by the most skilled of decorators in the capital, a night-lamp, placed on the mantle, cast its light on a bed adorned with rich carving; a hand, white and thin, stretched forth on the silken coverlet, and a face, also thin, with ruddy side-whiskers, itself as if carved out of ivory, and gleaming with a pair of blue, sleepless eyes, which wandered through that spacious, half-lighted, chamber with a tortured and heavy expression.

All at once Darvid raised himself in bed, and, with his elbow on the pillow, gazed upward. Higher on the wall was the face of a maiden, small, oval, rosy, with thick, bright hair scattered above her Grecian forehead, and by a movement of her eyes she seemed to summon the man gazing at her. She smiled, with rosy lips, at him, lovingly, and moved her eyelids, inviting him. Darvid, with raised brows, and with his forehead gathered in a number of great wrinkles; with eyes turned to that picture above him bent forward still more, and, with trembling lips, whispered: "My little one." But immediately after he rubbed his eyes, and smiled. It was a picture by Greuze! There were two of them: one almost invisible in the shade; the other that one emerging from the shade into a half light in such fashion that the head of the maiden seemed to stand out from, the canvas as it were suspended.

"It is like Cara; very like her. The same type—the very same lips, hair, and forehead—"

He knew that that was a painted face; still, with his head on the pillow, he raised his eyes to it frequently, and as often as he raised them he saw a loving smile on the rosy lips and the distinct movement of the eyes which seemed to call and invite him.

He thought that he was ill, unnerved; that he must summon in physicians. Next morning Darvid heard, in the study of a famous doctor, that his nerves were unstrung remarkably; suffering from a blow which had struck him—over-work. He had toiled beyond measure. There was only one cure: complete and long rest. A journey abroad. A change of impressions, after hard and special toil; life in the midst of splendid scenery and works of art.

Meditating afterward on this advice of the doctor, he thought that he had not the slightest wish to follow it. Neither nature nor art attracted him in any way. During his whole life he had not had the time for them, and it was too late now for new studies. Why was he to undertake a journey if not for that purpose? He had travelled much in his lifetime, but always on business, and with a clearly defined object; without business and an object, travelling through the world seemed to him exactly like that walking in the night through his empty, lighted mansion; something akin to madness.

What then? Days passed again in toil, amidst consultations and reckonings. The arranging of balances and reports—the round body rolled on by the power of impetus. At appointed hours he received visits. He received also Prince Zeno, who came to take farewell of him for many months, till the following winter.

"We are scattering, all of us," said the prince. "Like birds in autumn we are flying to places where the sun shines most beautifully. You, too, will go, of course. Whither? To the South or the East? Perhaps to that estate where your wife and daughter are passing the sad time of family mourning? But apropos of the country. You know that poor Kranitski; well, he came to take farewell of me. He has left the city; left it never to come back again. He has gone to the country. He is to remain on his estate—a small one, not over-pleasantly situated. I was there once on a visit to his mother, with whom I was connected by blood-bonds. A tiresome little hole, that place! But what is to be done? This handsome and once charming man has grown dreadfully old; the conditions of his life were difficult—so he has gone. Your son is making a long journey. Is he in the United States already? Baron Blauendorf is going there also; only yesterday he bade good-by to us. We scatter through the world; but, till we meet again? For I should be in despair were I to lose an acquaintance so precious and dear to me as yours is."

Ah, how indifferent it was to Darvid whether he should keep or lose acquaintance with Prince Zeno. He saw and recognized in the man many fine and agreeable qualities, but he would rather not see him, just as he would rather not see others. All seemed strange to him and distant. Conversation, even with the most agreeable and worthy, both wearied and annoyed him. "What do you want of so many people, father? Do you love them? Do they love you?"

One thought now devoured him. That "poor Kranitski" had left the city to live on his estate permanently, or rather in his poor village, situated in that same district as Krynichna, not very near, but in the same region. Of course, he will be a frequent guest at Krynichna—but, maybe not; even, surely not. Indeed, she had broken with him, and, in truth, she felt immense shame and pain—he laughed. A penitent Magdalen! He finished with the thought: Unhappy woman!

But what more had he to do that day? Ah! he had an appointment to meet that young sculptor at the cemetery toward evening, and agree on a monument for Cara. That was to be a monument of great cost and beauty—a mountain of gold above the "little one."

The great cemetery was in the bright green of leaves which had recently unfolded on the trees, and in the intoxicating odor of violets over Cara's grave-mound, which was covered with a carpet, not of modest violets, but of exquisite exotic flowers. Darvid spoke long with the young sculptor, and with a number of other men, giving, agreeably and fluently, opinions and directions concerning the erection of the monument. While doing this, his eyes dropped, at moments, to the grave, and were fixed with such force on it as if he wished to pierce through that carpet of flowers; through the stratum of brick; through the coffin, and look at that which was under the lid. At last, with a polite elevation of his hat, he took farewell of them, and passed on by a path, amid columns and statues intwined with a lace of bright leaves, into the centre of that broad city of the dead. That was his first acquaintance with such a city. He had seen a multitude of other such cities, but had never become acquainted with one of them. He had looked into them sometimes, but briefly, and because he was forced to it—his head was ever filled with thoughts altogether foreign to such places. Now he passed the interior of the cemetery with this thought. So all ends here! He did not go out for a long time. His carriage, with cushions of sapphire-colored damask, and his pair of splendid horses stood long before the cemetery gate, obedient and motionless. In the chapel tower the silver music of the vesper-bell sounded, and ceased to sound. Darkness had begun to fall on the fresh green of the trees, and the urns, columns, and statues standing thickly between them, as Darvid drove away from the cemetery.

"When church-bells sound, as this has, people pray," thought he. "Do they think that God hears them? Does God exist? Perhaps he does. It is even likely that he does, but that he occupies himself with men and their entreaties!—I am not sure. I have never given time to this, and it seems to me that no one knows. Men have wrangled over this question for ages and—know nothing. It is a mystery. All places are full of mystery, but men think that reason is a great power. That is an error! Whatever ends thus is misery. Everything ends in stupidity. All things are foolishness! Foolishness!"

Reaching the steps of his mansion he thought that he felt greatly wearied. Is this old age? not long before he felt perfectly youthful. But, evidently, this is the way—Age comes and seizes a man. One giantess more—it seems to him that he is a hundred years old. The same with Malvina. How changed she was when he spoke last to her. She had preserved her youth so long, and on a sudden she was aged. She must have suffered greatly. Hapless woman!

He entered his study; sat down at his desk. Puffie sprang onto his knee immediately. He put one hand on the coat of the little dog, and with the other opened a drawer, looked into it, pushed the drawer back, and, resting comfortably against the arms of the chair, gazed into space with a fixed, torpid look.

He was too wise not to see standing, earlier or later, before him, the stern irony existing in human affairs. It had been standing before him for a long time, but, standing behind veils, such as labor, success—the eternal lack of time. Now the veils had fallen. He beheld the irony clearly. It was embodied in the swollen vase of Chinese porcelain, which, though not standing in that chamber, seemed to bend forward from the corner, with sloping eyes painted in sapphire. The figure leered at him; bared its white teeth, and with swollen body seemed to burst from laughter. What could he place against that monster? how was he to cover it?—he knew not. He understood well that at the bottom of this all lay an error. On the road of life there was something which he had not noted; something which he had not recognized; he had let something slip from his hands which still were so rapacious; he, an architect, observing with mighty diligence the law of equilibrium in buildings reared by him, had not preserved that equilibrium in his own house; so that now it was hard for him to dwell there, and he wished to depart from it.

When he goes it will be better for all. Better for him and for them. That unhappy woman will be free, and may become happy. Maryan will return from the end of the earth to receive his inheritance, if for no other reason. Irene will reappear in society. Irene, what a strange character!—so deeply tender, and so insolent. How savagely she hurled at him the word "vileness!" But she was right. He had committed that moment a vile act, just as in general he was forced to commit many follies—but "useless cruelty" will give reward—Irene will learn that he was not so—no, neither she nor anyone will know the nature of his act. He raised his head, in which he felt once more an access of pride. No, he will not give account of his motives to anyone; nor confess on his knees, like a penitent sinner; nor will he take the pose of a hero. Let them think what they like. How can that concern him? Nothing concerns him.

By chance he raised his eyes and saw, hanging in the air, the face of a maiden, oval, rosy, and bright-haired which smiled at him lovingly, and made a clear motion, inviting him. Greuze's picture was not there, still the vision was present. With eyes raised toward it Darvid smiled.

"Yes, little one, quickly."

He took a pen and began a telegram to Irene. He penned the address, and then wrote: "Come as quickly as possible for Puffie." He put the pen down, rang, and told the footman to send the telegram immediately. Then, passing his hand over the coat of the sleeping little dog, he sat long, sunk in thought. The world appeared before him with all that he had ever seen, owned, or used in it. Countries, cities, nations, their dwellings and languages, banks, exchanges, markets, offices, noise, throngs, struggles, horse-races, movements, uproar, life. This vision did not halt there before him, but sailed away, as it were, on a giant river, ever farther from him; farther, till it was on the opposite shore of a great space, entirely cut off and entirely indifferent. When he considered that he might spring over that space and mingle again in all those things, repulsion came on him, and also fear; he shook his head in refusal, and said to himself: "I do not want them!"

He was very calm; an expression of happiness began to spread over his features. If anyone had seized him then and tried to hurl him to the side of that broad space on which this life is situated, he would have resisted with all his might, and, if need be, would have begged to remain on that other side.

He looked up and smiled.

"Now, my little one, I am coming!"

He opened the drawer.

Next morning news flew through the city like a thunderbolt, that the renowned financial operator and millionnaire, Aloysius Darvid, had, during the night, in his study, taken his own life with a revolver. The first and universal thought was of bankruptcy. But no. Soon it became clear and most certain that his ship, in full canvas, was sailing on the broad stream of success, and was bearing an immense, glittering golden fleece. The Argonaut, however, no man knew for what reason—through causes hidden altogether from everyone—had sprung from the deck into the dark and mysterious abyss.

THE END.