transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/asbeinfromlifeof schuiala [illustration: with hands lightly folded in her lap and head leaned back against her chair, natalie has listened. in the beginning she had been carried out of herself by a feeling of painfully sweet happiness, but now she felt strangely oppressed. _p. _.] asbeÏn from the life of a virtuoso by ossip schubin _translated by Élise l. lathrop_ new york worthington co., broadway copyright, , by worthington co. press of j.j. little & co., astor place, new york. asbeÏn.[ ] first book. "but--do you really not recognize me?" with these words, and with friendly, outstretched hands, a young lady hastened toward a man who, with gloomily contracted brow, wrapped in thought, went on his way without noticing either her or his surroundings. he was foolish, for his surroundings were picturesque--rome, near the fontana di trevi, on a bright march afternoon. and the young lady--she was charming. although she had called to him in french, something about her--one could scarcely have told what--betrayed the russian; everything, the pampered woman from the highest circles of society. the young man whose attention she had sought to attract in such a violent and unconventional manner was just as evidently a russian, but of quite a different condition. one could hardly decide to what fixed sphere of society he belonged, but one perceived immediately that his manners had never been improved, polished, softened by society discipline, that he was no man of the world. he was, evidently, a man who was apart from the rank and file, a man who stood far out from the conventional frame, a man whom no one could pass without twice looking after him. his form was large and somewhat heavy; his face, framed by dark, half-curled hair, in spite of the blunt profile, reminded one of napoleon bonaparte, but bonaparte in the first romantic period of his life, before he had become fat and accustomed to pose for the classic head of cæsar. she was the princess natalie alexandrovna assanow; he the fêted violin virtuoso and well-known composer, boris lensky. she had run herself quite out of breath to catch up with him; twice she had called to him before he heard her; then he looked around and lifted his hat. "boris nikolaivitch, do you not really recognize me?" said she, now in russian, laughing and breathless. "you here, princess! since when? why have you given me no sign of your existence?" and he took both the slender girlish hands, still outstretched to him, in his. "we only arrived here yesterday from naples." "ah! and i go there to-day." his long-drawn words betrayed very significantly a certain vexation. "yes, to give three concerts there. i know; it was in the newspapers," she nodded earnestly, and sighed. "hm!" he began; "then--" he hesitated. "then you do not understand why i did not wait for the concerts?" said she, gayly; "it was impossible." "impossible?" said he with a short, defiant motion of the head, the motion of a too-tightly checked race-horse who impatiently jerks at the bridle. "how so impossible? what word is that from the mouth of a young lady who has nothing else in the world to do but amuse herself?" "as if i were independent!" she sighed, with comic despair. "first, mamma could not leave naples--hm--for family reasons. my sister is married there, you know. then--then--" "do not trouble yourself with polite excuses," he interrupted her. "i see that you are no longer interested in my music;" and, half-jesting, half-vexed, shrugging his shoulders, he added, "what of it? one must put up with one's destiny!" "i am no longer interested in your music!" said she, angrily; "and you venture to say that to me, even after i have run after you--yes, really run after you, which is not proper--only to----" she stopped, her face wore a vexed, indignant expression. "why did you do it?" said he, roughly; "it is not becoming." instead of losing her self-possession, she laughed heartily. "but, boris nikolaivitch," said she, "you speak as if you were a true man of the world. however, as you please, i thank you for the lecture. adieu!" and nodding her head quite arrogantly, she was about to turn on her heel, when her look met his. she saw that she had vexed him, remained standing, blushed, and lowered her eyes. the waters of the acqua nigo foamed and sparkled gayly between the edges of the stone basin which nicolo salvi had made for them; the noonday church-bells mingled their deep, solemn voices with the caressing rippling of the waves; the sun shone full from the deep-blue, ice-cold heaven, a glaring, unpleasant march sun, which was light without warming, like the condescending smile of a great man, and natalie's maid who, grumbling and bored, stood a step behind her young mistress, opened a round, green fan to shield her eyes, and at the same time stamped her feet from the cold. around, the roman life went on in its usual lazy way. before a small, loaded cart stood a mule with a number of red and blue tassels about its ears and on its forehead hung a brass image of the virgin. in the door of a vegetable shop, from which came a strong smell of herbs, crouched a black-eyed, white spitz dog, that twitched its right ear uneasily. a fat, smooth-headed capuchin passed by, then came two shabbily dressed young people. the capuchin stopped to scratch the mule's head, the young people nudged each other, and said in an undertone, while they pointed to the virtuoso: "_e borisso lensky_." "there you have it," said the princess, shaking off her vexation with a charming, pleasant smile, and her head bent one side. "great man that you are, and still you take it amiss in me." she said nothing more, only raised her great blue eyes and gave him a look, a never-to-be-forgotten look, behind whose roguishness a riddle was concealed. "i take nothing amiss in you," said he, earnestly. "really nothing? now, then, i can tell you how much, oh! how much, i have longed to hear you play again, that i, _coûte qu'il coûte_, seized the opportunity to ask you to stop in rome on your return from naples only to--" she hesitated, as if she were suddenly afraid of being indiscreet. "only to play something for the princess natalie alexandrovna assanow," he completed her sentence, laughing. "good. i will come, natalie alexandrovna; in two weeks i am there. but if you are then in florence or nice----" she was about to make a very positive assertion, when a slender, fashionably dressed man, with a very high hat and faultless gloves, passed by them, greeted the princess respectfully, and, with a slight squint, measured lensky from head to foot. lensky recognized in him an officer of the guard, count konstantin paulovitch pachotin, and remembered last winter, during the season in st. petersburg, he paid court to natalie. the scrutinizing look of the young man vexed him beyond bounds; everything looked red before him. "ah! he here?" he asked the young princess with mocking emphasis. "may one congratulate you?" she frowned and turned away her head. "no!" murmured she. then raising her wonderful eyes to him again: "so, farewell for two weeks!" "perhaps." "say positively, i beg you, and throw the traditional soldo in the fountain." "with the best of intentions, i cannot do that; i have none with me," he laughed, now involuntarily. she was charming. she wore a brown velvet bonnet that was fastened under the chin with broad ribbons. she had pushed back her veil, and the transparent brown gauze shining in the sun formed a golden background for her pretty, pale face. it was cold, although the beginning of march, and therefore her tall figure was wrapped to the feet in a sable-trimmed velvet cloak, beneath which a scarcely visible silk dress rustled very melodramatically. a delicate perfume of amber and fresh violets exhaled from her. "you have no soldo?" said she; "then i will lend you one." she earnestly sought in her portemonnaie, whereupon she handed him the coin. he threw it in the basin of the noisy, rippling fontana di trevi. the water sparkled golden for a moment, when the coin sank, and tried to form circles, but the spouting gayety of the cascade obliterated them. "you will come!" said natalie, laughing gayly. "yes, i will come," said he, not gayly as she, but gloomily, even grumbling. "but if you are not there," he added, "or----" she had already turned to go, and without replying anything to his last words, she called to him over her shoulder: "_via giulia palazzo morsini!_" he looked after her for a long time. the fashionable dress at that time was very ugly. this little scene took place in the fifties, when the empress eugenie had again brought into favor the hoop-skirt which had disappeared quite a half-century before. but still natalie alexandrovna was charming. how peculiar her walk was, so light and still a little dragging, dreamily gliding, withal not weary, but with a peculiar certain characteristic rhythm. he thoughtfully hummed a melody to it. yes, he would come back. whether he would have come back if the glance of the officer of the guard had not angered him? he must see, must teach this dandy! * * * * * "you speak just as if you were a true man of the world," the princess had replied to his--as he angrily told himself--highly unsuitable and tasteless advice. now it might perhaps be small; yes, certainly it was small, but sometimes, sometimes he would secretly have preferred to be a true man of the world instead of being--a celebrity. "she ran after me!" he said to himself again. "why did she run after me? it was charming in her she would not have done it for any one else! bah! she is still only like all the others!" and the great artist, whose life resembled a continual triumphal procession, of whom already a finger-thick biography with glaringly false dates had appeared, and concerning whom the papers every day reported something remarkable, suddenly felt a kind of envy of count konstantin paulovitch pachotin, a st. petersburg dandy, whose name had never been in the papers, and whom he despised for his narrow-mindedness. he was a great genius, but, like many other great geniuses, he was of quite obscure parentage. some asserted he came from that horrible citadel of the poor in moscow where misery intrenches itself against progress, in filth, stupidity, and vice; others said he had been found, a scarcely week-old child, wrapped in rags, before the door of the conservatory in st. petersburg. there were really all kinds of accounts in the papers. this one said that he was the son of a princess of the blood and a gypsy; that one, that he descended from an old princely family of the czechs, and many other such romantic inventions. he shrugged his shoulders scornfully at all such improvisations, without refuting them by accurate personal accounts. how did the cold, hungry, maltreated sadness of his first youth concern the world? now he was boris lensky, one of the first musicians of his time. everything else could be indifferent to the man. it was indifferent to them; it was quite indifferent to them all, only not to him. the wounds which the tormenting martyrdom of his childhood had torn in his heart had never quite healed; therefore he showed a sensitiveness and irritability which even the most sympathetic person could scarcely comprehend. but now he fared very well in the world. no one was so pampered, so caressed as he. his playing exercised such a penetrating, sense-ensnaring charm that his listeners, transported in a kind of musical intoxication, lost their capability of judging, and even the most well-bred women crowded around him with allegiance so exaggerated that it tore down the boundary of every customary demeanor. another would have enjoyed this allegiance without thinking further of it; but for lensky, on the contrary, it had a repellent effect. child of the people to the finger-tips, totally unused to the customs of fashionable circles, his feeling of propriety was as wounded by what he plainly called insolent shamelessness as that of a peasant who for the first time sees a woman with bare shoulders. besides his sense of propriety, there was another that was wounded by the lack of reserve which great ladies showed him, and that was his pride. not only gifted with musical genius, but with a very clear head, he soon perceived that if the ladies of the great world permitted themselves freer manners with him than did women of a more modest sphere of life, they still took liberties with him of which they would have been ashamed in association with companions of their own rank. "_mon dieu, avec un virtuose, cela ne tire pas à consequence_," he once heard an elegant little st. petersburg woman say. he never forgot the words, and in consequence received all the feminine allegiance of good society with hostile distrust. he usually excused the tactless exuberance of a poorly cared for, badly brought up woman of the conservatory. in society of this kind, of saddened womanly existence, incessantly touched with pity, he showed kindness to the sad enthusiasts wherever he could, and laughed at their tasteless animation. but for the great ladies, who should have known better, who thought that they alone held the monopoly of good form, and who still pursued a man like wild beasts--for these he had no consideration. his roughness in intercourse with them had become almost as proverbial as the success which he attained with them. still, in his home he quite unconsciously accustomed himself to an aristocratic atmosphere, and, with the refined sense of a true artist nature, susceptible to all beauty and distinction, in association with great ladies he felt a mixture of irritation and pleasure, while pleasure gradually won the upper hand; and in foreign countries, where he was received only exceptionally and with official solemnity, and really had intimate access to salons of the second rank only, he renounced intercourse with that refined world which he abused, like so many others, without being able to escape its perfidious charm, and felt, every time that he met one of his despised pretty st. petersburg or moscow enthusiasts, an unmistakable joy. two weeks after his meeting with natalie at the fontana di trevi, lensky appeared for the first time in the palazzo morsini. from a very large staircase, whose beauties he must admire by the light of the wax matches which he had brought in his pocket, he stumbled into a large vestibule, from which the servant conducted him through a heavy portière, painted with coats of arms as high as a man, into an immense drawing-room with soiled and faded yellow damask hangings and furniture. "monsieur lensky!" announced the servant. the virtuoso was accustomed to a universal exclamation following the announcement of his name, and the looks of the whole assembly should be directed to him. nothing of the sort this time. natalie sat near an old french lady, marquise de c., whose knitting she kindly helped to arrange, and as the young russian introduced the virtuoso to her, she raised her lorgnette and said: "monsieur lensky--ah! _vraiment_, that is very interesting!" whereupon, without further troubling herself about him, she continued to speak to natalie of all kinds of social affairs, the marriage of marie x., the debts of alexander t., the trousseau of aurelie z., and the boldness of that parvenu a. for the present he could not approach the hostess. she warded him off with a nod from the distance, for she was engaged in a very exciting occupation. although the universal interest for spiritualistic table-tapping and moving was already quite over, the repetition of this experiment, which strangely enough often succeeded in the palazzo morsini, was one of the favorite pastimes of natalie's mother, the princess irina dimitrievna assanow. she now sat at a table in the middle of the drawing-room between many others, most of them old russians, men and women; opposite her a thin, very young man with long, straight, blond hair, a well-known magnetizer. it seemed to lensky as if he had never seen anything more laughable than these half-dozen almost exclusively gray-haired people who sat with solemn bearing and attentive faces around a table whose edge they could just surround with hands stretched out as far as possible. those present who did not directly participate in the attempt to bewitch the table, stood around observing the interesting round surface. but the table continued in a state of desperately exciting passivity. lensky, usually specially invited to soirées, of which he formed the centre of attraction, felt humiliated by the four-legged wooden rival, who, to-day, took all the attention away from him. at last the old french woman turned to the observation of the table, which permitted the young girl to devote herself a little to lensky, rapidly becoming more gloomy; then the door opened and the butler announced count pachotin. the virtuoso felt not at all pleasantly toward the young dandy when he asked him unusually kindly and sympathetically whether he was contented with the result of his last concert tour. after pachotin had fulfilled the condescension, which as a finely cultivated nobleman he thought he owed to an artistic star he turned to natalie and from then ignored lensky as completely as the marquise de c. had done. lensky meanwhile morosely pulled long horse-hairs from the holes in the thread-bare arms of the damask chair. he was very helpless in spite of his already great renown. his actions in society were solely confined to playing and permitting the ladies to rave over him. he did not understand how to take an inconspicuous part in the conversation, and to cross the room for any other purpose than to take up his violin made him quite giddy. the table meanwhile still refused to move. the excitement became general. "_voyons_, m. lensky," called the marquise de c., suddenly turning to the young artist, lorgnette at her eyes; "if you should give us a little music perhaps it would act upon the legs of this stiff-necked table." a man quick at repartee would have answered the silly remark with a gay jest. but lensky grew deathly pale, sprang up; in that moment the resisting sacrifice of magnetism began to totter and tremble. even pachotin left his place near natalie in order to watch closely the interesting spectacle. the magnetizers rose and, with earnest, triumphant faces, accompanied the table, which now seemed to have entered into the spirit of the affair and took the most remarkable steps with its wooden legs. "_vous partez déjà_?" asked natalie, coming up to the virtuoso. "i am no longer needed," said lensky, with a glance at the table, and bowed without touching the outstretched hand of the young girl. without, in the vestibule just as he was about to put his arms in the overcoat which the servant held out to him, he saw the princess, who had hastened after him. [illustration: "i cannot let you go away angry," said she. _p. _.] "i cannot let you go away angry," said she. "come to-morrow to lunch. we never receive in the morning, but you will be welcome." this time he took her hand in his, and looked in her eyes with a peculiar mixture of anger and tenderness. "you know i do everything that you wish," murmured he; "but----" "well?" she smiled pleasantly and encouragingly. he turned away his head and went. "perhaps in reality she is only like the others, but still she is bewitching!" he murmured, as he stumbled down the old marble steps of the palace in the darkness. * * * * * yes, she was bewitching. many still remember how charming she was at that time. she was from moscow, and a true moscow woman; that is to say, deeper, more polished, more intellectual, than the average st. petersburg woman, whom a pert frenchman has described as "_parisiennes à la sauce tartare_." lensky had met her the former year at her relatives' in petersburg, where they had sent her for the ball season, perhaps with the idea that she would make a good match. her domestic circumstances were quite disturbed. her mother, a former beauty, and who in her youth had been much admired at the court of alexander i., could not adapt herself to her poverty--that is to say, she absolutely could not exist on the very moderate remains of a splendid property which her husband had squandered. she never complained; she only never kept within her means. she was always planning new reforms, but her most saving plans always proved costly when carried out. when she summoned natalie home from st. petersburg the former may she had just formed a quite special resolution: she would travel to a foreign country, in order, as she expressed it, to be unconstrainedly shabby and economical. her unconstrained shabbiness in rome consisted in living in a very picturesque _palazzo_ with two maids brought with her from russia, a male factotum, and a number of italian assistants; by day, clad in a faded sky-blue _peignoir_, stretched on a lounge, alternately reading french novels and playing patience; in the evening, receiving an amusing assembly of _gens du monde_ and celebrities, among whom the already mentioned magnetizer enjoyed her especial sympathy, at dinner or tea. her economy culminated in locking up the most trifling articles with great punctiliousness and never being able to find the keys; for which reason the locksmith must be frequently summoned. the russian maids naturally never moved their hands, the italian assistants wiped the dust from one piece of furniture to another, and so the household would really have made quite an impression of having come down in the world if the butler, whom they had brought with them had not saved it by his aristocratic prestige. a frenchman and valet of the deceased prince, monsieur baptiste was not only outwardly decorative, but of a useful nature. his principal occupation consisted in sitting in the vestibule, with finely-shaved upper lip and imposing side-whiskers, intrenched behind a newspaper, and overpowering the creditors if they ventured to present their unpaid bills. * * * * * lensky had resolved to leave rome the next day, and to ignore the invitation of the princess. returned to the hotel, he immediately set about packing; that is to say, he in all haste wrapped and squeezed his effects together in any manner and threw them in his trunk as one throws potatoes in a sack. then he ordered his bill from the waiter and a carriage for the next morning. when the waiter at the appointed hour presented the bill and announced the carriage he showed him out. from ten o'clock on he drew out his chronometer every quarter of an hour; at twelve he appeared in the palazzo morsini. "you are punctual," said the princess, stretching out her hand to him; "that is nice of you. i was terribly afraid that you would not come. we are quite among ourselves; only mamma and we two. does that suit you?" again she bent her head to one side and looked at him with that peculiar glance, behind whose roguishness a riddle was concealed. what was it? something sweet, perhaps something tender, earnest--or only a gay triumph or planned conquest? meanwhile it cost him the greatest self-restraint not to fall at her feet immediately, so charming and beautiful was she. everything about her was beautiful: her tall but beautifully rounded figure; her pale oval face, framed in dark hair; her remarkable eyes, usually dreamily half closed, and then suddenly looking at one so large and full; her long small hands and her little feet. no andalusian had a smaller, slenderer, more finely-arched foot than natalie. he had scarcely time to reply to her amiability, when the butler announced that luncheon was served, and they went into the dining-room. it was a peculiar luncheon. the old princess presided in a wrapper. the lukewarm dishes--brought every day from a restaurant in a tin box, which lensky had met on the steps were served by monsieur baptiste on the largely shattered remnants of a florentine faïence service with noticeable correctness. a broad golden sunbeam lay on the table between lensky and natalie and gave the most extravagantly unsuitable colors to the flowers which shed their fragrance from a low japanese porcelain bowl in the middle of the table, and over these flowers, sparkling like diamonds, he looked at her. she ate little and talked a great deal, told all kinds of droll stories; one witty anecdote followed the other. he could not weary of listening to her. yes, even if what she said had not interested him, he would not tire of hearing her. the sweet, somewhat veiled tone of her voice seemed like a caress to his sensitive ear. * * * * * "i would like to ask you something, boris nikolaivitch," said the old princess later, while they were taking coffee, in the drawing-room. "i am at your disposition entirely, princess," lensky hastened to assure her. "it is about my violins," she began, in a drawling, whining voice, which was her manner, and meant nothing. "but, mamma," natalie hastily interrupted her, "this is not the moment----" "pray, permit me," said lensky; and turning to the princess, "so it is about your violins?" "yes. my husband--you know what an excellent player he was," continued the old lady, "has left three violins. people have always told me they were worth a small fortune, but i did not wish to part with them at any price. i ask you--a souvenir. but finally--times are hard, and one must not be too hard on the peasants, and, besides, as none of my children play the violin, however musical they are--well, i would be very glad if you would try the instruments and incidentally value them. "you could perhaps advise me--yes---- what is the matter, natascha?" for natalie had blushed to the roots of her hair. tears stood in her eyes. boris guessed that she feared he would look upon the explanation of her mother as a bid. "i remember the violins very well," he hastened to assure her; "especially one of them excited my envy. it would please me very much to try them again." the servant brought the violins and at the same time a pile of hastily snatched-up violin music, smelling of dust, dampness, and camphor. the wonderfully beautiful instruments were in a pitiable condition--half of the strings were gone, those that remained were brittle and dry. but still there was a small stock of them. after boris, with the loving patience and surgical skill with which only a true violinist handles an amati, had put it in a suitable condition and then tuned it, he drew the bow softly across it. a strangely sweet, tender, sad sound vibrated through the great empty room. it seemed as if the violin awoke with a sigh from an enchanted sleep. a pleasant shudder passed over natalie. lensky bent his cheek to the splendid instrument like a lover. "shall we try something?" said he, and took from the pile of notes a nocturne of chopin, transposed for the violin, opened the piano, the only good and costly piece of furniture in the room, and laid the notes on the music-rack. "now, natalie alexandrovna, may i beg you?" quite frightened by his artistic greatness--yes, trembling from charming embarrassment--she sat down at the piano. his violin began to sing; how full and soft, so delightfully languishing, and also somewhat veiled, as is usually the case with an instrument unused for years. "how beautiful!" murmured natalie, with eyes sparkling with animation. "yes, it is a splendid instrument," replied lensky. "you cannot imagine what it is to play on an instrument which understands one. it is still only a little bit sleepy, but we will awaken it." he placed a sonata of beethoven before natalie. they were alone. after the first bar of the nocturne the princess had fallen asleep, at the last she had waked, and had retired, with the remark that she could hear much better in the adjoining room. "will you really tolerate my accompaniment?" murmured the young girl. "and do you wish to hear again, vain little princess, what i already told you in st. petersburg, that i have seldom found a more sympathetic accompaniment than yours?" he replied. she was an uncommonly good pianist, and with an unusually fine divination followed all the shades of his art. one piece followed the other. after awhile a certain relaxation was perceptible in her. "you are tired," said he, breaking off in the middle of the first phrase of mendelssohn's g-minor concerto. "i should not have given you so much to do. pardon me." "oh, what does that matter," said she, while she let her hands slide from the keys. "it was splendid, only, do you see, i feel as if i am a dragging-shoe for you. i would like to have a wish, a great immoderate wish. i would like to hear you once alone, without accompaniment, from your heart. give me one glance into your soul, make your musical confession to me!" he felt a peculiar twitching and burning in his finger-tips. he would rather have killed himself than let her glance into his inmost soul, as the condition of that soul had been until then. "do not ask that of me," said he, hoarsely. "it was very immodest in me, excuse me," said she hastily and confused. "oh, that is nothing," he assured her. "do you think that i will spare the little bit of pleasure that i can perhaps give you, only--but if you really wish it--as far as i am concerned----" he took up the violin. it was a different affair now. dragging-shoe or not in any case her accompaniment had had a calming and perhaps purifying effect on his musical instincts. with her he had played as a wonderfully deeply sensitive and technically cultivated virtuoso; in spite of all the heartfelt fulness of tone and vibrating passion, he had scarcely passed the boundary of musical conventionality. it had been the highest possibility of a quiet, artistic performance; but what natalie now heard was no longer art, but something at once splendid and fearful. it was also no longer a violin on which he played, but a strange, enchanted instrument that she had never known formerly and that he himself had invented; an instrument from which everything that sounds the sweetest and saddest on earth vibrated, from the low voice of a woman to the soft, complaining sigh of the waves dying on the shore. a depth of genial musical eloquence burst forth under his bow. inconsolable pain--dry, hard, cutting; tender teasing, winning grace, mad rejoicing, a wild confusion of passion and music, the height and depth of neck-breaking technical extravagance. but what was most peculiar about his playing, and had the most magical effect, was neither the mad bravura nor the flattering grace, but something oppressive, mysterious, that crept maliciously into the heart and veins, ensnaring and paralyzing--a thing of itself, a strange horror. again and again, like a mysterious call, appeared in his improvisation the same bewitching, exciting succession of tones, taken from the arabian folk-songs, the devil's music. suddenly he seemed to be beside himself; he drew the bow across the violin as if beset by an untamable, passionate excitement. it was no longer one violin which one heard; it was twenty violins, or, rather, twenty demons, who howled and cried together. with hands lightly folded in her lap, and head leaned back against her chair, natalie had listened. in the beginning she had been carried out of herself by a feeling of painfully sweet happiness. but now she felt strangely oppressed. it seemed to her as if something pulled at every fibre, every nerve, as if her heart was bursting. she would have liked to cry out and hold her ears, and still did not move, but listened eagerly to that piercing, wild, passionate tone. never had she felt within her such hot, beating, intense life as in this hour. her whole past existence now seemed to her like a long, stupid lethargy, from which she had at last been awakened. tears flowed from her eyes. then his look met hers. a kind of shame at his brutality overcame him, and his playing died away in sad, sweet, anguished tenderness. with contracted brows and trembling hands, he laid down the violin. "you wished it!" said he. "you should not have asked it of me. i can refuse you nothing. god! how pale you are! i have made you ill!" she smiled at his anxious exaggeration, then murmured softly, as if in a dream: "it was wonderfully beautiful, and i shall never forget it--never forget it, only----" "what have you to object?" "shall i really tell you?" "certainly; i beg you to." "well," she began, hesitatingly, with a somewhat uneasy smile, as if she was afraid of wounding his irritable artistic sensibility, "i ask myself how one can abuse an instrument from which one can charm such bewitching harmonies, and which one loves as you love your violin, as you have just now abused it?" he was silent for a moment, surprised, looked at the violin with a loving, compassionate glance, as if it were a living being. then he passed his hand across his forehead. "i do not know how it is," said he, confusedly. "sometimes something comes over me. ah! if you knew what it is to have, all one's life, such a sultry, sneaking thunderstorm in one's veins as i have. sometimes it bursts forth; it must have vent. i cannot rule myself. teach me how!" he said that, so naïvely ashamed, quite pleadingly, like a great child; he had strangely warm, touching tones in his deep, rough voice. * * * * * when lensky presented himself again, the next day, in the palazzo morsini, and, indeed, this time to arrange the purchase of the wonderful violin, the princess called out gayly to him: "the violins are no longer to be had. i have bought all three. i gave all my savings for them. if you wish to play on them, you must come here. but you may come as often as you wish!" "for how long?" asked he, with a peculiar tremble in his voice. she turned away her head. after awhile she said, apparently irrelevantly, with her gay, ingenuous smile, that still never quite banished the sadness from her pale face: "do you know that we are really as poor as church mice? it is comical. mamma consoles herself with the thought that i will make a good match. if she should be mistaken, what a tragedy!" she laughed merrily. what did she mean by that? * * * * * he came oftener and oftener to the old palace in the via giulia; came every day, indeed. formerly intercourse with women of rank had always formed only a short parenthesis in his otherwise dissolute life. now the couple of hours, or sometimes they were only minutes, which he daily passed with the assanows were the key-note of all the rest of his existence. how happy he felt with them! if elsewhere the great society ladies had raved over the artist lensky to an immoderate extent, they had quite ignored the man. but with the assanows it was different, or at least it seemed so. his fame was not put forward from morning to night. there were days in which his violin-playing was not even mentioned. the artist stopped in the background, and in association with natalie and her mother he was no star, no lion, only a very wise, peculiar, sympathetic man, who pleased quite aside from his artistic gifts. besides, with them he appeared differently than with any one else in the world. his petulant defiance disappeared, as well as the helplessness for which it was a shield. he was completely uncultivated from the foundation. grown up among ignorant men who profited by his early unfolding talent, and misused it in order to earn money thereby; sentenced consequently as a child to just as many hours of hard musical practice as his poor still undeveloped body could endure, he had, at fourteen years of age, when he could barely read and write, not even the consciousness of his lack of knowledge. that came later, came when great people began to be interested in him. but then it was painful and humiliating beyond measure. whatever one can acquire in later years he acquired. another would have made a show of the astonishing amount of reading which he had accomplished in the course of years, but he never learned to display his lately won intellectual riches with grace. he had not the frivolity of superficial men. much too clever not to be conscious that his little bit of supplementary cultivation was still only patchwork, even if made of very noble, large patches, he confined his remarks in society, if the conversation was upon anything but music, to a few heavy commonplaces. with natalie and her mother it was quite different. he never, indeed, spoke very much, but everything that he said was characteristic, stimulating, interesting, and as, in spite of his sad lack of education, he was free from narrow provincialisms and affectations, and with the capability of assimilation of all barbarians, understood exactly natalie's pure and poetic being, he never wounded her by a coarse lack of tact, but attracted her doubly by the austere unconventionality of his manner. every day he became more sympathetic to her; she had long been indispensable to him. he was suddenly struck with horror of his past. it seemed to him as if everything that was beautiful in his life had just begun when her pure bright apparition had entered it. she had brought a cooling, healing element to his sultry existence. it was as if one had opened a window in a room full of oppressive vapor--a great breath of sweet, spicy air had purified the atmosphere. a large part of his intellectual self which had formerly lain fallow, now grew and blossomed. often, in the morning, he accompanied the ladies to some art collection. very frequently he occupied a place in the carriage which the princess had hired for their drives. every one looked after the carriage, and observed with the same interest the wonderfully beautiful girl, and the great artist, who was not handsome, but whose face once seen could never be forgotten. what was most remarkable about it was the difference between the expression of his eyes and that of his mouth, a difference which betrayed the entire quality of his inner nature. while his eyes had a spying, at times quite enthusiastic, expression, around the mouth was a trace of intense earthly thirst for enjoyment. this mingling predestinated him to that eternal discontent of certain great natures who can just as little accustom themselves, on the earth, to a condition of bloodless asceticism as to one of mindless materialism. the first desires no enjoyment of the world, the second pleases itself with whatever is to be had in the world. those men only who seek the heavenly spark in earthly joys remain forever deceived here. he was destined never to cease to seek it. even in gray old age, when his finely cut lips were satiated with enjoyment, and were fixed in a grimace of incessant, sad disgust, his eyes still sought it. * * * * * his colleagues in st. petersburg asked each other what kept him so long in rome. he wrote one of them that he was working, and indeed he did work. through his soul vibrated melodies full of bewitching sad loveliness, full of the rejoicing and complaint of a longing which could not yet attain the longed-for happiness. and there in rome, in those mild fragrant spring nights, he wrote a cyclus of songs which might rank at the side of the most beautiful musical lyrics ever written. in spite of their full richness of melody, his earlier compositions had something too glaring, overladen, and trivially pleasing; they were too much influenced by his virtuosity to please for themselves. in his roman cyclus of songs he showed himself for the first time a great musician. and as until then he had distrusted his talent as composer, he was pleasantly astonished over his own achievement. he always worked at night. his writing-table stood in front of the window of his room which looked out on the piazza di spagna. very often his glance wandered there. a dark-blue heaven lighted by thousands of stars arched above the broad, irregular place, over the antique columns, from whose height a modern art nonentity looks down on rome. all was silent, only the water, the resonant soul of rome, tittered and sobbed in the basins and fountains, and spouted up jubilantly in damp silver streams, greeting from afar the unattainable heavens, and all the tittering, sobbing, and rejoicing united in a long vibrating broken chord. still vibrating in every fibre at the recollection of natalie's farewell smile, he sat at his shaky table and wrote. the mild night wind, fragrant with the kisses which it had stolen from the magnolia and orange blossoms, crept in to him and caressed his hot cheeks. he inhaled it eagerly. he had often been warned of the roman night air, but he did not think of the warning, and if he had--? he was in that happy mood in which man no longer believes in sickness and death. the hateful melancholy which as he said often pressed him down to the ground, and tormented him with predictions of his final annihilation, was gone. he no longer saw, as formerly, an open grave at his feet. heaven had opened to him. an indescribable, light, elevating feeling had overpowered him; he no longer felt the weight of his body. had his wings, then, grown in rome? * * * * * he did not think what would come of all this. he did not wish to think of it; did not wish to see clearly. with closed eyes he walked through life--the angels led him. * * * * * it was the beginning of may, and he had finished his cyclus of songs. with a beating heart he entered the palazzo morsini to ask natalie whether he might dedicate it to her. the young princess was not at home, but her mother would be very happy to see him, they told him. it was very hot, the blinds were all lowered. the princess lay on a lounge and fanned herself with a peacock feather fan. after she had complained of the heat, she began to speak to him of all kinds of family affairs. her son had the best of opportunities to make a career for himself, said she; her eldest daughter, who was far less pretty than natalie, added the princess, had married very well; her husband was indeed a wealthy diplomat. "_mois, je suis pauvre_," concluded the old lady; "but i could live quite without care, if natalie were only married. but she will hear nothing of that. she lets the best years of her life pass, and if you only knew what good matches she has refused. pachotin has already offered himself twice to her, and if you please----" just then a gay voice interrupted the inconsolable elegy. "mamma, how can any one boast so?" natalie had entered, a large black hat on her head, in her arms a huge bunch of flowers. "i did not boast--i complained," replied the old woman, sighing. after natalie had greeted lensky with her usual friendliness, she laid the flowers on the table and arranged them in the vases which an italian chambermaid had brought her. "ah, natalie, why will you have none of them?" sighed the princess. "little mother, i can love but once," replied natalie, bending her brown head over the flowers. "i have told you i will not marry until i have found some one quite extraordinary--a hero or a genius." "am i dreaming, or did she look at me with those words?" lensky asked himself. "but why did she turn her eyes away so quickly when they met mine?" meanwhile the princess said: "yes, if all girls wished to wait thus!" "i am not like all girls," said natalie, laughing. "most girls have hearts like hand-organs, which every one can play; others have hearts like Æolian harps, on which no one can play, and still they always vibrate so sympathetically for the world; and still other girls--" she interrupted herself to break a superfluous leaf from a magnolia twig. the princess, who seemed to lay little weight on natalie's naïve comparisons, fanned herself indifferently with her peacock fan, but lensky repeated, "well, natalie alexandrovna, other girls----" "other girls have hearts like amati violins; if a bungler touches them there is a horrible discord; but if a true artist comes who understands it, then----" this exaggerated remark she had made in a voice trembling between mockery and tenderness, and incessantly occupied with the arrangement of her flowers. without ending the last sentence, she broke off, and bent her head to the right to observe a combination of white roses and heliotrope with a thoughtful look. the princess yawned from heat and discontent. "leave me in peace from your musical comparisons, natascha," said she. "besides, i can assure you that no one spoils a fine instrument quicker than one of your great virtuosos. when i think how franz liszt ruined our pleyel in a single evening; it was no longer fit even for a conservatory." "violins are not ruined as quickly as pianos," said natalie, laughing; then, still speaking to the flowers, she said: "don't you think, little mother, that if such a piano had a soul, a mind, it would rather rejoice to really live for once under the hands of a great master, and even if it were to die of the joy, than merely to exist for a half-century in a noble, charming room, as a carefully preserved showpiece?" again it seemed to lensky that she looked at him, and again she turned away her head when their looks met. "you are astonished at this great expenditure for flowers?" she remarked. "we expect guests this evening--my cousins from st. petersburg, the jeliagins. you know them, and i shall try to draw their critical looks away from the holes in the furniture covering to these beautiful color effects. so! now i have finished; here are a few may-bells left for your button-hole. ah! really, you never wear flowers!" "give them to me," said he, contracting his brows gloomily. she smiled at him without saying anything. then something scratched at the door. "please open it, boris nikolaivitch," she asked. he did so; her large dog, a gigantic scotch greyhound, came in, and immediately springing up on his beautiful mistress, he laid both front paws on her shoulders. she took his heavy head between her slender hands, and murmuring tender, caressing words to him, she kissed him twice, three times, on the forehead. lensky took leave soon after without having mentioned his song cyclus. his mind was in an uproar. "is she only coquetting with me?" he asked himself, "or--or--" a passionate joy throbbed in his veins, then suddenly an icy shudder ran over him. "and if she is only like all the others!" at his departure natalie had said to him: "you will come this evening, boris nikolaivitch, in spite of this boring petersburg invasion? i beg you will, _vous serez le coin bleu de mon ciel!_" * * * * * the evening came. a roman sirocco evening, with an approaching thunderstorm that hung heavily around the horizon and would not lift. the heavily perfumed sultry air penetrated through the drawn curtains into the assanows' drawing-room. the jeliagins had brought a couple of parisian friends with them, and naturally pachotin was not missing. a deathly _ennui_ reigned. they spoke of parisian fashions, of the empress eugenie's new court; they complained of the new cook in the hotel de l'europe, and of the heat. then they spoke of national dances. the jeliagins had recently travelled in spain and were enthusiastic about the fandango. the parisians had heard there was nothing more graceful than a well-danced polish mazurka; could none of the russian ladies dance one for them?--a very bold request, but they were all friends. the jeliagins announced that natalie danced the mazurka like a true woman of warsaw. they left her no peace. "oh, i will put on no more airs," said she, "if one of the ladies will take a seat at the piano, so----" to go to the piano, even were it only to play dance-music, in lensky's presence! the ladies swooned at the mere thought. "very well, then you must give up the mazurka," said natalie, decidedly. "ask boris nikolaivitch," whispered one of the st. petersburg women. "if he is the first violinist of his time, he is also an excellent pianist." "no, no," said natalie, firmly, and then her great brilliant eyes met lensky's. although at that time he maintained his artistic dignity with quite childish exaggeration, he smiled very good-naturedly and said, "i see very well that you place no confidence in me; you think i cannot catch your mazurka music." "no, no, no!" said natalie. "you shall not degrade your art." "and do you really think it would be degrading to improvise a musical background for your performance? i should so like to see you dance." and he stood up and went to the piano. such pretty little phrases were formerly not his style. he had, as natalie had often laughingly told him, no talent for _fioriture_ in conversation. the petersburg ladies looked at each other. "how polite he has become! you have changed him, natascha," whispered they. meanwhile pachotin gave natalie his hand. lensky had seized the opportunity of admiring her grace with joy. he had never thought how painfully it would affect him to see her dance with another man. he did not take his eyes off her, and meanwhile improvised the most bewitching devil's music. she wore a white dress, her neck and arms were bare, and around her waist was a circassian girdle embroidered with gold and silver. one hand in her partner's, the other hanging loosely at her side, her head slightly on one side, she moved safely over the dangerously smooth surface of the marble floor. at the beginning, pale as usual, except her dark-red lips, she looked quite indifferent; gradually she became warmer and more animated, a slight blush crept into her cheeks, her eyes beamed as if in a happy dream, around her lips trembled the sad expression which the feeling of intense pleasure often causes us, and her movements at the same time had something indescribably gentle and supple. [illustration: at the beginning, pale as usual, except the dark-red lips, she looked quite indifferent; gradually she became warmer and more animated, a slight blush crept into her cheeks, her eyes beamed as in a happy dream---- _p. _.] pachotin, most correctly attired, with a collar which reached to the tips of his ears and faultless yellow gloves, hopped around her in the true affected knightly grimacing polish-mazurka manner. "an ape!" thought lensky to himself; "but how handsome, how distinguished he is! almost as handsome as she!" and suddenly the question occurred to him: "is it my music or his presence which animates her? and if it were my music! nevertheless, she will still marry him; yes, even if she were in love with me, still she would marry him, and not me! what a fool i was to imagine----" after pachotin had soberly placed his heels together and acknowledged his deep devotion to the lady by a suitable courtesy, the mazurka was at an end. quite beside themselves with enthusiasm, the parisians surrounded natalie. when she wished to thank lensky he had disappeared. it was his manner many times to withdraw without taking leave, but still to-day it made natalie uneasy. she was vibrating with a great excitement, the air seemed to her suffocatingly hot, she drew off her gloves; the noise of the prattling voices became unbearable to her, and she passed through the second empty drawing-room, into the arched loggia set with blooming orange-trees, from which one looked across the court-yard to the tiber. the storm still hung on the horizon. heavy masses of clouds, shot through by pale lightning, towered, on the other side of the river, above the gloomy architecture of the trastevere. they had not yet reached the moon, which, palely shining, stood high in the heavens. its light illumined the court, with its statues and bas-reliefs. the air was sultry. natalie drew a deep breath. suddenly she discovered lensky. he was staring down on the tiber, which, rolling by in its bed, incessantly sighed, as if from sorrow at its sad lot, which compelled it continually to hasten past everything. could one really take it amiss in the stream if it sometimes overflowed its banks in order to carry away with it some of the beautiful objects, near which, condemned to perpetual wandering, it might not remain standing? "ah! you here?" said natalie. "i thought you had taken french leave. i was vexed with you." "so!" "yes, because--because i was sorry not to be able to thank you. it was really----" "do not speak so," said he, quite roughly; "just as if you did not know that there is nothing in the world, nothing in my power that i would not do for you!" she bent her head back a little and smiled at him in a friendly way, but as if his words had not surprised her in the slightest. "you are very good to me," said she. he felt strangely thus alone with her in this sweet-perfumed, melancholy, intoxicating sultriness, alone with this happiness that was so near him, and which he was afraid of frightening away by an unseemly imprudence. he felt by turns hot and cold. why did she not go? she rested her hands on the marble balustrade of the loggia and bending over it she murmured: "how beautiful! oh, how wonderfully beautiful! and it is so tiresome in there; do you not find it so, boris nikolaivitch?" his throat contracted, he felt that he was about to lose control of himself. "shall i play?" he asked. "i will do it willingly for you." "oh, no! why should you play to those stupid people in there?" replied she. "i would be prepared to hear, in the middle of the g minor concerto, the question: 'before i forget it, can you not give me the address of a good shoemaker in rome?' you know how such things vex me." "is she coquetting with me, or--?" he asked himself again. she stood before him with her enchanting face, and her tender glance met his. she did not know that she tormented him. in spite of her twenty-one years, she had the boundless innocence of a girl whose mind has never been desecrated by the knowledge of passion, a degree of innocence in which men do not believe. "is she coquetting?" his heart beat to bursting, and suddenly, when she quite unconstrainedly came one step nearer him, he took her hand. "oh, you dear, dear girl!" he murmured, with hoarse, scarcely audible voice, and pressed it to his lips. [illustration: "oh, you dear, dear girl!" he murmured, with hoarse, scarcely audible voice, and pressed it to his lips. crimsoning. she tore away her hand. _p. _.] crimsoning, she tore away her hand. "for heaven's sake, what are you thinking of?" said she, and started back with a proud, almost scornful gesture. then a horrible anger overcame him. "i was stupid, i was mistaken in you. you think no more nobly or better than the others!" he burst out. "i do not understand you. what do you mean?" murmured she. what else had she to ask? why did she not go, but stood before him, as if paralyzed, with her pale, seductive loveliness, surrounded by moonlight? "i mean that if you observe our relations from this conventional standpoint, your behavior to me was a heartless, arrogant abomination." "but, boris nikolaivitch, that is all foolishness. you do not know what you are saying," she stammered, quite beside herself. "so! i do not know what i am saying?" he had now stepped close up to her. "and if i, mistaking your coquetries--yes, that is the word; blush now and be a little ashamed--if i, mistaking your coquetries, have permitted myself to petition for your hand? oh, how you start! naturally, you had never thought of such a thing!" his voice was hoarse and rasping, his face very calm and as if petrified by anger and such a mental torment as he had never before experienced. "but go! why do you stay and torture me? i will no longer look at you. i abominate you, and still i love you so passionately, so madly!" yes, why did she still not go? he could endure it no longer--he clasped her to his breast and kissed her with his hot, burning lips. then she pushed him from her and fled. he looked after her. now all was over. for one moment he remained standing on the same spot, then, with deeply bowed head, dragging his feet along slowly, he passed through the vestibule and left, without thinking of his hat, which he had left in the drawing-room. for the remainder of the evening natalie's whole being betrayed only haste and uneasiness. she spoke more and quicker than formerly, laughed frequently, and told the gayest stories. when her petersburg cousins wished to tease her with lensky's enthusiasm for her, and laughingly called him "your genius," she mentioned him indifferently, quite disapprovingly, shrugged her shoulders over his talent as composer--yes, even found fault with his playing. she was friendly, quite inviting, to pachotin; she no longer knew what she did, only when he wished to give the conversation a more earnest turn she broke it off suddenly and remorselessly. when at last, at last, the drawing-room was empty and she might withdraw, she locked herself in her room, threw herself down before the holy picture before which she always said her evening prayer. but, however she tried to pray, she could not. she did not know for what she should pray. her cheeks burned with dreadful shame. how could he have so far forgotten himself with her! she threw open a window. what did it matter to her that they said the roman night air was poisonous? she would have liked to take the roman fever, would have liked to die. her window opened on the street. the via giulia was divided by the moonlight into two parts, one light and one dark. all was quiet, empty, deserted. then there was a sound of slow, dragging steps, and two lowered voices whispered down there in the silent solitude. it was probably a pair of belated lovers, and suddenly there was a soft, tender sound through the mild may night. she caught her breath, closed the window, and turned back to her room. half-undressed, she sat on the edge of her little cool white bed and thought again and again--of the same thing--of his kiss. * * * * * "why has 'your genius' so suddenly tired of rome? he leaves to-day," remarked the jeliagins, who had come to lunch the next morning in the palazzo morsini. they were staying at the same hotel as lensky--that is to say, in the "europe"--and had spoken to him in the court of the hotel. "he looked miserably," they added, with a haughty glance. "either he has roman fever or you have broken his heart." then they spoke of other things. soon after lunch they went away. meanwhile lensky stumbled up and down, up and down, in his room. a sick lady whose room was beneath his, at last sent up by the waiter and begged him to be quiet. his departure was fixed for seven o'clock; it struck one, it struck four. should he leave without having made a parting call upon the princess assanow run away like any fellow who has borrowed thirty rubles? "but they will not receive me," he thought, "if the princess has told her mother. but, no, she will have said nothing; she is too proud. what a lovely being! how could i only-- oh, if i might at least ask her pardon! but what kind of a pardon would it be? such a thing a woman pardons only if she loves, and how should she love me, a beast as i am? she must have an aversion for me." he resolved to take leave by letter. he tried it in french and russian, but could complete nothing. ashamed of his laughable incapacity, he tore up the different sheets of letter-paper adorned with "_des circonstances imprévues_," or "_la reconnaissance sincère que_." five o'clock! he hastened across the courtyard, sprang into a carriage. "palazzo morsini, via giulia," he called to the coachman, and commanded him to drive fast. when he ascended the well-known stairs he asked himself a last time if he would be received. the servant conducted him to the boudoir of the old princess. she broke off her game of patience to greet him, only betrayed a slight astonishment at his sudden departure, and said that she and natalie should soon follow his example and go north, probably to baden-baden, for the heat in rome began to be unbearable. then she rang for the maid, whom she commissioned to tell the princess that boris nikolaivitch had come to take leave. lensky waited in breathless excitement. the maid came back with the decision: the princess was very ill and had lain down with a headache. "quite as i expected," thought lensky, while the princess remarked politely, "she will be very sorry." then he kissed the old lady's hand, she touched his forehead with her lips in the russian custom, wished him a pleasant journey, he thanked her a last time for all the friendship she had shown him, and went--went quite slowly through the large empty room, in which the dust danced in a broad sunbeam which lay across the marble floor, and in which the flowers which she had arranged so charmingly yesterday now stood withered in their vases. "shall i never see her again, never--never?" he asked himself. he would have given his life for a last friendly glance from her. what use was it to think of that--it was all over! then suddenly he heard something near him like the rustling of an angel's wings. he looked up. natalie stood before him, deathly pale, with black rings around her eyes, with carelessly arranged hair. a passionate pity, a tender anxiety overcame him. "how she has suffered through my offence!" he told himself and rushed up to her. "natalie, can you forgive me?" he called. her great, sad eyes were raised to him with an expression of helpless, ashamed tenderness, as if they would say, "and you ask that!" she moved her lips, but no word came. he held her little hands trembling with fever in his. she did not draw them away. he grew dizzy. for one moment they were both silent, then he whispered, drawing her closer to him, "do you love me, then? could you resolve to bear my name, to share my whole existence?" scarcely audibly she whispered, "yes." we are sometimes frightened at the sudden fulfilment of a wish which we have believed unattainable. and as lensky under the weight of his new, strange happiness sank at the feet of his betrothed and covered the hem of her dress with tears and kisses, in the midst of his happiness he felt an oppressed anxiety, a great fear. * * * * * a few days after natalie's betrothal there was a short, imperious ring at the door of the artistic gray anteroom, in which the imposing butler, as usual, sat majestically intrenched behind his newspaper. monsieur baptiste raised his eyebrows; he did not like this imperious manner of ringing a bell, and did not hurry at all to open the door. only when the ring was repeated did he unlock it. his face changed color from surprise, and he bowed quite to the ground when he recognized in the entering gentleman the young prince, the eldest brother of natalie, sergei alexandrovitch assanow. "are the ladies at home?" he asked shortly in a high, somewhat vexed voice without further noticing the respectful greeting of the servant. "the princess is still in bed, but the princess natalie is already up." "good. do not disturb the princess, and announce me to princess natalie," said assanow, and with that he followed the butler, who was hastening before him, into the drawing-room. there he sat down in a mahogany arm-chair upholstered in faded yellow damask, crossed his legs, rested his tall shining hat on his knee and looked around him. on one of his hands was a gray glove, the other was bare. it was a long, slender, aristocratic hand, very well cared for, too white for a man's hand, but bony, and with strongly marked veins on the back--a hand which one saw would certainly hold firmly what it had once grasped, and a hand which was capable of no caress. for the rest it would have been hard to judge anything from the exterior of the prince. he was a tall slender man of about thirty, with light-brown hair that was already thin on the top of the head, and a face--smoothly shaven except a long mustache--which in the cut of the delicate regular features resembled his sister's not unnoticeably. but the expression, that animating soul of beauty which lent natalie's pale face more charm than the regularity of the lines, was lacking in him. everything about him was as correct as his profile--his high stiff collar, the drab gaiters which showed beneath his trousers, his light-gray gloves with black stitching. he was the type of the russian state official of the highest category, the type of men who in public life only permit themselves to think as far as will not injure their advancement. as he was a very clever, sharp, judging man withal, he revenged himself for the discomfort which the systematic crippling of his intellectual capacity in the service of the state caused him, by devoting all the superfluity of his unneeded intellect to shedding an unpleasantly glaring intellectual light about him, and condemning as absolute foolishness all those little poetic, pleasant trifles which make life beautiful. he called this manner of pleasing himself doing his duty. strangely enough, with all his sterile dryness he was a true lover of music. he played the cello as well as a man of the world can permit himself to--that is to say, with an elegant inaccuracy, together with pedantic bursts of virtuosity, and in consequence had cultivated lensky's acquaintance assiduously. while he waited for his sister he looked around the room distrustfully with his handsome dark but unpleasantly piercing eyes. he grew uneasy. the atmosphere of the whole room was quite permeated with happiness. everything seemed to feel happy here--the shabby furniture, the music which lay somewhat confusedly on the piano. on the table near which sergei alexandrovitch sat stood a basket of pale malmaison roses, under the piano was a violin case. sergei alexandrovitch frowned. then natalie entered the room; he rose, went to meet her, kissed and embraced her. it seemed strange to her that she did not feel as glad to see him as formerly, but rather felt a kind of chill. which of them had changed, he or she? "what a surprise!" said she, and felt herself that her voice had a forced sound. "it has not formerly been your custom to appear so unexpectedly." "my journey was only decided upon last month," replied he, somewhat hesitatingly; and with his dull smile he added, "i hope i do not arrive inopportunely, natalie?" "how can you ask such a thing!" said she. "but sit down and put your hat away--you are at home." he remarked the uneasiness of her manner. he coughed twice, and then sat down again near the table on which the basket of roses stood. natalie sat down. both hands resting on the red surface of the mahogany table, she bent over the flowers, and slowly with a kind of tenderness inhaled the dreamy, melancholy perfume. "have you had a pleasant winter?" began sergei alexandrovitch. "i do not know," replied she without looking at him; "i have forgotten, but the spring was wonderfully beautiful, wonderfully beautiful," and she bent over the flowers again. "hm! so you prefer rome to naples?" said he condescendingly. "yes." "you seem to have been very comfortably fixed here," he remarked, with a glance around. "you have very pretty rooms. those are beautiful roses which you have there." "boris lensky sent them to me," said she, while she at the same time pulled a rose from the basket to fasten it in the bodice of her light foulard dress. then she sat down opposite sergei. war was declared. "lensky seems to be a great deal with you," said assanow, condescendingly. "yes." "i heard of it through acquaintances in petersburg," began the prince. "it did not quite please me." natalie only shrugged her shoulders, with an expression as if she would say: "i am very sorry, but that does not change matters at all." in spite of that she secretly trembled before her brother. the announcement which she had to make to him would not cross her lips. "it is hard to speak of certain things to you," he continued, while he tried to make his thin high voice sound confidential. he did not wish to make his sister refractory by overhasty roughness. "i have no prejudices." it had recently become the fashion in his set, and especially for the upper ten thousand, to boast of a kind of harmless liberality. "no one can accuse me of smallness. i am always in favor of attracting young artists into society--first, because they form an animating element in our circles, and secondly, because one should give them an opportunity to improve their manners a little; but all in moderation. too great intimacy in such cases is bad for both parties. you are too much carried away by the generosity of your heart. i know that in reality your immoderate kindness to lensky does not mean much, but----" her wonderfully beautiful eyes met his. "i am betrothed to boris nikolaivitch," said she wearily but very distinctly. "betrothed!" he burst out. "you to lensky? you are crazy!" "not at all." "does mother know of it?" "certainly." "and she has given her consent?" "at first she was surprised; she cried a whole afternoon. i was very sorry to pain her. then she gave way. she is very fond of him. every one must be fond of him who learns to know him well." natalie's eyes beamed with animation. sergei alexandrovitch pulled at his mustache. "hm, hm," he murmured; "we will leave that undecided. as it happens, i am one of those who know him well; there are few in our set who know him as intimately as i, and--hm--i do not know that he has caused me any very enthusiastic feelings. as artist i rank him very high, not so high as has been the fashion lately, for as a _beau dire il manque de style_, he lacks style! but that has nothing to do with this. but if he united in himself the genius of beethoven and paganini, i would still look upon the possibility of your alliance with him as unheard of, and i tell you frankly, that i shall do all that is in my power to prevent it." he had taken up again the hat which he had formerly laid down, and held it on his knee as if paying a call of state. while he spoke the last words, he knocked on the top of it with malicious decision. natalie crossed her arms. "i knew that you would oppose the mésalliance," said she, "but----" he would not let her finish. "mésalliance!" said he, and laughed very mockingly, quite shortly and softly, to himself, and began to drum on the top of his hat again. "mésalliance! i cannot say that the marriage of my sister to this mr. lensky would be especially pleasant--no, that i cannot say. what must be my horror at your undertaking if i scarcely think of my opposition on account of the unequal birth!" he was silent, but then as natalie remained obstinately silent, he continued: "that you will in consequence change your social position is your affair. but do not believe that this will be all that you give up. you sacrifice not only your position, your whole personality, all your habits of life, but more than all these, you sacrifice all your formerly so spared and guarded womanly tender feeling if you insist upon marrying this violinist. oh, i know what you will say," said he, while he noticed the glance which natalie gave the roses on the table. "he is full of poetic attentions for you. when they are in love, the roughest men speak in verse. and i believe that he loves you. but his enthusiasm for you is still only a passing effervescence. what will remain when that is gone? i ask you, what would remain in a man without principles, without a trace of moral restraint, who has grown up amid surroundings which have forever blunted his feelings for things which would horrify you, and others of which you have no suspicion?" again he paused, but this time natalie spoke: "may i ask you," began she, with the calm behind which irritation bordering on uncontrollable anger concealed itself--"may i ask you to tell me exactly, without any more finely veiled insinuations, what you have against boris nikolaivitch, except that he is of lower birth and has enjoyed no careful bringing up?" "my god! if it is a question of my sister's future husband, that is enough and more than enough!" said assanow. "is it all?" asked natalie, and looked at him penetratingly. "what do you mean?" "is it all?" she repeated, while she slowly rose from her chair. "have you anything else against him?" "i have really nothing against him as long as it is not a question of my sister's husband," he hissed; "but in that case everything. and if instead of lensky he were called prince dolgorouki, i would still say, as a husband for you he is impossible!" "why--i wish to know it--why?" "why? good. i will tell you, as far as one can tell you--because he is a wild animal, with bursts of roughness of which you cannot form the slightest conception," said assanow; and, striking his thin hands together, he added, with evidently genuine excitement: "_mais, ma pauvre fille_, you have no suspicion to what humiliations, what degradations, you expose yourself." he stopped. he looked at his sister triumphantly. she still stood before him with her hand resting on the top of the table, staring, pale and without a word. it would be false, to say that his speech made no impression on her. it had made an impression on her. still, she ascribed all that he said to boundless, passionate opposition. while he spoke it seemed to her as if little pointed icicles were hurled in her face. and weary and wounded from this hailstorm of fruitless prudence, she longed with all her heart for a reconciling delusion. he misunderstood her apparently great excitement, and in the firm conviction that she already secretly began to fall in with his opinion, he began, this time in a kindly, playful tone: "my poor natalie, my poor, unwise but always charming sister, you are like children who see that they are wrong and are ashamed to acknowledge it. well, we will not press you too much. at first it is always painful to be undeceived; but time cures everything, and when you are married to a distinguished and reasonable young fellow--_un garçon distingué et raisonnable_--who will rationally cure you of your romantic ideas, you will only think of this youthful foolishness with a smile." she threw back her head and measured him from head to foot. at this moment he seemed to her quite pitiable. how poverty-stricken, how sad was his whole inner life, his feelings, his thoughts, to those to which she had recently accustomed herself! "and you really believe that it could occur to me to give up boris nikolaivitch?" said she slowly with proudly curved lips. "i think, after what i have said to you--" he tried to be patient, and even wished to take her hand, but she drew it back; the touch of his cold, bloodless fingers was unpleasant to her. yet it had never been so before. what had changed in her? the prince's face took on a hard, vexed expression. "i think after what i have told you--" he repeated. "is it not true, after what you have told me, after the consolation you have offered me, you cannot understand that i keep my word?" said she, challengingly. "what will you, i am now so foolish?" her voice, veiled at first, became warmer and stronger, while she continued: "you take away summer from me, and offer me winter as consolation--that is, you ask of me that i should refuse everything in the world that blooms and bears fruit, only because sometimes a devastating thunderstorm bursts over this wealth of beauty and life! i know that in a normal winter there are no thunderstorms, and in spite of that i prefer the summer!" "but it is a tropical summer!" exclaimed assanow. "that may be," she replied, calmly; "but for that very reason it is more magnificent--yes, even because of the dangers involved in it--more magnificent than any other." he stood up. "it is useless to speak to you," said he, coldly; "the only thing that remains for me is to speak to lensky. he has a clear head in spite of all his genius. he can be talked over." then natalie was startled out of her proud calm. "you would be indelicate enough to say to him what you have said to me!" she burst out. "in such cases it is not only wisest, but most humane, to use pure prudence instead of foolish sentimentality," announced assanow; and, bowing to his sister as to a stranger, he left, with all his vexation, still elevated by the thought that he had again had opportunity to display his "prudence" in a brilliant light. he loved his prudence as an artistic capability, and was glad to give proofs, by all kinds of virtuoso performances, of its extent and unusual pliability. whether these productions were exactly suited to the time troubled the virtuoso little, and that by his last threat he had attained exactly the opposite with natalie from what he wished, did not occur to him at all, momentarily. he had gone. natalie still stood in the middle of the room, her hand resting on the table, and trembling in her whole body. suddenly the memory of the "musical confession" arose in her, which lensky had laid before her the morning when he tried the amati, the confession which had frightened her. and through her mind vibrated, piercingly and cuttingly, the mysterious succession of tones from the arabian folksongs which echoed lamentingly through all his compositions--the devil's music: asbeïn. as long as she had to defend herself from her brother, she had not realized how deeply he had wounded her. she felt at once miserable, wounded, and discontented with life--as a young tree must feel, over whose fragrant young spring blossoms a hailstorm has passed. then lensky came in. he perceived in a moment what had happened. "they have tormented you on my account," said he. "poor heart! if i could only take all this vexation upon myself." she smiled at him. "then i would not be worthy of you," replied she. he drew her gently toward him. her discouragement had disappeared; warm, strong life again pulsated in her veins. "everything has its recompense," whispered she; "it is sweet to bear something for any one whom----" "well, for any one whom--please finish," he urged, and drew her closer to him. "you know it without." "i would so love to hear you say it once." she raised herself on tiptoes and whispered something in his ear. he held her tighter and tighter to him. "oh, my happiness, my queen!" he murmured, and his warm lips met hers. she felt as if wrapped in a sunbeam, in a warm, animating atmosphere, through which none of the critical sneers and opinions of those who stood without the consecrated magic circle of love could penetrate. * * * * * six weeks later natalie and lensky were married, and at the russian embassy in vienna. her dowry consisted of a very incomplete trousseau, in part lavishly trimmed with lace; of a mortgaged estate in south russia that had brought in no rents for three years; and of three cremona violins. while her elder brother silently concealed the true despair which the marriage caused him behind stiff dignity, the younger, an officer of the guard, with a becoming talent for arrogant impertinences, pleased himself by jesting over this adventurous marriage, and describing the "strange taste" of his sister, with a shrug of the shoulders, as a case of acute monomania. when he spoke of his brother-in-law, he called him nothing but "_cette bête sauvage et indécrottable_," even when he had long made a practice of borrowing money of him. neither of natalie's brothers or her married sister appeared at her wedding. only the old princess accompanied her daughter to the altar. second book. they trifled away the summer on the italian coast and in switzerland. in the autumn lensky made a concert tour through germany and the netherlands, on which his young wife accompanied him, and attempted with humorous zeal to accustom herself to the role of an artist's wife. in the beginning of december lensky and she came to st. petersburg. the residence had been prepared for the young pair by a friend of natalie. natalie made a discontented face when she entered her new kingdom. how new, how glaring, how unsuitable and tasteless everything looked. "it is as if one bit into a green apple," said she; and turning to lensky she added, gayly, with a shrug of her shoulders: "the stupid annette did not know any better; but do not trouble yourself. in a couple of weeks it will be different. you shall see how comfortably i will cushion your nest. you must feel happy in it, my restless eagle, or else you will fly away from me. what?" she said this, smiling in proud consciousness of his passionate love. what pleasure would it give him to fly away? and teasingly, jestingly, she pushed back the thick hair from his temples. ah, how pleasant and yet tantalizing was the touch of her slender, delicate fingers, which made him at once nervous and happy! as he expressed it, it "almost made him jump out of his skin with rapture." at first he let her continue her foolish, tender playfulness to her heart's content; then he laughingly put himself on the defensive, preached a more dignified manner to her, and when she did not yield, but gayly continued her lovely, teasing ways, he at length seized her violently by both wrists and quite crushed her hands with kisses. if in the first weeks of their married life both had been quite solemn, thoughtful, and confused in their manner to each other, now they often frolicked together like two gay children. while he took up again his long-interrupted duties at the petersburg conservatory, she built him "his nest." she did not go lavishly to work. oh, no! she knew that one must not press down a young artist with the burden of material cares. she imagined she was very economical. she did not cease to wonder over the cheapness with which she could get everything that was needed, beginning with the flowers--flowers in winter, in st. petersburg! he never enlightened her as to how much the footing on which she maintained her "simple household" surpassed his present circumstances. every time that he came home he found a new, attractive change. she accomplished great things in artistic arrangement of the so-called "confused style," which at that time was not so common as to-day, but was still a bold innovation. "_c'est tres joli, mais un peu trop touffu_," said he to her once when she met him, quite particularly conscious of victory and awaiting praise, with the knowledge of a new, costly improvement in the arrangement of the drawing-room. "yes, my love; but a drawing-room is neither an official audience-room nor a gymnasium," replied she, somewhat offended. "nor a ball-room nor riding-school," completed he, jestingly; "but--h'm--still one should be able to move in it. do you not think so?" "that is as one looks at it. i have nothing to do with it if you cannot brandish around too freely in it." * * * * * they went out in society quite frequently--in natalie's society. that many people, especially natalie's near relations, made comments on the marriage of the spoiled child of a prince with a violinist is easily understood. but scarcely had they seen boris and his young wife together a few times when the comments ceased. a full, true, young human happiness always causes respect, and, like every achievement, bears its triumphant justification in itself. the leader of fashion, princess lydia petrovna b., declared publicly, and, indeed, in the highest court circles, that in her opinion natalie had acted very wisely. countess sophie dimitrievna went a step further when she energetically declared that she envied natalie. from that time every one vied in fêting the young couple and distinguishing them. they both enjoyed society, but the best part of it was not entering the brilliantly illuminated reception-rooms or being surrounded by wondering strangers. oh, no! the best of all was the last quarter of an hour before they left their home, when lensky, already in evening dress, entered the dressing-room of his young wife. each time he felt anew the same pleasant excitement when he, slowly turning the knob, after a teasing, "may i come in, natalie?" entered the cosey room. how charming and attractive everything was there! the room with the light carpet and the comfortable, not too numerous articles of cretonne-upholstered furniture; the two tiny gold-embroidered slippers on the rough bear-skin in front of the lounge; not far off, natalie's house-dress, thrown over a chair, exhaling the warmth of her young, fresh, fragrant personality. then there on the toilet-table, with clouds of white muslin over the pink lining, and with sparkling silver and crystal utensils, a pretty confusion of half-opened white lace boxes, and on the table dark velvet jewel-cases. the pleasant, mild, and still bright light of many pink wax-candles, which stood about in high, heavy silver candelabra, and the warm, strange, seductive atmosphere which filled the whole room--an atmosphere which was permeated with the fragrance of greenhouse flowers, burning wax-candles, and the pleasant, subtle, spicy indian perfume which clung to all natalie's effects. and there, before the tall cheval-glass, natalie, already in evening toilet, almost ready, her beautiful arms hanging down in pampered helplessness; behind her a maid, just finished fastening her corsage, and a second, with a three-branched candelabra in her hand, throwing the light upon her mistress. was that really his wife? this splendid, queenly being in the white silk dress--she wore white silk in preference--really the wife of the violinist, in whose life, not so far back, lay all kind of need, humiliation, trouble of all kind? then she looked around. she had a charming manner of holding her small hands half against her cheeks, half against her neck, and turning slowly from the glass and looking at him with lowered eyelids, and a kind of mischievously proud and yet tenderly suppressed consciousness of victory. "are you satisfied, boris?" what could he answer? "you come just as if called," then said she. "you shall put the hair-pins in my hair. katia is so awkward." then she sat down in a low chair, and handed him the hair-pins. they were wonderful hair-pins, the heads of which were narcissi formed of diamonds, a bridal present from lensky. he took them with gentle fingers, and the celebrated artist was proud if his young wife praised him for the taste with which he fastened her diamonds in her hair. * * * * * "natalie!" exclaimed boris, in a tone of the greatest surprise--a surprise made up of the greatest astonishment and not of joy--"you here?" it was in his study, and nine o'clock in the morning. at this hour, daily, in crying opposition to his former proverbial unreliability, he had long been sitting at his writing-table. but that natalie should leave her bedroom before ten o'clock had hitherto been an unheard-of occurrence. but to-day, just as he was about to go to the piano, to try on that modest representative of an orchestra a completed musical phrase, he discovered her. quite unobserved, she had mischievously crept in, and now crouched comfortably in a large arm-chair, which formed a very picturesque frame for her silk wrapper, bordered with black fur. she sat on one foot; one tiny gold-embroidered caucasian slipper lay before her on the floor, and she smiled tenderly at her husband with her great, proud eyes. but the pride disappeared from her glance at his ejaculation, an ejaculation which expressed so much perplexity, so little joy. she started and, embarrassed, reached out for her slipper with the tip of her foot. "do i disturb you?" she asked, anxiously. "must i go?" formerly he could not bear to have any one about him when he worked. his face wore a forced, smiling expression, while he assured her: "oh, not in the slightest--pray sit down." whereupon he pushed his chair up to hers. "oh, if you are going to treat me so!" said she. "how, then?" asked he. "like--like any visitor," she burst out, and hastened to the door. he brought her back. then he saw that her eyes were full of tears. "but what is the matter?" "i am ashamed of my intrusion, that is all. adieu--i will not disturb you further!" with that she wished to free herself from him. but that was not so easy. he took her, struggling in his arms like a child, and carried her back by force to the immense chair which they had left. "so now, sit there, and don't spoil my mood, you witch. why should i not enjoy your company for a little? do you think, then, that i am not glad to see you? but you do not expect that i should bend over the table, and spoil paper, while a charming little woman sits behind me? the temptation to talk to you is too great." she shook her head. "you wish to be good to me, but you pain me," murmured she. and she added, flatteringly, "can you really not work when i am with you?" "would you like it if i could?" he asked, and looked at her with a quite new, penetrating expression in his eyes. he drew his brows together humorously; he was now kneeling before her, and held both her hands in his. "you are not only a charming little woman, natalie," said he, "but, what very few such beautiful and seductive women are, of a good heart. but still i have noticed one thing in you, namely, that you do not like to be second anywhere. and, do you see, everywhere else you are not only the first, but the only one in the world for me; but here, natalie, here it must please you that i should forget you for my art!" "and do you think that i would wish it otherwise?" said she, and there was an earnest, solemn expression in her eyes which he never forgot. "oh, you blind one, you do not yet know me at all. do not kneel there like a hero in a romance; in the long run, it looks not only awkward but uncomfortable. sit down by me--there is room enough in this immense chair for us both. so! and now--now i will confess to you what i have already so long had on my heart. do you see, you love me, i do not doubt that, how should i? but--do not be angry with me--sometimes i wish that you loved me differently; i wish to be not only your petted wife, your plaything----" "my plaything!" he interrupted her, very reproachfully. "oh, natalie! my sanctuary!" "well, then, as far as i am concerned, your sanctuary. that, looked at in one light, is also only a plaything, even if of the most distinguished kind." she laughed somewhat constrainedly. "it is certainly immoderate," she continued, and hesitated a little, "horribly immoderate, but still it is so--i--i do not want to be only your plaything, but also your friend--do not be horrified at this audacity--yes, your friend, your confidante. i wish to be the first to share your newly arising thoughts. lately, it has often hurt me that you busy yourself so much with all kinds of trifles only to give me pleasure. i know it is my fault; at first i was afraid of your genius, which soared heavenward, and wished to accustom you to the earth, and chain you close to me. but then--then i was ashamed of my smallness--ah, so ashamed. you shall not stoop down to me; let me try to rise to you. spread out your mighty wings, and fly up to the stars, but take me with you!" he could not speak--only kisses burned on his lips. he pressed them on her wonderful eyes, whose holy light humiliated him. then, after a while, he murmured, softly: "you are nearer the stars than i, natalie. show me the way, show me the way!" * * * * * from then, she daily passed a couple of hours in his study. how happy she felt in the great, airy room, which was almost as empty as a shed. in here she had not ventured with her soft, seductive, decorative arts. all had remained as sober and plain as he had always been accustomed to have his surroundings while at work. high shelves almost breaking under their weight of music, a piano, a couple of stringed instruments, the arm-chair in which he had established her, and two or three cane-bottomed chairs constituted the whole furniture. on the writing-table stood a picture of natalie, painted in water-colors by a young french artist in rome. the room could show no other ornament. still, there in the darkest corner hung a single laurel-wreath. no large one, such as one lays to-day at the feet of great artists, but poor and small, and in the middle of the wreath, in a common wooden frame, drawn with a hard lead-pencil, the face of a woman, with a white cloth on her head, from beneath which fine, curly hair fell over the forehead. without being beautiful, the face was strangely attractive, and natalie would have liked to ask the history of the laurel-wreath and the picture. but she did not venture to. she never, by a single question, touched upon lensky's past. he only continued to remain in solitude during the hours which he devoted to technical practice. at other times he quietly let her stay. she sat behind him, quite soberly and still, in the large, worn-out patriarchal chair, and did not breathe a word. she never even took a book in her hand, for fear of irritating him by the rattling of turning pages, but busied herself with pretty, noiseless handiwork. the feeling of her presence was unendingly sweet to him. his whole activity was increased; he worked more intently than formerly. a fulness of music vibrated in his head and heart. and if the inward vibrations became too dreamily sweet, too luxuriant and exuberant, he stopped writing, sat awhile in silence, and then, without taking the slightest notice of natalie, walked up and down a couple of times, hummed something to himself, made a sweeping gesture, in conclusion took up the violin--then---- natalie raised her head and listened--how wonderful that sounded! he had unlearned the madness, but still in his melodies always sounded the strange arabian succession of tones, the devil's music: asbeïn! she became, as she had wished, the confidante of his work. when he had sketched on paper the plan of a composition, he played it to her, now on his violin, which he passionately loved, now on the piano, which he did not love; for its short tone, incapable of development, repulsed him, but which he respected and made use of as the most complete of all instruments. although he played the piano, not with virtuosity, but with the helplessness of the composer, he could still bring out something of the "warm tone" which made his violin irresistible. how eagerly she listened to his compositions! how much she rejoiced in them, and how severe she was to him! she would not let him pass over a single musical flaw. that she rejoiced and wept over the beauties in his compositions, that she boldly placed his genius near beethoven and schumann, that is to say, near what she ranked highest in the world, that was another thing! for that reason she was so severe. he laughed at her sometimes for her tender delusion. then she took his head between her hands, and said, triumphantly: "that is all very well; only wait a little while, then the whole world will say that you have been the last musical poet: the others are only bunglers." * * * * * in the beginning of march he made a short artist tour through the interior of russia. naturally, he could not drag her around with him, for she could not endure the exhausting fatigues of his quick journeys, especially at that time. but how horrible, how unbearable the parting seemed to him! he wrote her every day. his writing was ugly and irregular, his orthography as deficient in french as in russian; but what tenderness, what passion and poetry spoke from every uncultured, stormily written line. no one could better impress his whole heart in a short, insignificant letter than he; and what rapture, what wild, almost painful rapture at seeing her again! she had missed him much less than he had missed her. he reproached her for it, complained that the new love which now began to fill her whole existence left no place for the old. but then she measured him with such a tender, and, at the same time, a so deeply hurt look, that he was ashamed. "you must not take it so," he whispered to her, appeasingly. "it is an old story that if two hearts hasten forward together in a race of love, one will naturally outdo the other, and still will be vexed that it is so. but it is quite natural and in order that i should cling more to you than you to me." she smiled quite sadly. "we will see who will win the race in the end," murmured she. * * * * * natalie no longer went into society. her health was much impaired. she passed the entire month of april stretched on her lounge, in loose wrappers. she now reproached herself with having been foolish not to have spared herself before. the time of tormenting fancy approached for the young wife, the time of concealed anxiety for them both. in spite of the consoling assurances of the physician, lensky was no longer himself, from anxiety and despair. but he did not let her notice it. when he was with her he had always a gay smile on his lips and a droll story for her diversion. he cared for her like a mother. then, toward the end of may, came the most tormenting hour he had ever lived through, until at last--when he already believed that all hope was lost--a little, thin, shrill sound smote his ear. it startled him, his heart beat loudly; still he did not venture to move, but listened, until at last the doctor came out of the adjoining room, and called to him: "all is over." he misunderstood the words. "she is dead!" he gasped. "no, no! boris nikolaivitch; everything is as well as possible. come!" he felt as would a man buried alive, if one should raise the lid from his coffin. at the door of the bedroom a fat old woman, with a large cap, came toward him. "a son, a very fine young one!" said she, triumphantly, while she laid something tiny and rosy, wrapped in white cloth and lace, in his arms. tears fell from his eyes, and his hands trembled so that the nurse was horrified and took the child away from him. he went up to natalie, who, deathly pale and exhausted, but with a lovely, indescribable expression on her face, at once of tenderness and of a certain solemn pride, lay among the high-piled pillows. quite softly, with a kind of timidity which his violent love had hitherto never known, he pressed her pale hand to his lips. "are you content?" she whispered, dreamily and scarcely audibly. "are you content?" * * * * * she recovered rapidly. her beauty had lost none of its charm, but had rather won an earnest--one might almost say consecrated--loveliness. her face reflected her happiness. that also had become a shade deeper, nobler. in spite of all her pampered habits, she insisted upon caring for the child herself. he let her have her way. the former dressing-room was changed to a nursery. sometimes, in the long, transparent twilight of the spring, he entered the room in which, in winter, he had passed so many charming hours by candle-light, and where now everything was so changed. a cradle stood in the place which formerly the toilet-table had occupied--ah, what a cradle--a dream of a cradle! a basket with a canopy of green silk, hung with a long, transparent lace veil, a costly nest for a young bird whose little eyes must be shielded, by all kinds of tender devices, from the bright light, which perhaps later would pain him so! the air, quite filled with a pleasant, mild, damp vapor, was permeated by a weak perfume of iris and warming linen, and, besides that, with something quite strange, quite peculiarly sweet, stirring--the breath of a healthy, fresh, carefully cared-for little child. and there, where the cheval-glass had formerly reflected to him the lovely form of a proud queen of beauty, now sat in the same large arm-chair, a tender young mother, her child on her breast. the lines of her neck, from which the loose, white dress had slipped down a little so that the outline of the shoulders was visible, was charming; but what was it, to the lovely, attentive expression with which she looked down at the child? everything about her expressed tenderness: her look, her smile, the hands with which she held the child to her. it was just these small, white hands which lensky could not cease to observe. how helpless they had formerly been--and now! she would scarcely let the nurse touch baby. he was never weary of watching how untiringly she touched the tiny, frail body of the infant, and did a thousand services for it which all resembled caresses. * * * * * "it is all very beautiful, but you have a manner of ignoring me in this little kingdom," said lensky, jokingly, to the young mother, while he threw a look of humorous vexation at the young despot whom she just laid in the cradle. she bent her head a little to one side, and whispered roguishly, while she came up to him and played with the lapel of his coat: "do you see, boris, this is my study. everywhere else you are not only the first but the only one in the world for me; but here you must be content if i sometimes forget you for my calling." he laughed. "do you know that you once said something similar to me; that time when i, for the first time, dared to enter your sanctuary?" she murmured, and repeated petulantly: "do you know it?" he kissed both of her hands, one after the other. "do you then believe that i could ever forget such a thing, my angel?" whispered he. "i am no such spendthrift; oh, no! if you knew how i cherish this dear remembrance! that is pure happiness which we will keep for our old days, when the sun no longer seems to us to shine as brightly, and we must light a poor candle in order to find our path again to a suitable grave." * * * * * natalie still thought of the poor laurel wreath in his study. but she did not venture to ask him a direct question about it. he himself, of his own accord, at last told her the history of the pitiful relic. he had never spoken to her of his childhood, but once a great impulse came over him to tell her the whole; to lay bare before her all the pitiableness of his past. what would she then say to it? it was a clear summer night, out on the terrace of the country house near st. petersburg, which they had hired for the summer, the terrace which looked out on the small but pretty and shady garden. they sat there, hand in hand; around them the dull, gray light of a day that will not die, sweet perfume of flowers, and in the tree tops the gentle rustling of the kissing leaves. she talked of gay, insignificant things; gave him a droll, laughing description of a visit to one of her friends. at first it amused him; then something, he could not have said what, irritated him against this monstrous principle of gliding so triflingly and mockingly through life without ever glancing into it more deeply. "what would she say if she knew?" thought he. "perhaps she would shun me!" a kind of madness overcame him. he felt the wish to risk his happiness in order to convince himself of its durability, to put his petted wife to the test. "how you butterflies, floating over flowers in the sunshine, must be horrified at the miserable worms who creep over the earth!" he began bitterly. "what are you thinking of?" asked she, astonished. "nothing especial, only that i was originally just such a worm, creeping over the earth." "ah! that is long past!" she interrupted him hastily. she wished to keep him from long dwelling on an unpleasant thought, but he suspected that his insinuation of his humble antecedents vexed her, and that she felt the need of forgetting his derivation. he looked at her from head to foot, with an angry, wondering glance. her richly embroidered white dress, the large diamonds in her ears,--how the diamonds sparkled in the dull evening light! then he began to speak of his childhood, dryly, with a smile on his lips as if it was a question of something quite indifferent and amusing. in a large tenement at moscow, overcrowded with all kinds of human vermin, had he grown up; in the half of a room that was divided by a sail, behind which another poor family hungered. his father he did not remember. his mother sang to the guitar in wine rooms. when he was five years old she had bought him a fiddle for four rubles, and then some one, a dissolute musician, who often came to them, had taught him to scrape on it a little. from that time he accompanied his mother when she sang in the wine rooms,--or even on the streets, as it happened. she had been pretty; the drawing which hung in the laurel wreath, and which an artist in their horrible dwelling-place had made of her, was like her. only she had quite unusually beautiful teeth which one could not see in the picture. he remembered these teeth very well, because she laughed so much, especially if there was little to eat and she made him take it all, and declared she had spoiled her appetite at a friend's house with fresh _pirogj_. once the thought had occurred to him that she only said so because there was not enough for two, and then he could not eat anything more. if there was nothing at all to eat, either for him or for her, she told him a story. had he loved her? yes, he believed so--how could it be otherwise? but the consciousness of what she really had been to him only came to him when he was no longer with her. how that happened he really did not know, but one fine day she took him in a part of the city which he had never known until then, in a handsome residence that seemed so beautiful to him that he only ventured to go around on tiptoes. at the door a fat, yellow man, with long, greasy, black hair, received him, and told his mother it was all right. then she kissed him a last time, told him she would take him away in an hour, and went. he was taken in a room with gay furniture, and there greeted by a fat woman with a thick gold chain over the bosom of her violet silk dress, and with rings on all her short, stumpy, wrinkled fingers, and was entertained with tea, cake, and honey. he had never before enjoyed a similar repast. he felt in an elevated frame of mind. when the fat man--he was a mediocre musician who had married a rich merchant's daughter, who gave him none of her money, however--told him that he should always stay with him, and never go back to his mother, he was glad, and felt the consciousness of having taken a step forward in the world. did that surprise natalie? he could not help it, it was still so. "strange what roughness men show before a little bit of civilization has taught them to conceal it," he added reflectively. did he not feel anxiety later? natalie wished to know. yes, for his new life contained nothing of that which he had promised himself. that he should live in the beautiful rooms with the master and mistress and eat with them, as he had thought at first, had been an illusion. only the two children of the fat daughter of the merchant could tumble around on the sofas, with their fiery-red, woolen, damask covering, and could help themselves from all the dishes. he lived on charity; they told him that every day. the musician had bought him of his mother for fifty rubles, as lensky afterward learned, as a speculation, in order to make money out of him as a prodigy. the time which he did not devote to his musical practice he must spend helping the maid in the kitchen. he slept, with an old sofa pillow under his head, on the floor, in a gloomy little room, without window, only with dirty panes of glass in the door--a room in which the cook put all kinds of rubbish. dampness ran down the walls, and every evening from all corners crept out a whole regiment of black beetles, and spread themselves over the boards. the food? well, it was sparing. sometimes he only received what the family had left on their plates. was he not angry at this treatment? no. he found it quite in order at that time. the well-fed, warmly dressed people impressed him, especially the cap of vauvara ivanovna--that was the name of his mistress. he felt a respectful shudder pass over him every time he saw this structure of blonde, red flowers, and green ribbon. except the kremlin, nothing impressed him so much as this house. when the whole family, in festival attire, went to church on sunday, he stood at the door, quite oppressed by the feeling of modest wonder, and looked after the well-dressed, well-fed people. he did his best to make himself useful and agreeable, and to please them. yes, he was just so small and pitiable, as a half-starved six-year-old pigmy. and then, in conclusion, one day he simply could bear it no longer and ran back to his mother. he found the way. with that quite animal sense of locality and traces, which only children of the lowest classes of men have, he found it. his mother was at home; she was frightened when she saw him. had they turned him out? yes, she was frightened. in the first moment she was frightened; then--here lensky stammered in his confession--naturally she was glad; for, what use of losing words?--naturally she was glad. how she kissed him and caressed him with her poor, rough, toil-worn, and still such gentle, warm hands. he still felt her hands sometimes on him, in dreams, especially behind his ears and on his neck. then she fed him. she spread a red and white flowered cloth over the table in his honor, and after that she gave him a holy picture. then she said it could not be otherwise; he must go back to simon ephremitsch; it was for his own good. when he had become a great artist, then he would come to fetch her in a coach with four horses. that impressed him. and in order to calm him completely, she promised to visit him very soon. but she did not come; and when he ran back to her, after about a month, she was no longer in her old abode; he never found her! soon afterward she sent him two pretty little shirts, delicately embroidered in red and blue. but she herself did not come. never! at his first appearance in public--he had performed his piece with the anxious assiduity of a little monkey that fears a blow, he asserted--to his great astonishment, he was applauded. in the midst of the hand-clapping he suddenly heard a sob. he was convinced that his mother had been at the concert. at the conclusion they handed him a laurel wreath, the same which now hung in his room; quite a poor woman had brought it, they said. he guessed immediately that the wreath came from his mother; and suddenly, just as a couple of music-lovers had stepped on the stage, in order to see the wonderful little animal near by, he began to stamp his feet and clench his fists, to scream and to sob, until every one crowded around him. his principal threatened him with blows; a very pretty young lady in a blue-silk dress took him on her lap to quiet him; but all was of no use. he saw his mother once more--in her coffin. his benefactor told him that she was dead, and that, after all, it was suitable that he should show her the last honors. the coffin stood on a table, surrounded by thin, poorly-burning candles, and she lay within, so small and thin, her hands folded on her breast, in a poor shroud, that they had bought ready made for a few copecks. in the beginning, natalie had interrupted him with questions, but now she had long been silent. he looked at her challengingly, at every pitiful, repulsive detail, especially if it brought forward a trace of his own insignificance. it was quite as if he expressly tried to pain her. but when he came to speak of the death of his mother, whose form, in the midst of his glaring, sharp description, he drew so tenderly and vaguely, obliterating everything disturbing, as if he saw her, in remembrance, only through tears, he closed his eyes. suddenly he heard near him a suppressed sound of pain, then something like the falling of the over-abundant load of blossoms from a tree among whose spring adornment there yet moves no breath of air. he started, looked up--there was natalie on her knees before him, the beauty, the queenly, proud one, and had embraced him with both arms, as if she would shield him from all the woes of earth, and sobbed as if she could not console herself for his past suffering. "natalie! my angel, do you really love me so?" "one cannot love you enough, or recompense you enough for all that you have missed," whispered she. and he had really for one moment suspected that---- he raised her on his knees. they did not speak another word. through the garden at their feet the birches rustled in the mild night breeze, and from the distance one heard the sad voice of a marsh bird, who with heavy beating wings flew to the neighboring pond. the most beautiful love will always be that which has been sanctified by a great compassion. in that mild summer night, while all around them was fragrance and veiled light, natalie's love had received its consecration. * * * * * three, four years passed; a second little child lay in the pretty, veiled cradle, from which little nikolai first made his solemn observation of the world--a dear little plump maiden, whom they baptized mascha, after the grandmother, and whom boris particularly idolized. there was still nothing to report of natalie's married life but love, happiness, and beauty. lensky kept every unpleasant impression far from her, surrounded her with the most touching care, overwhelmed her with the most poetic attentions. her life at his side unrolled itself like a long, secret, passionate love-poem. natalie's family had reconciled themselves to her marriage. even for the wise and arrogant sergei alexandrovitch it had the appearance that he had been mistaken in his discouraging prediction, as happens even to the wisest men, if with their predictions they have only the sober probability in view, without thinking of the possibility of some underlying miracle. after four years of married life natalie was as happy as a bride. still, lensky's happiness was not as unclouded as that of his wife. a great unpleasantness became ever more significant to him, the quite universal coldness of his artistic relations. it would be wrong to believe that natalie, with systematic jealousy, had wished to estrange him from the world of artists. on the contrary, she had complied with his wish to make her acquainted with his colleagues and their families, had herself asked it of him, flatteringly. the world of artists interested her. there, everything was more animated, more meaning, than the eternal sameness of good society which she knew by heart, quite by heart, she assured him tenderly. she made it her ambition to win his acquaintances for hers. but strangely enough, in spite of all her seductive loveliness, she succeeded only very incompletely. she had already known the _élite_ among the artists. there is nothing further to be said of her relations with these favored of the gods, exceptional existences, than that she always felt honored by intercourse with them, and pleased, and that, when with them she ever vexed herself over the worn-out old commonplace, that one should avoid the acquaintance of famous men in order to prevent disappointment--a commonplace which was probably invented for the consolation of those who, in advance, are excluded from intercourse with celebrities. that natalie always succeeded in winning the sympathies of these exceptional natures stands for itself. but when it was a question of that great crowd of artists, of the mixture of sickly vanity, embarrassed affairs, depressing relations, etc., then it was hard to build up a friendship between lensky's wife and his old colleagues. envy of lensky, envy which had reference largely to his artistic results, and in a less degree to his marriage and social position, peeped out everywhere from these people, and had its own results in soon completely embittering the not very pleasant relations between them and natalie. in a truly friendly, touchingly friendly manner, they only met her in quite modestly circumstanced families--families of a few true artists who yet could accomplish nothing with their work but to honestly and poorly provide for their seven or eight children. families of simple people, who had formerly been good to lensky in the difficult beginning of his career, and to whom he always showed the most faithful adherence, the most prodigal generosity. she also felt happy among these plain people. what wonder that these people would all have gone through fire for him! they would also have all given of their best for natalie, whom without envy they worshipped with enthusiasm as a queen. they rejoiced that lensky, their pride, their idol, possessed such a beautiful and distinguished wife--in their eyes the daughter of the emperor would not have been too good for him. natalie thanked them for their great attachment, as well as she could; she reckoned it a special favor to receive these modest people in her home, to invite them with their wives and children, to entertain them with distinction, to stuff all the children's pockets full of bonbons, and give them little parting presents. but intercourse with these poor devils was in reality only a sentimental game, even as intercourse with the artistic _élite_ was nothing but an ideal recreation. neither the one nor the other sufficed to firmly knit the band between lensky's wife and his former world, or to keep up his popularity in that world. * * * * * of all the opposition and difficulty which would arise therefrom for lensky's future and especially for his yet to be won future as composer, natalie still suspected nothing. for her, the whole heaven was still blue. then the first deep shadow fell on her happiness. lensky, to whom every long separation from her was unbearable, when he undertook a long tour through central europe, in spite of her express request, could not resolve to leave her behind with the children, in st. petersburg. the little children were left under the care of their grandmother. for the first time, natalie was no amusing, but a dull and nervous, travelling companion. an unbearable anxiety followed her like a foreboding. all his attempts to console her were in vain. in dusseldorf, she received, by telegraph, the news that little mascha was ill with diphtheria. when she arrived in petersburg, half dead from anxiety and breathless haste, the child lay in her coffin. he was almost as desperate as she. he overwhelmed himself with self-reproaches;--who knows, if they had watched the child better, if they had thought of this or that in caring for it.... what torment, to be obliged to say that to one's self! a reproach never passed her lips, she even concealed her tears lest they should sadden him. but from that unhappiness on, something in her formerly so elastic nature, so capable of resistance, was broken forever. the first jubilant time of their marriage was at an end. * * * * * together with the evermore unpleasant friction with his colleagues, and the great pain for his lost child, still another worry announced itself to lensky--something gnawing, and incessantly tormenting: a daily increasing money embarrassment. natalie decidedly spent too much, but quite naïvely, with the firm conviction that she could not exist more economically; wherefore it was doubly hard for him to be finally obliged to tell her that he could not raise the money to continue the household on the footing to which she had been accustomed. it was quite touching to see how frightened she was when he made her the first communication in reference to it--frightened, not at the prospect of having to save, but only at the thoughtlessness by which she had burdened lensky with cares. she immediately showed herself ready for the most exaggerated reforms. but to live with his wife like a proletary, in st. petersburg, among her brilliant relations and friends, he could not bring himself to do. in the autumn of the same year, he moved with his family to ----, a large german capital, where he had accepted the direction of a significant musical undertaking. but here the conflict between his artistic and family life which had arisen through his alliance with natalie, came to light with more detestable clearness. he was in his element, as an artist whose powers have found a wide, noble sway. the great musical undertaking, at whose head they had placed him, flourished wonderfully under his lead. the fiery earnestness with which he undertook it won him all musical hearts. also the atmosphere in ---- was sympathetic to him for other reasons. he had a crowd of old connections there, acquaintances of his first virtuoso period, people who surrounded him, distinguished him, with whom he could speak of his art--which always remained sacred and earnest to him, and never, for him, deteriorated to a more or less noble means of earning his living, or to a social pedestal--in quite a different manner than with the elegant dilettantis who had gradually crowded out every other society from his house in st. petersburg. they gave one artistic festival after the other in his honor, and all this entertained him. his wife appeared with him a couple of times on such occasions, then she excused herself--she had no pleasure in them. she felt isolated, an insurmountable home-sickness tormented her. without confessing it, for the first time since her marriage the position which she occupied with lensky angered her. in st. petersburg she had always remained with him the princess assanow, he had ascended to her world; here she must suddenly satisfy herself with his world. she was too vexed, too angrily excited to seek in this world all the true interest, earnestness, and nobility that were to be found therein. she had intimate intercourse only with an old friend of her youth, a certain countess stolnitzky, who went out but little and consequently had time enough for natalie. lensky begged natalie to open her drawing-room one or two evenings a week, that is to say to his friends. natalie's drawing-room became a meeting-place for all kinds of artistic leaders, among which the dramatic element formed the principal contingent, and this chiefly because lensky wished to have an opera performed. for him, intercourse with dramatic artists had no unpleasantness; he had been accustomed to it from youth. but it became unpleasant to natalie after she had satisfied that superficial curiosity which every woman living in severely exclusive circles feels concerning these theatrical people. the only people that were still more unpleasant to natalie, in her drawing-room, than this crowd of people still smelling of freshly washed-off paint, were the aristocrats who came there to meet the artists. and many of these came--very many, all who coquetted with a little bit of musical interest--yes, and many others. "very interesting, these _soirées_ at lensky's," they always said, when these were spoken of; "very interesting; they always have very good music there, and then one meets a crowd of amusing people whom one never sees anywhere else. and the wife is really charming--quite _comme il faut_." "she is a russian princess," a foreigner interrupted, who belonged to the diplomatic corps. the native women turned up their noses repellently. they placed no great confidence in the distinction of russian princesses who married artists. natalie was so ignorant of their rooted prejudices that she greeted the ladies who came to her house with the greatest frankness as her equals. she caused offence by her naïveté, and noticed it. people came to lensky, not to her--if she would only understand that they wished to be as polite as possible to her, in the somewhat narrow limits of well-bred society--but she must understand it. she did understand. when she observed that most of the ladies accepted her invitations without returning them, yes, when it happened that the art-loving princess c. sent lensky an invitation to a _soirée_, and overlooked his wife, then she understood. it began to tell upon her, to aggravate her. she fulfilled her duties as hostess with displeasure, did the honors negligently, and did nothing to animate her receptions. my god! people came there to hear music and to rave over her husband,--she was no longer necessary. she became quite foolish and childish. she was used to the homage that was paid her husband, she would have been fearfully angry if they had not paid him enough; but in russia, this homage was shown in quite a different, much nobler, intenser form; in russia he was a great man, before whom every one removed his hat, a sacred being of whom the nation was proud; men and women of the highest rank showed him the same respect. but in ----, except one or two particularly enthusiastic lovers of music, none of the nobility appeared in his house, with the exception of the ladies. why did he ask them? he ridiculed them--but yet their flattery pleased him. he had dedicated a composition to more than one of them. natalie was almost beside herself with rage. for the first time she felt a certain jealousy. among others, there was a little dark polish woman, married to a swedish diplomat, and separated from him, a countess löwenskiold. she purred around him like a kitten. formerly he would have noticed the change in natalie immediately, but for the first time since their marriage he forgot, not only in his study but elsewhere, his wife for his art. he was so happy in his art, so completely occupied with it, that he scarcely noticed the pitiful social pin-pricks which formerly would have caused him vexation enough, and consequently did not consider the importance they had for natalie. the study of his opera, for which they had placed at his disposal the best facilities at the command of the ---- theatre, went steadily forward. the artists liked to work under his direction, and with enthusiasm did their utmost to do justice to his work. joy fevered in every vein when he came home from the rehearsals. * * * * * it was toward the end of the carnival. one of lensky's musical _soirées_ had been visited by quite an unusual number of brilliant visitors. a very large number of ladies of the best society had been there. they had all appeared in brilliant toilets, with bare shoulders, and diamonds and feathers in their hair. natalie was also in evening dress, while the wives of lensky's colleagues and all the ladies present not belonging to the court circle had come in high-necked dresses. when the aristocratic ladies, with profuse thanks for the musical treat offered them, had withdrawn before eleven o'clock, because they must, "alas!" still go "into society," into natalie's social world, but which was closed to her in ----, natalie remained the only woman in her drawing-room with bare shoulders. lensky, who had just accompanied some tedious highness politely out of the room, now returned to the music-room, closed the door, behind which the noble patroness had disappeared, and cried gayly: "so, children, now we can be among ourselves, and enjoy a comfortable evening." "among ourselves!" these words pierced natalie like a poisoned stiletto. "among ourselves!" she bit her lower lip, angrily. meanwhile, pushing back the hair from his temples with both hands, lensky asked: "would the gentlemen like to play the schumann e-flat major quartette with me before we sit down to supper?" then he looked over at natalie and smiled. she knew that he proposed this wonderful quartette for her sake, because it was her favorite, but she was already so over-excited that the touching little attention made no impression on her. she remained as defiant and bad-tempered as before. while they played she let her eyes wander gloomily over the already empty hired cane-bottomed chairs, which stood around in regular rows. she asked herself bitterly, what really was the difference between her "reception evenings" and any other concert?--that the people paid their admission with compliments instead of money! and while she made these useless and vexing observations, the most noble music that was ever written vibrated around her heart, like an admonition of how small all these worldly, outward vanities were in comparison with the lofty, god-like being of true art! and her obstinate heart had already begun to understand the sermon and to be ashamed, when she observed two bold eyes of a man staring from across the room at her bare shoulders. the eyes belonged to a certain mr. arnold spatzig, the most influential musical critic and journalist in ----. scarcely had he noticed that her look met his when he left his chair, in order, crossing the room, to take his place near natalie, and continue his insolent scrutiny from near by. he was a disagreeable man, with thick lips, spectacles, and boldly displayed cynicism. natalie, who could not endure him, had formerly tolerated him on lensky's account. now she felt so insulted by his manner, that, with the vehement impoliteness of a spoiled woman whose pride is wounded and who is excluded from her natural sphere, she sprang up, and turning her back directly to mr. arnold spatzig, hastened away from him. and now the quartette was over, and also the supper which followed, exquisite and over-abundant as ever, at which lensky did the honors with that heartiness, not overlooking the least of his guests, which was peculiar to him. it was two o'clock, and the house was empty; the lights still burned. lensky was busy arranging the music on the piano, natalie stood in the middle of the room, drawn up to her full height, evidently trying to suppress a nervous attack. she held her handkerchief to her lips--it was no use. suddenly she cried out: "must i receive these people? i would rather scrub the floor!" and with that she made a gesture as if she would tear something apart. "what do you mean?" he asked slowly. he had become deadly pale, and his voice trembled. she only drew her brows gloomily together and continued to gnaw at her handkerchief. then he lost patience. he seized a large japanese vase, and threw it with such force on the floor that it broke in pieces; then he left the room, slamming the door behind him. but natalie looked after him, offended, and broke out in fierce, whimpering sobs. a few minutes later when she, still weeping and trembling in every limb, leaned against a sofa, in whose cushions she had buried her face, she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. she looked up, lensky had come up to her. the traces of his difficultly mastered irritation were still on his deathly pale face, but he bent down anxiously to her and said gently: "calm yourself, please, natalie; it is no matter. poor natalie! i should have thought of it sooner. you shall never again receive any one--not a person--who does not please you, only stop crying; that i cannot bear." at the first friendly word that he said to her, her whole ill humor changed to tormenting remorse and shame. "you will not take what i said to you in earnest," said she. "it is not possible that you should take this madness in earnest. i am so ashamed--ah, i cannot tell you how ashamed i am! i acted unjustifiably, but i was so tired, so nervous--scold me, be angry with me, and only then forgive me, or else your indulgence will oppress me too heavily," and with that she kissed his hands and sobbed--sobbed incessantly. he caressed her like a little child whom one wishes to soothe, and she continued: "i will suit myself better to my position, i will be friendly to every one--as if i could not make that little sacrifice to your artistic position!" then he interrupted her: "i will accept no sacrifice from you, not the slightest, that i cannot do," said he. "what have you to trouble yourself about my artistic position? you have nothing at all to do but to love me and be happy--if you still can," he added softly, with a tenderness that for the first time since his marriage had a bitter savor. but she looked up at him in the midst of her tears, with glorified happiness. "if i still can?" she whispered, drawing his head down to her--he now sat on the sofa beside her, with his arm around her waist--"if i still can!" his lips met hers, her head sank on his shoulder. the candles in the chandeliers had burned low down, one of them went out, and in going out threw a couple of sparks down on the pieces of the japanese vase which lensky had broken in his anger. he had sent it to natalie filled with roses, in rome, while they were betrothed, therefore she loved it and had brought it with them to ----. his eyes rested on the pieces with a peculiar sad look. "and now lie down and see that you sleep after your excitement," said he to the young wife. she followed him like a little child. he mixed her the sleeping potion of orange essence, to which she was accustomed, and calmed her with pleasant patient words. a happy smile lay on her lips when she at length fell asleep. but he did not close his eyes during the whole night, he did not even lie down; but sat in his room at the writing-table. he wished to work on something, but the music-paper remained untouched beneath his pen. how could she so give way, at the first little trial which she had ever had? why had she spoken of a sacrifice? sacrifice! he would take no sacrifice from her. * * * * * natalie's reception days were given up under pretext of the illness of his young wife. from that time, lensky saw most of his friends only outside of his house--his "patronesses" he saw no more. natalie was ashamed of her small, pitiful discontent, was ashamed of the scene she had made her husband, and still was foolish enough to rejoice over her victory, and to fully profit by it. she offered all her intellectual, flattering, charming lovableness to recompense for the loss she had caused him, and to quite win him again for herself. she thought of all his preferences in her housekeeping, which, in the beginning, she had somewhat neglected in ----; with half unconscious slyness, she knew how to profit by his small as well as his great qualities; to attain her aim, knew how to touch his heart as well as to flatter his vanity. in full measure she attained what she strove for. forgetting all the prudence which his position demanded, he laid just as enthusiastic homage at her feet as in the very first time of his marriage. but she was so charming! and how well her defiant arrogance became her! that arrogance which would bend to no one and only with her loved one melted into passionate submission. what did the great artist coterie which his wife had repulsed say to all this? oh, who could trouble one's self about all these people? meanwhile, during this happy intoxicated period he had met with one vexation that concerned him very nearly. three weeks before the appointed date for the production of his "corsair," the prima donna of the ---- opera, madame d., an artist of the first rank, for whom he had quite specially written the principal feminine _rôle_, declared that she would not sing it under any consideration. lensky knew very well that he had to thank the senseless arrogance of his wife for the sudden opposition of this irritable leader; it was bitter to him; but without telling natalie a word of it, he choked down this unpleasant affair, and submitted to seeing the part which the artiste had thoroughly learned and brought to such splendid perfection intrusted now to the weak powers of a talented but awkward beginner. * * * * * the evening of the representation came. they were both feverish, he and she; but she fevered in expectation of a great triumph, he trembled before a defeat. he knew that his work had three things against it: a libretto that, for an opera, was over-finely poetic, and poor in dramatic effect, the weak representation of the principal _rôle_, and the whole coterie of artists and bohemians in the audience excited against him by the arrogance of his wife. perhaps his music would save the situation. the music was beautiful, that he knew; he must build on that. natalie made the sign of the cross on his forehead and hung a consecrated byzantine saint's picture, in a strange gold and black enamel frame, around his neck before he went into the fire, that is to say, before he drove to the opera-house to take the baton in his hand. he smiled at this superstitious action and let it happen. the greatest heroes like to avail themselves of a little celestial protection before a battle. in the opera-house he found everything in the best condition, courageous, ready for battle. an hour later he mounted the director's rostrum. once he turned his head to the audience, and his eyes sought natalie. there she sat near the stage in a box in the first row, which she shared with the countess stolnitzky. she wore a black velvet dress, in her hair sparkled the diamond narcissi which he had given her as bridegroom; around her neck was wound a thick string of pearls which the empress of russia had sent him for her once when he played at court. in the whole theatre there was no woman who could compare with her in proud, beaming, and yet indescribably lovely beauty. she smiled at him constrainedly. what was not hidden in that scarcely perceptible smile! for the last time a kind of happy, proud delirium of love lay hold upon him. he knocked on the desk, raised his arm, and the violins began. with a kind of magnificent, fiery earnestness, and with that, quite classically severe in the musical roundness and connection of the motives, the overture sounded through the crowded hall. it was rather too long, and as the learned ones among the audience remarked, was better suited for the first movement of a symphony than the introduction of an opera. but what of that! the music was beautiful, wonderfully beautiful, full of sad sweetness and quite demon-like, ravishing power. here, also, sounded the strange arabian succession of tones again, which was the characteristic of all his compositions, the devil's tones: asbeïn. natalie did not hear a sound, the buzzing in her ears, the beating of her heart was too loud. the last piercing chord resounded through the hall. what was that? an immense burst of applause, unending bravos; the overture had to be repeated. it was with difficulty that natalie could keep from sobbing aloud. again her smile sought his. a beautiful expression of noble, earnest peace was on his features, but his glance did not answer hers, he had forgotten her for his work. the curtain rose. natalie scarcely breathed, her hot blood crept slowly through her veins like chilling metal, her ears no longer buzzed, on the contrary her hearing was uncommonly sharp; only she could not take in the music, but listened to all kinds of other things. the rustling of a dress, the rattling of a fan, the whispering of a voice caused her such excitement that it seemed to her, each time, as if she had been shot through the heart by a pistol. the unexpected result of the overture had increased her nervous tension still further. during the first two acts the opinion remained favorable. after the second act, the russian ambassador presented himself to natalie to congratulate her. while she received his congratulations, still trembling with excitement, she suddenly heard quite loud talking, in a box not far from her. it was the box of that same princess c., who was mentioned as particularly musical, and who had invited lensky to a _soirée_ and passed over natalie. between her and another art-loving woman sat mr. arnold spatzig. up to a certain point, he had access to the highest circles of society, that is to say, he was patronized by a couple of ladies who were bored in their "world," and who consequently liked to attract men from some "other world" to them for a short entertainment, not a long engagement, to be amused by them. "these plebeian men at least take pains to amuse," the ladies were accustomed to remark, and arnold spatzig decidedly took pains to amuse. once he raised his opera-glass to his eyes, and stared long and boldly in natalie's face. the third act began with an aria by gualnare, that is to say, with a kind of duet between her and the ocean, which was represented by the orchestra. for a concert piece the number was interesting and original, but peculiarly unsuited to the beginning of the third act of an opera. only the splendid vocal powers and the poetic comprehension of madame d., for whom the aria was written, could have saved it; the powers of the beginner who sang the part of gualnare that evening were not at all equal to her task, her voice, wearied by the exertions of the two preceding acts, sounded almost extinct, her acting was awkward. natalie observed the bad impression which this number made on the audience. anxiously she looked around the theatre: the people were patient, had too much sympathy for the virtuoso lensky to inconsiderately insult the composer. on the stage, still continued the endless ocean duet. still, in the same monotonous time, gualnare advanced to the waves and retreated from them, quite as if she were dancing a _pas de deux_ with the sea. then natalie heard laughing; the laughing sounded from the box of princess c. dr. spatzig bent over to her, smiling, whispered something to her. she laughed--how heartily she laughed! the opera-glasses of many ladies in the boxes sought the doctor's critical glance; spatzig laughed, the princess laughed, the whole theatre laughed. the aria was at an end, the gallery applauded. "ss--ss--ss." what was that cutting, piercing sound which killed the applause? natalie became white as chalk; her friend sought her hand; natalie drew it away; no human sympathy could be of use to her. from that moment the enthusiasm of the audience rapidly declined. the lack of dramatic action in the libretto became more and more significant. more and more difficultly the poor music dragged along amidst a succession of glaring spectacular effects, which monotonously made place for each other without ever forming an interesting contrast. and the music was so beautiful. there was something so heavily majestic in the rhythm, here and there at once a trifle monotonous and over-laden, but in the accompaniment so wonderfully beautiful in spite of all, and furnished with a richness of melody unattainable by any of the other composers of the time, never approaching the trivial, but always remaining noble. the audience was weary, and like every wearied audience, mocking; its musical comprehension was worn out. from the middle of the fourth act people began to leave the theatre, and when the curtain fell at the close, not a hand moved. countess stolnitzky accompanied natalie silently down the steps. natalie got into her carriage and directed it to the stage entrance. she had promised to call for lensky after the opera. more dead than alive she sat in the pretty coupé and waited. the air was sharp, it was a frosty march night, the stars sparkled as if in cold mockery from the unreachable heavens, quite as if they were laughing to think that once more a child of man had tried to storm this heaven and had so pitiably failed. a half-hour had passed; at last natalie sprang from the carriage and hastened up the narrow stairs. there she met lensky. he was deathly pale, his hat was put on his head differently from usual, in a kind of enterprising and challenging manner; his walk had something negligent, swinging; there was a vagabond trace in his carriage that natalie had never before perceived in him. he held his cigarette between his teeth and had the little singer on his arm who had to-day impersonated gualnare in his opera. many of the singers, as well as the members of the orchestra, came down the steps behind him, a gaudy, witty, whispering throng. for the first time, natalie remarked a certain similarity, one might almost say a common family resemblance, between her hero and these other "artists." the men all had the same manner of wearing their hats and swaggering in their walk as he had to-day. although these men were more than ever repulsive to her, she greeted them with anxious politeness. "i was afraid you were ill," she said, while she glanced sadly and anxiously at boris. "i have already waited half an hour for you." "so! i am very sorry," replied he, and his voice sounded rougher than formerly. "i sent a messenger to you, he must have missed you. i cannot go home with you this evening, we"--he looked over his shoulder at the following crowd--"are going to have supper together. after a lost battle the commander must care for the strengthening of his troops." he laughed harshly and forcedly, and touched the hand of the singer who hung on his arm. "a lost battle!" said natalie. "lost--but the first two acts were a great success!" "'don juan' did not succeed at the first representation," remarked some one behind lensky. he turned around and looked at the man with a comical, threatening gesture; then he said, with the expression of a man with a bad toothache, who yet bursts out with a witticism: "who laughs last, laughs best!" natalie still stood, helpless and desperate, in the middle of the narrow stairs. her splendid fur cloak had half slipped down from her shoulders; her simple, distinguished toilet stood out in strange relief from the glaring, tumbled, inharmonious, motley evening adornments of the singers. "you will take cold, wrap yourself up better," said lensky, while he came up to her and drew the fur up around her neck. "will you take me with you to your supper? i would come with the greatest pleasure; _je serai gentille avec tout le monde!_" she whispered, softly and supplicatingly to him. "what an idea!" said he, repellently. "no, to-night i sup as a bachelor. you bar the passage. drive home quite calmly. adieu!" he pushed her into the carriage, and went. she put her head out of the window of the coupé to look after him. she saw how he got into a fiacre with the singer; one of the men crawled in after him; then she heard some one laughing, harshly, gipsy-like, was that he? then came a great rattling of windows, and creaking and rolling of wheels. her way and his parted. hurrying by a row of ghostly gas-lights, which all seemed red to her, she rolled away in a great, cold, black darkness. and ten minutes later, weary and miserable, she crept up the steps of her residence. she knew that something terrible had happened, something that not only embittered her present, but would darken the future, that for her much more had gone wrong than the result of an opera. * * * * * "who knows, perhaps the thing will pull through; even the best operas have sometimes not immediately found approval with the public," said lensky, with the awkward, forced smile that had not left his lips since the morning after his fiasco. the challenging, gipsy humor with which, in the beginning, he had sought to bluster over his disappointment, had not lasted long. quiet, weary, and depressed, he dragged himself around as if after a severe illness. natalie did what she could to be agreeable to him; her heart bled with pity, but she did not venture to approach him. he avoided her, and if she spoke to him his answers sounded forced or vexed. to-day, for the first time since the fatal evening, he turned to her with a remark in reference to his work. it was the third day after the first production of the opera, and at breakfast. natalie had just read to him many criticisms from the newspapers which had arrived. in many, lensky's magnificent musical gifts were praised. "perhaps the thing will pull through," said lensky, and natalie replied: "naturally, the opera will make a career for itself. you must yourself have forgotten how beautiful your music is, if you can doubt that." "is it really beautiful? i really do not know," murmured he. "one is so seldom able to believe it if others shrug their shoulders. to improvise variations on the old theme _mon sonnet est charmant_ is a tasteless occupation." there was a ring at the door-bell; he listened. "do you expect anything?" asked natalie, and then she accidentally looked at the clock. it was already very late, and the hour at which he formerly had been accustomed to sit down to work was long past. she saw very well that he only trifled with time like a man who is too tormented by inward unrest to be able to resolve on an earnest occupation. "yes," he replied. "i do not understand why the _neue zeit_ has not yet arrived." natalie lowered her eyes. the _neue zeit_ was the journal in which dr. arnold spatzig's musical criticism, or rather his musical _feuilletons_, usually appeared. "that"--lensky motioned to the pile of other papers "is all very pretty and pleasant, but it is not decisive. i am anxious to see what spatzig will say." "do you consider spatzig decisive?" asked natalie, constrainedly. "yes." "but you told me yourself that his judgment was always one-sided, prejudiced, and superficial; that he was really only a wit and no critic," murmured natalie. "i still think so, but nevertheless he has here taken upon himself the monopoly of musical good taste," replied lensky. "the most intellectual part of the public, that is to say all the subscribers, fancy they can only consider an article of his as true. he has taken out a patent for it, like marquis, in paris, for good chocolate. he is witty, which these people like. a criticism is so easily noticed, one always appears intellectual if one cites it, the more malicious it is the better. until now, spatzig has spared me, hm--hm--" boris smiled forcedly. "he even once compared me to beethoven, but recently he has seemed to avoid me. have you had anything with him, natalie?" natalie blushed to the roots of her hair. "i cannot endure him," said she; "and it is possible that he has noticed it; in fact, in reference to a certain point, one cannot have patience with a man." "he surely has not presumed upon you?" lensky started up angrily. "no, no! he did not have an opportunity," said natalie, very arrogantly. "not that: but he has a way of forcing himself upon one; of looking at a woman----" "that is to say he has bad manners," said lensky. "now----" at this moment there was another ring at the door-bell. shortly after the servant brought on a salver a whole pile of newspapers in their wrappings, which had just come by post. lensky opened them hastily; they were all copies of the same paper--of _fortschritt_, and in every copy there was a twelve-column-long notice marked with a blue or black pencil: "a musical enjoyment by design and intention," and with the motto, for title, "from whence the great discord arises which rings through this world (read opera)." hastily, lensky looked at the signature. "arnold spatzig," murmured he, dully. "i did not know that he also wrote for _fortschritt_." "do not read the thing," said natalie, who, with feminine quickness, had already glanced over the article. "i beg you; why should you swallow the poison?" but he shook her roughly from him, bent over the paper, and read half aloud: "if there were a musical 'our father,' the last supplicating request would be: deliver us from all evil, but especially from all virtuoso music. by his opera, lensky has again given us a significant example of how greatly the reproductive activity of an artist hinders the development of his creative powers. his first smaller compositions really had always a certain melodic freshness. but in this last work, lensky, like all men poor in invention, has shown himself a follower of that inconsolable musical pessimism which regards _ennui_ and a feeling of universal, oppressive discomfort as a _sine qua non_ of every distinguished musical work. "the public, in a sympathetic frame of mind with the loved and distinguished master, in the beginning of the opera strained their good taste so far that they desired the repetition of the extremely tiresome overture, made up of badly connected motives, reminding one of meyerbeer, halévy, gounod. but with the best intentions, the cut-and-dried wonder brought with them was not proof against the yawning monotony of the never-ending fourth act. only the grotesque side of the unfortunate opera, which ever became more prominent in the course of the evening, helped the ill-used public over the dry emptiness of this musical desert. one could at least laugh heartily. what a consolation that was for the spectator, but hardly one for those who took part. "one cannot understand how such an artist of the first rank as mr. ---- could submit to make himself laughable in the _rôle_ of _conrad_...." lensky became paler and paler; he reached for a glass of water. "do not read any further," begged natalie. "what does it matter what the liar writes? your music speaks for itself. this evening you will see how the public will applaud you, will receive you, to recompense you for this pitiful insult." the second representation of "the corsair" was fixed for that evening. there was another ring at the door-bell; the servant brought a letter. lensky broke it open hastily, and with a furious gesture threw it away, struck his fist on the table, and sprang up. "what is it?" called natalie, beside herself. "nothing; a trifle; the opera is postponed; the tenor has announced himself ill," said lensky, cuttingly. "he has no pleasure in making himself laughable a second time. it is over;" passing the palm of his hand under his chin, with the gesture by which one understands that some one has been executed. natalie rushed up to him, but he impatiently motioned her away, and hurried by her to the door. all at once he remained standing, reached under his collar, tore off the little gold chain with the saint's picture which natalie had hung round his neck before the first representation of "the corsair," and flung it at her feet. then he went into his study. she heard how he locked the door behind him. how benumbed she still stood on the same spot where he had shaken her off from him--he had shaken her off! how he must suffer to pain her so! then she bent down to the poor little amulet which he had thrown away. she understood him. she had never been lacking in sentimental-poetic manners, but when it was necessary to sacrifice a humor for him, her love had not sufficed. her fault was great, but the punishment was fearful. third book. a short time after the fiasco of his opera lensky resigned his office in ----. his position there had become unbearable to him. he had made no plans for the distant future; for the present he travelled with his family to paris. how happy natalie could have felt here if the still depressed mood of lensky had not caused her such heavy anxiety. not that he had further shown himself in the slightest degree disagreeable to her--no, not a single direct reproof crossed his lips; he even, without speaking a word about it, begged her pardon for his momentary roughness by a thousand silent attentions. but what good did that do her? his happiness was gone; he was gloomy and taciturn. faint-hearted, like all very self-indulgent men, even doubting his formerly revered talent as composer, for the moment he had completely lost his belief in himself. she did what she could to distract him--all was in vain. and all might have been so pleasant! the parisian artist world was so large that she quite easily, avoiding all impure elements contained therein, could associate only with those who were lovable, interesting, and sympathetic. besides, she was now ready for the most exaggerated concessions. if lensky had wished to write a ballet she would have invited the ballet dancers to breakfast, and been intimate with the première danseuse. the lovely imprudence which, even with her uncommon intellectual gifts, still made the foundation of her petted, undisciplined being, drove her from one exaggeration to another. he gave a succession of concerts, and all paris lay at his feet. natalie sat in one of the first rows in the concert hall and rejoiced over the triumphs of her husband. occasionally, if the hour for the concert was early, she brought her little son with her and taught him to be proud of his father. little nikolai looked charming in his russian costume, with the broad velvet trousers and silk shirt. he always sat there quite brave and quiet, with the solemn expression of face of a child whom one has taken to church for the first time; only if the applause burst out quite too loudly, he became very excited and stood up on his chair in order to see his father better. then natalie kissed him, and blushed at her lack of restraint. and around them the audience whispered: "that is his child"--"_tiens! il a de la chance!_"--"_ils sont adorables tous les deux!_"--"_on dit qu'elle est une princesse!_" after the concert she went with the little fellow in the green-room to fetch her husband. the most beautiful women in paris crowded around him. he received their homage quite coolly, and while natalie, smiling and polite, did honor to his fame, he played with his boy, whom he overwhelmed with caresses, without being at all confused by the presence of strangers. "admire this if you must admire something!" he burst out once, angry at the intrusive enthusiasm of a very pretty american woman, and with that he raised the child on a table to show him to her. "he is worth the trouble," he growled, and truly such was the case! one day, about the middle of may, when natalie, somewhat out of breath, holding her boy with one hand, and a bunch of red roses in the other, came home to lunch, she found lensky with two strangers in the little hotel drawing-room. one of them was a young man with long hair and short neck, in whom she recognized a famous piano virtuoso; the second, a small, dried-up man, with a yellow, hard, sharp face, she saw for the first time. at her appearance they both withdrew. lensky accompanied them out. "how you have hurried," said he smiling, when he reëntered the room. "you are quite heated!" "yes, i hurried very much; i was afraid i would be late to lunch. i know how you hate unpunctuality." and then she sat down on the sofa, and handed her hat and shawl to the nurse, who had come in to get nikolinka--a nurse by the name of palagea, in a russian national costume which created a furore on the boulevard. "why did you not take a carriage, little goose?" asked he. "to economize, boris nikolaivitch," replied she, with mischievous earnestness. then laughing up at him with her great tender eyes, she added: "besides, the doctor has expressly advised me to take more exercise." "the doctor?" said he, anxiously. "do you feel ill? why did you consult a physician?" "yes, why?" murmured she, softly. "sit down on the sofa by me, so that i can whisper something to you." "what are you talking about?" said he, hoarsely, without stirring. "what do you mean? what?" "you are fabulously uncomprehending to-day," laughed she, and went up to him. "one cannot scream such a thing across the whole room, and as the mountain will not come to mahomet"--she had now become very red; laying her hand on his shoulder, she whispered: "o boris; can you still not guess?... i am so glad!" "natalie!" he burst out. "you do not mean to say" ... he shook her from him, stamped his foot, and with a furious exclamation left the room. ten minutes later, when he entered the little dining-room where they had served lunch, natalie's maid announced that he must not wait for her mistress, as she was feeling ill. he hurried to her bedroom. she sat on a sofa, her hands in her lap. her great eyes stared into the distance, she looked like a corpse. he sat down by her, drew her on his knee, and overwhelmed her with caresses. "you are right to be angry, quite right. i was detestable," said he; "but you know what a bear you have for a husband. it is only because i love you so dearly that now, just now, the thing is so inconvenient. oh, my little dove, my heart!" he pressed the palms of her hands to his lips and stroked her cheeks. every vexation melted away in the warmth of his manner. she suddenly began to sob, but not from grief. "do you think, then, that i would not have been glad?" he said to her tenderly. "but now, do you see, just now----" then he told her the state of affairs. the man in the havana brown overcoat was the famous impressario morinsky, with whom lensky had just made an engagement for a concert tour in the united states. morinsky had offered him a small fortune. "you know how hard it is for me to part from you," he concluded. "i wished to take you with me--you and the boy, for he can put off school for another year. i thought it was the most favorable moment, and now--it is so stupid, so horribly stupid!" she had listened very quietly; now she raised her head and said uneasily: "and now you naturally will have to give up the american project?" "that is impossible," replied he, turning his face from her, "but i will try--that is, i will put off my departure in any case until the great event is over." "and then?" she had slipped down from his knee and walked up and down the room uneasily. "and then?" she repeated, while she beat on the floor quite imperiously with the tip of her little foot. "then," said he slowly. "well, then you must either decide to accompany me and leave the children behind, or i must go alone." "how long will you stay away?" she asked with short breath. "eight months, ten months." "so--ten months!" she spoke slowly. "and you will part from me--voluntarily, without compelling necessity--for ten months?" her face had become ashy, the words fell harsh and cutting from her dry lips. "you must not take the thing so desperately," replied lensky, with an embarrassment which did not escape her. "ten months are soon over." something that sounded half like a laugh, half like a cry of anguish escaped her lips. she stroked the hair back from her temples with both hands. her eyes had suddenly become unnaturally large, and were opened uncommonly wide. they were no longer the eyes of a usually wise woman. "ten months!" she murmured, with extinguished voice, like one who speaks in the midst of an oppressive dream, "ten months--do you no longer remember how you used to miss me, if it was only a question of weeks, of days, and not--ten months! but this is no separation, this is a final parting, this is the end of all! oh, do not look at me so!--i am not crazy, i know what i am saying--i know very well! you will come back--certainly you will come back, if no malicious illness snatches you away during your journey; but how will you come back? like a stranger you will return under your own roof, and a stranger, from that hour, will you remain. you will have acquired other customs, other needs; the tender restrictions of family life will confine you like a forced burden! the good, and magnificent, and beautiful in you will still exist, because it is immortal like everything that is god-like; but it will be grown wild and soiled, and i will no longer be able to force my way through what has towered between me and your heart! and, more than all that, the sweet voice which, until now, has whispered such wonderful songs within you, will be silenced in the confusion of your wandering life; your genius will no longer be able to express itself, it will from then burn in you like a great unrest, and you will feel the treasure which providence has implanted in you as an oppressive burden, and will no longer be able to find the magic word which can lift this treasure!" he stared gloomily before him. "ah, boris! do not sin against yourself, because i have sinned against you," natalie began once more, with hoarse, broken voice. "do not let your wings be broken by this first disappointment. your opera was wonderfully beautiful--yes--but it was not the best that you can give! give your best, it will stand so high that the hand of envy can no longer reach it. have patience, sacrifice the virtuoso to the composer in you, and you will see what a splendid reward you will reap!" with heavily contracted brows, he listened to this speech, vibrating with desperation. when natalie had ended, he remained silent. she believed she had conquered. leaning against him she laid both arms around his neck, and whispered to him: "you will stay, boris--will you not?--you will stay!" for a little while he let her stay, then he freed himself from her arms, as one frees one's self from a shackle, and called out: "it cannot be--torment me no longer--i must go!" with that he sprang up to leave the room. at the door he turned round to natalie, and said: "are you coming? lunch will be cold." "presently!" said natalie, "presently!" she shivered, she felt the chill of a great fright in all her members. it was worse than she had believed! something allured him away. after the first unpleasant surprise at the frustration of his plans had disappeared, he rejoiced at the opportunity of being able to free himself from the chain, and to separate himself from his family for a time. what she had feared for the future had already arrived--the gypsy element in his nature had awakened! * * * * * the agreement between lensky and the impressario was really completed, the contract was signed, lensky's departure fixed for the beginning of october. meanwhile, he would pass the summer quietly with his wife, in the country, in the vicinity of paris. the place which natalie chose was about an hour's journey from paris, and perhaps fifteen minutes from the railway-station, a charming old house in the shadiest corner of a park, in the midst of which a large castle stood empty. the castle was modern; the house, on the contrary, a carefully reconstructed ruin of the time of francis first. the castle was called "le château des ormes," and the small house "l'erémitage." the last owner had restored it, in order that his favorite daughter might pass her honeymoon there. since the daughter had died the hermitage stood empty, and to reside in the castle was painful to the owner. both were to let. lensky left the choice to his wife. what would she have done with the large castle? the hermitage pleased her better. the windows were all irregular, one small and narrow, another very broad, all surrounded by artistically carved and voluted stone framings. the trees grew up high above the roof, and through the whole day sang sweet, dreamy songs, to which a little brook, that ran close by the house, furnished a harmonic accompaniment. the ground floor was built in accordance with the architecture of the early renaissance period, with brown beams across the ceilings of the room, and artistic wainscoting on the walls. gigantic marble mantels, iron chandeliers and sconces, and heavy furniture did what they could to transport the spectator's imagination back to the much sung old times of gay king francis. at the right and left of the entrance door, set far back in its carved niche, grew lilies, tall and slender; they were in full bloom when the married pair moved in, and their white heads nodded in a friendly manner through the windows of the rooms even with the ground. sage, lavender, and centifolias bloomed at their feet, tall rose-bushes nodded a fragrant greeting to them from above. the branches of the old trees before the windows were thick enough to partially exclude the sunbeams if they became too intrusive; not thick enough to completely bar the way for them. in this lonely solitude, natalie fought a last time for her happiness. she tried to make her whole home as attractive and poetic as possible, so that in lensky's remembrance something might remain for which he must long. she no longer tormented him with jealous, isolating tenderness, but cared for his distraction and intellectual as well as artistic recreation. she knew how to allure not only the first musicians in paris, but celebrities of the most different kinds from the capital and surrounding villas, to the hermitage; earnest men of lofty aims and noble endeavors, together with an animation and susceptibility which did away with the hindering respect which towers between every plain, modest child of man and great people. it always gave natalie pleasure to see lensky in the company of these prominent men. he grew in such surroundings. he was never very talkative; his intellectual capabilities were of a heavy calibre, unsuited for the purposes of small talk. but how he listened, what questions he asked! then, quite without haste, he would make some remark so peculiarly sharp and far-reaching in reference to some impending political, artistic, or literary question, that, every time, an astonished silence would follow. one of the guests once remarked: "if lensky mingles in the conversation, it is as if one fired a cannon between pistol shots." he was not one-sided in his interests, as other musicians. when one learned to know him more intimately, for every accurate observer it had always the appearance that his musical capabilities formed only a part of his universally abnormally gifted nature. * * * * * quietly and still animatedly passed the days, weeks, and months. natalie never spoke of the approaching separation. an inexplicable discomfort tormented lensky. natalie had guessed rightly--he had concluded the engagement with morinsky with quite precipitate haste, not only in order thereby to win the opportunity of acquiring with one stroke a large sum of money which would put an end to his pecuniary difficulties, but because in intercourse with the old friends of his bachelor days in ---- he had first significantly realized how much he had had to restrain himself to live morally and uprightly at the side of his wife; and because his gypsy nature, bound for years, now demanded its rights. still it vexed him that natalie remained so calm in the face of the approaching parting. now, when the farewell drew near, his heart failed him. did she, then, no longer love him? the thought was unbearable to him, prevented him from working. he wrote everything wrong on the note paper. the lilies were dead, the days became short, and the first leaves fell in the grass, but the foliage was still thick, only here and there one saw a yellow spot in a bluish green tree, and the rustling had no longer the old soft sound. "the trees have lost their voice, they have become hoarse, the old melting sound is gone!" said natalie. the roses, in truth bloomed more beautifully than in summer; still one saw, significantly, the approach of autumn, and lensky had the repugnant feeling that near by something lay dying. his work did not please him. three times already he had heard natalie pass by his door; each time he had thought, now she will come in; he had already stretched his arms out to her, but she did not come. he threw away his pen and sprang up to look for her. it was a late september afternoon. it had rained for three days, and the air was cool. natalie sat in the brown-wainscoted ground-floor sitting-room, in one of the gigantic, high-backed arm-chairs near the chimney, in which flickered a gay wood fire. the windows were open. the noise from without of the rain drops softly gliding down between the leaves, the blustering of the high swollen brook, mingled with the crackling and popping of the burning wood. in the middle of the room, on a large table with a dark-red cover, stood a copper bowl filled with champagne-colored _gloire de dijon_ roses. from without came the melancholy odor of autumnal decay and mingled with the sweet breath of the flowers. the veil of twilight sank down from the mighty rafters of the ceiling. the corners of the large, somewhat low room were already, as it were, rounded off by brown shadows. freakish, pale reflections slid over the dark wainscoting, and over the brass and copper dishes which adorned it. little kolia crouched on a stool before his mother, and with both tiny elbows rested on her lap, gazed earnestly and attentively up at her. one could think of nothing more charming than this mother and this child. involuntarily lensky's heart beat high in his breast. "how beautiful my home is, how happy i am here. why am i really going away?" he asked himself. "ah!" cried natalie when he entered, pleased and at the same time surprised, for his appearance at this hour was something quite unusual. "do you wish anything?" he shook his brown, defiant head silently and sat down near the chimney opposite her. the little boy had sprung up, embarrassed, and now leaned against his mother, with his little arm round her neck. "you have been telling him fairy tales," began lensky. "oh, no! i told him of the ocean, and how one lives and is housed on the wide boundless water--of the ocean and of america. before it was too dark we were busy with something much more important," said natalie, and she pointed to a low child's table which was covered with writing materials and lined paper. "show papa what we have finished, nikolinka." the little boy became very red and drew his brows together. "but, mamma," said he, excitedly stamping his foot, "why do you tell that? it is a surprise." his mother stroked the offended child's cheek soothingly. "we will not give papa your letter to read, only show it to him, so that he can be pleased with it. bring it, nikolinka." resistingly the little fellow freed himself from his mother, then he brought the document, which was concealed behind a vase, and carried it, with importance as well as embarrassment, to his father. on the already extensively sealed envelope, between three lines, stood the unformed, but neatly and industriously written letters: À monsieur boris lensky, en amÉrique. "the letter is to be sent to you when you are over there," explained natalie. "how nicely the wight writes for his five years," said lensky touched, looking at the envelope. "you guided his hand, natascha?" "oh, no!" declared natalie. "but you prompted him?" "certainly not; he thought it out all by himself; did you not, nikolinka?" said natalie. the little one nodded earnestly; he was quite crimson with pride and embarrassment. his father took him between his knees, called him "umnitza," which in russian means paragon of wisdom, kissed and caressed him, then rang the bell for palagea, and told him he must go now and wash his hands, and have his curls brushed smooth, and then he should take dinner with his parents, because he had been so clever. when the child had tripped out at the nurse's hand, lensky threw himself down on the stool at his wife's feet. it had now become quite dark. the heavy, regular-falling rain still rustled in the foliage without, in a dreamy, melancholy cadence. "listen; how sweet, how sad!" said natalie, turning her head to the window, through which the landscape, behind its double veil of rain and twilight, looked to one like a greenish-gray chaos only, without any distinct outlines. "the d-flat major prelude of chopin," said lensky. she shook her head. "no, i did not think of that," whispered she. "but see! sometimes it seems to me that the ghost of the poor young wife who died here creeps around the hermitage, and sighs for the happiness which she might not finish enjoying. she died after the first year, while i, boris--i was happy six years. it is too much for one human life. sometimes--it is a sin; i know it--and still, sometimes i quite wished i might die, but i dare not; kolia still needs me." * * * * * soon after this she brought a little girl into the world, who was baptized marie, after the grandmother and the little dead sister. a few weeks passed, she convalesced rapidly. the day of farewell came, on which everyone hastened, with everything overhurried, incessantly imagined there was too much to do in preparing for the journey, and finally had nothing more to do. the day on which all the usual occupations were sacrificed in honor of the pain of parting, when one aimlessly trifled away the hours, tormented by nervous unrest, which finally expressed itself in the dullest _ennui_. * * * * * they sat together; now here, now there, and did not know what to do. lensky was to take the six o'clock train to paris; from there, the same evening, he would travel with morinsky's troupe to boulogne, for they would take ship in liverpool for america. the dinner-hour was changed from seven to four, lunch and breakfast were combined at ten o'clock. these irregular hours took away one's appetite, accustomed to regular hours, and increased the general discomfort. in order to kill the last half-hour before dinner they took a walk through the immense, solitary park. kolia went with them. it was a beautiful october day, with a blue heaven over which only filmy white clouds spread themselves, and from which the sun looked down so sadly and mildly as only the october sun looks down on the dying beauty of the year. masses of foliage still hung on the trees, but it was already withered--it no longer lived. and in the midst of the windless peace, one heard, again and again, the gentle sighing of a dead leaf that fell on the turf. both the parents were silent, only the little boy asked, from time to time, tender, important questions of his father, whom he loved very much, although he felt a kind of shyness of him. at first lensky led the child by the hand, then he took him in his arms, in order to have the pleasure of holding the supple little body quite closely to him and feel the soft, warm little arms round his neck. they hurried back to the house so as not to delay dinner, and naturally arrived much too early. "play me something for a farewell," begged natalie. "one of the chopin nocturnes which i transposed for your sake?" asked he. "no, just what you have in your heart," replied natalie. he took up his violin. it was the same violin which he had tried in the palazzo morsini, the amati which natalie had given him when they were betrothed. he was very excited, and became paler with every stroke. the whole desperation of a great nature which feels an unavoidable degradation approaching, spoke from his improvisation, and in the midst of the passionate and painful madness rose melodies so pure, so beautifully holy, like the resting in heart-felt prayer of a nature all in uproar. when he had finished and wished to put the violin back in the case in which he should take it with him to america, natalie took it from his hand. "what do you wish with it?" he asked. she kissed the violin and then handed it to him. "here you have it," said she, very softly. "it will never sing so again until you return." at last the servant announced that dinner was served. they sat down to the executioner meal, the executioner meal for which all his little favorite dishes had been prepared, at which everything was so abundant and so good, only the appetite was lacking. it was still light when they went to dinner. the light slowly died in the course of the meal. the words fell seldomer and more seldom from lensky's lips; there was a leaden silence; the brook sobbed without. lensky held his wine-glass toward natalie. "to a happy meeting!" said he; "to a happy meeting!" she repeated, dully: "i will await you here next year when the roses bloom." he pressed her hand; he could not contain himself during the whole meal, but got up before the dessert and began to walk up and down restlessly. "you have still time," natalie assured him; "the coffee will come immediately." "thanks; is baby asleep? i would like to give her a kiss before i go." they brought little maschenka. he kissed and blessed the tiny, rosy child, bundled up in lace and muslin. he has kissed kolia, loudly crying from excitement, and commissioned him to be brave and not to grieve his mother. now he goes up to his wife. they have brought the lamps; he wishes to see her distinctly before he goes. she tries to smile; she raises her arms to stretch them out to him--the arms sink. "my heart, be reasonable," says he, and draws her to him. a fearful groan comes from her lips; she presses her mouth against his shoulder so as not to scream aloud; her form shook. he held her to him so tightly that she could scarcely breathe. for one moment he is all hers--it is the last in her life! she knows it! the happiness of her love rallies once more in a feeling of awful, delirious happiness, and dies in a kiss! now he has gone! she accompanied him to the house-door. there she now stands and gazes along the street, through the twilight, where he has disappeared between the trees. it did not seem to her that she had parted from a dear man who was about to make a journey. no; as if they had carried a corpse out of the house. it is all over--all! whatever further comes is only more dry bitterness and inconsolable torment of the heart. she sees his footprints in the half darkness. why had she not accompanied him to the railway? she asks herself, why--why? from stupid anxiety, from pride of giving the few loafers at the station the sight of her despair had she renounced the pleasure of enjoying his presence until the last moment? she steps outdoors, hurries her steps, wishes to hurry after him, to see him once more, only one moment--then the loud voice of the railroad bell breaks the universal silence--a shrill whistle--it is over! she falls down, buries her face in the cool autumn grass at the edge of the garden path, and sobs as one sobs over a fresh grave. * * * * * about three hours later, lensky, with his colleagues and morinsky, sat penned up in a coupé of the first class. the train was over-full, there were eight of them in the small compartment. in one corner slept morinsky, his fur collar drawn up over his ears, his head covered with a fez, whose blue tassel waved to and fro over his left ear, which lent his sharp yellow face a diabolical expression. opposite him sat an old woman with a copper colored skin, and held a basket of lunch on her knees. at first she had uninterruptedly chewed and smacked her lips, now she snored. she was the mother of a famous staccato singer, who, large and blond, with her head and shoulders prudently wrapped in a red fascinator, embroidered with gold, and painted, and smelling of cosmetics, coquetted with the 'cellist, a very effeminate young man who looked like an actor. they had spread a shawl over their knees, and the diva laid the cards for him, which gave occasion for the most entertaining allusions. the accompanist of the troupe, a pedantic young pianist, afflicted with a chronic hoarseness, which alone prevented him from becoming a tenor of the first rank, formed the public to the beautiful duet, while he laughed loudly at every particularly poor witticism. the 'cellist and the diva were very familiar with each other, and both constantly made use of expressions of the commonest kind. the laughter of the diva became ever shriller, while that of the 'cellist sounded ever deeper from his boots. opposite lensky, the short-armed, fat piano virtuoso of the troupe, a very solid father of a family, who tried to sleep, and from time to time looked round angrily at the disturbers of his rest; and near lensky, wrapped in furs to the tip of her nose, sat a new prima donna, signora zingarelli, of whom morinsky promised himself the highest success, a beautiful, red-haired belgian, with long, narrow sphinx eyes. she had tried to enter into conversation with lensky, but he had turned from her, monosyllabic and coarse. the train sighed and groaned. fiery clouds flew by the window in the black night. the close atmosphere in the coupé, the odor of paint, musk, fat meat, hot fur and coal, maddened lensky; he wished to open one of the windows--the singers protested, morinsky awoke, settled the dispute:--the window remained closed. a terrible longing for his love, for his beautiful, poetic home, came over lensky. he thought of his last night journey, with wife and child, quite alone in a coupé. he saw the charming serpentine lines which the slender, supple figure of his young wife described on the cushions. she slept. her little head rested on a red silk cushion which she took about with her on all her travels. how tender and delicate her profile stood out from that colored ground! she coughed in her sleep; he stood up to draw the fur mantle which covered her closer up around her shoulders. drunk with sleep, she opened her eyes and with half unconscious tenderness rubbed her smooth, cool cheeks against her hand. the sweet fragrance of violets which exhaled from her person smote his face. then--a jolt!--he started up--he must have slept. in any case he had dreamed. his travelling companions all slept now; their heads on their breasts, only the pretty red-haired head of the zingarelli lay on lensky's shoulder. she opened her long, narrow eyes, smiled at him--a shrill whistle--the train stopped. "amiens!" cried the conductor. "amiens!" all got out. while his colleagues plundered the restaurant, lensky, smoking a cigarette, wandered around the platform alone. the others had all taken their places again, when morinsky, who had gotten out to look for him, and saw him wandering to another coupé, called after him: "here, monsieur lensky, here!" but lensky only stamped his foot impatiently: "leave me in peace, i am not obliged to make the whole journey in the same cage with your menagerie!" he said. * * * * * six weeks later not a trace of his homesickness remained. at the artist banquet, which usually followed the concerts, symposiums which began with bad witticisms and ended with an orgy, he was the most unrestrained, the wantonest of all. he was like one who, suddenly relieved from the pressure of iron fetters, at first, unaccustomed to every free movement, can scarcely move his limbs, but afterward cannot weary of stretching them, and moving them in unlimited freedom. he broke every bond, indulged every humor. he no longer thought of natalie and the children, he did not wish to think of them. remembrance was ashamed to follow him on the way he now went. it was hard for him to write to his wife, but it was still harder for him to read her letters. and yet she wrote so charmingly, so lovingly! she did not say much of herself, but so much the more of the children, especially of kolia. with what shining eyes he listened, when she read the reports of the triumphs of his father to him, she wrote, and how he seized every newspaper that he saw, and then asked her: "is there anything in it about papa?" and how, with his little playmates--she passed the winter with her mother, in cannes--he boasted importantly of the homage which fell share to his father, and how she did not have the heart to reprove him for it. how he drew ships incessantly, and how she made use of the interest which he took in his father's journey to give him his first lessons in geography, and many other such tender trifles. these letters vexed him; when he had read them, he despised himself and his surroundings, and for two, three days, remained melancholy and unsociable. at last he no longer read them, at most only glanced over them, convinced himself hastily that "all was as usual," and then folded them up and laid them aside. then came the time when he told himself it was foolish to have such scruples. he was what he always had been, an exceptional man, a titanic nature. he could not be judged like the others, he could not have exercised his compelling charm over the masses without the fiery violence of his temperament. his success was wonderful. since they had celebrated the reception of jenny lind with discharge of cannon in new york or boston--history differs as to which, is always careless in relation to prima donnas--no artist had received more homage than boris lensky. the women especially seemed as if bewitched by him. he did not take the situation sentimentally, but rather cynically; still he accustomed himself to the horrible noise of the public, which followed his performances, to the cries of the crowd which accompanied him without, when he left the concert hall, to the illuminated streets in which every window was filled with gazers when he drove home. when the excitement was once over, a kind of shame overpowered him. what signified these virtuoso triumphs? people always applauded the stupidest piece the loudest. he attained no such effect with a sonata of beethoven, or schumann, as with a mad tarentella which he had composed long ago for his wonderful fingers, and of which he was now ashamed. in boston, he omitted this tarentella, which had become a nightmare to him, from the programme. the people remained lukewarm, and so much already did his over-excited nerves desire the shrill storm of applause, that he voluntarily added the trivial and wearying piece of artifice--he, who had formerly so despised his virtuoso triumphs! * * * * * the lilies stand straight and slender, with golden hearts in their deep, white calices, right and left of the door of the little hermitage, into which natalie has again moved when the first roses bloom. it is july. lensky has fixed his return for the fifteenth. "afternoon, with the first train that i can catch; but do not worry if i should be late," said his letter. not at the station, no, only to the hedge which incloses the park, will natalie go to meet him. kolia quivers with impatience. natalie counts the hours, draws out her watch--it has stopped. she hurries in the dining-room to consult the clock on the mantel, and discovers kolia, who, kneeling on a chair, moves the hands. "what are you doing?" says she, laughing. the boy sighs impatiently. "i am fixing the clock, mamma. i am sure it must be sick, it goes too slowly to-day." how she kisses him for it! how pleased she will be to tell boris of it! "hark!" a shrill sound of a bell, a penetrating whistle; the train has come. she fetches her little daughter, who has had a charming little white dress put on her, in honor of her father's arrival. with the little one on her arm, and kolia at her hand, she steps out under the lindens, which are in full bloom, and throw a sunlit shadowy carpet over the path. oh, how her poor heart beats! she kisses the tiny hands of her little daughter from excitement, looks scrutinizingly at the little child. will he think her pretty? she stands at the hedge of the park, looks out on the street, gazes, waits, sees the people return from the railroad. now he must come! but no, the white, dusty street is empty; a scornfully whispering breeze blows away the footprints of the last passer-by, a couple of white linden-blossoms fall from the tree-tops--he has not come! and with slow steps, as one wearily drags himself along after a great disappointment, she turns toward the house. kolia gives a deep sigh. "i don't understand it, mamma," says he. "papa will come with the next train; he has missed this one," his mother consoles him. for a while he trips silently beside her, then suddenly raising his head and looking at her with his earnest, thoughtful child's eyes, he says: "we would not have missed the train, would we, mamma?" and once more the bell sounds in the solemn quiet, and natalie's heart beats loudly--and he comes not. ever sadder, she wanders through the empty rooms, into which the sunlight presses through a shady, cool, perfumed curtain of foliage. "how can one stay an hour longer than one must in the sultry, dusty, sunny, wearying paris?" she asks herself. * * * * * meanwhile lensky sits with his colleagues in the _trois frères_ at a breakfast which began at one o'clock, and now at five o'clock has not yet ended. a breakfast at which all laugh and make jokes--only he broods silently. he is satiated with this rope-dancer's existence--heartily satiated--he longs for his home, for his dear, incomparable wife, but he delays the moment of meeting as long as he can. a kind of shame contracts his throat at the thought of meeting her eyes. he knows she will ask him no questions, but still---- * * * * * once more the railway bell has in vain startled natalie and her little son. evening has come. the excellent little dinner which was prepared in honor of the return has been served and taken away quite untouched. kolia incessantly pulls his mother's sleeve and asks ever more importunately: "why does not father come? why does he not come?" maschenka has long been divested of her white muslin finery, and lies in her cradle. kolia obstinately refuses to go to bed until his father has returned. weary and tearful he wanders from one corner of the drawing-room to the other and will not play. now, with little head on his arm, he has fallen asleep over his picture books at a low child's table. the roses which natalie arranged so carefully in the vases wither. the white draperies of her dress are limp and tumbled. once again the bell rings. it is the last train to-day. she does not wake kolia. why should he uselessly vex himself this time also? softly she steps on the porch. the moon stands in the heavens; the trees are black. a gray, transparent mist arises from the earth which obliterates all contours. the flowers smell unusually sweet, and, in luxuriant melancholy, confess so much to the pale, cold moon that they have shamefacedly been silent about to the sun. why does the little brook sob so loudly? can it not be silent a moment? natalie's whole being is now only a strained, longing listening. why does her heart beat so loudly? why does her strong imagination charm up things in the stillness which do not exist? or--no--no; she hears a sigh, a step, slow, slow! who can that be? no man walks so slowly who after long, oh, how long absence, returns to wife and child! it is a messenger of misfortune, who delays to announce some ill news to her. then, from out the shadow, in the foggy moonlight, comes a broad-shouldered form. "boris!" calls natalie, half to herself. she cannot go to meet him--she cannot. trembling in her whole body, she stands there, in the carved gothic portal, against the bright golden background of the lighted hall; stands there in her white dress, between the tall, pale lilies, like an angel before the door of a church, into which a wicked sinner would like to slip. "is it you, at last?" she breathes out. "yes; i am somewhat late. you know, with one's colleagues, one must offend no one; it is always so." how rough his voice sounds! how fleetingly, how hastily he kisses her. is she dreaming? "how are you; how are the children?" he steps in the hall, blinking uneasily in the light. is this really the man to whose coming she has so foolishly, so breathlessly looked forward? this irritable, heavy man with the tumbled clothes, the badly arranged hair, the fearfully altered face, with a new expression of god knows what! her feet refuse her their service; she catches hold of a support, and sinks down in a chair. "how pale you are, natalie!" says he. "are you ill?" "no--no--only--i have waited for you since five o'clock. i--i thought you would never find the way back to us." for an instant he hesitates; then he sinks at her feet, embraces her knees with both arms. he, who at parting had not shed a tear, now, at their meeting, sobs like a desperate one. what pretext, what falsehood can he utter? as if his colleagues could have withheld him if he had only really wished to come home! "o natalie! natalie! pardon me. we all fear to return to heaven when we have accustomed ourselves to earth. natalie! be good to me; never let me leave you again." he had plunged a dagger in her heart, but her whole tenderness is awakened. she bends over him, strokes his rough hair with her tender, white hand. "my poor genius!" she whispers gently. "my poor, dear genius!" "papa!" calls a silvery voice, joyfully. "pa--pa!" he repeats, hesitatingly, frightened. kolia has run up. if he lives to be a hundred years old he will never forget how he saw his father sobbing at his mother's feet after the first long separation. then he did not understand, but later he understood--understood only too well. how sad life is: how sad! * * * * * it was the morning after his arrival. lensky stood at the window of his room, and looked down in the quiet garden. the little brook which tumbled down the hill at the side of the hermitage with exaggerated violence, quite like a little waterfall, in front of the house from whence lensky looked down on it, plashed quite calmly, earnestly, and dreamily along its here scarcely susceptibly descending bed, and bore away on its dark waves only as much of the sunshine as could reach it between the lindens. a cool breeze rose from the water, all around was dark green, dewy and luxuriant--luxuriant without the slightest indication of decay, without the least trace of approaching withering. and what an abundance of roses stood out in gay, blooming colors against the sober, dark-green background! great maréchal niel roses, with heavy, earthward-bent heads, dark-red jacqueminot, fiery baroness rothschild, delicate pink, capriciously crumpled la france. the gloire de dijon roses climbed quite in the window of his room in their race with the quite small, pert little running roses. light steps crunched the gravel, large and small steps. natalie stepped out from the shady lindens in front of the house. she held her little daughter in her arms. kolia walked near her, and with the important earnestness of six years carried a basketful of strawberries, which he had evidently just helped his mother pick. one could think of nothing more charming than the young woman in her white morning-dress, with its lilac ribbons, and the tiny, rosy being in her arms. the little thing was bareheaded, and her little arms and feet were also bare. she quivered and danced with animation. there she discovered a butterfly, cried out gayly, and clapped her little hands. "oh, are you ready so soon?" called natalie, when she saw her husband at the window. "come to breakfast; i have had the table laid in the garden." he hurried down. the breakfast-table stood in a shady spot, over which the blooming lindens reached their branches. oh, what a table! how very pretty the rouen service made it! a service whose old-fashioned gayness combined harmoniously the most incongruous colors, set out on the dazzling white damask table-cloth. how inviting and appetizing everything was! these curiously shaped dishes, with their fragrant burden of still warm golden cakes and rolls of pale yellow butter between glittering pieces of ice, and ham covered with transparent aspic! around the greenish twilight, fragrant, cool, only here and there the reddish glimmer of a sunbeam curiously wandered into the shadow, and now held captive by the lindens. when she saw her father coming, little mascha became quite unruly, almost danced out of her mother's arms, and, without resisting, let herself be taken, hugged, and kissed by him. while he held her in his arms, kolia seized her little bare legs, and pressed his mouth to her tiny pink feet. "she is charming, a beauty! is that really my daughter, can something so wonderfully pretty have such an ugly man for father?" he said from time to time, laughingly, tenderly, while he kissed her bare shoulders, and especially the dimple in her neck, again and again. "she looks very like you, your pretty daughter," jested natalie. "more than the boy! it vexes him if i say that, and i also would prefer it to be the other way." lensky laughed somewhat constrainedly. the nurse came up to get baby. "just a moment," said lensky, swinging the little thing high in the air, to its great delight, "so--and one more kiss on the eyes, the neck, on these dear, sweet little hands, so----" the nurse already had the little thing in her arms, when the sweet little rogue looked round at her father. meanwhile, natalie busied herself with the samovar, which stood on a small stand near the breakfast table. no servant was near, kolia helped mamma serve tea, and waited with a sober expression until his mother had confided the cup for his father to him. carefully, as if he held the holy grail in his hands, he carried it over to lensky. natalie sat down opposite her husband, and buttered him a piece of bread. he looked at her with a peculiarly sad, touched look. "you are all much too good to me," he murmured; then he added, tenderly: "either i had really forgotten during my absence how beautiful you are, or you have really gained in charm." how awkwardly that came out! how stumblingly! he had wished to say something loving to her, but he had not succeeded well. he felt it himself. a petulant smile shone in her sad eyes at his well, or much rather, badly put little speech. some reply trembled on her lips, then she suddenly closed her lovely mouth, as if she feared her husband would take what she wished to say somewhat ill, and busied herself in fastening a napkin round kolia's neck. after a while lensky began anew: "how charming my home is. ah, natalie, how have i renounced it all for so long! how could i exist so long without you!" "if you only are really pleased over your return we will make no further remarks about your absence," said natalie very lovingly, and then hesitated with embarrassment and blushed to the roots of her hair. breakfast took its course. here and there, by turns, natalie and lensky made a remark, but the conversation did not become fluent. a strange irritation vibrated in every nerve of the virtuoso. formerly there had been no end of talking between them, and now-- what was she thinking of, to speak about the weather as if he were any guest to whom one feels obliged to be polite, and to whom one does not know what to say, because no common interest unites him with us? he remembered the words which she had spoken in the hotel windsor at that time before the conclusion of his contract with morinsky: "as a stranger you will return to us, and a stranger you will remain among us from that time." was she right? foolishness! she had only become a little too distinguished among the wearisome crowd with whom she had passed the winter. the forced mood which reigned between them was her fault, not his. "you are so stiff and formal, natalie," he remarked at last, vexedly, quite irrelevantly. "you have again accustomed yourself to such fearfully aristocratic manners." "how can you say anything so foolish?" she answered him, laughing constrainedly. "oh, it is not laughable to me," he growled, and suddenly, without any reason, only to air his inward uneasiness, he burst out: "it is painful to me, i cannot endure it--cannot bear it." he pushed his cup away with an involuntary motion. "but, boris!" natalie admonished him. "my poor, unaccountable, dear genius!" she looked at him so roguishly therewith that his anger was scattered to the four winds. he stretched out both his hands to her across the table; she took them. he bent somewhat forward, wished to draw her hands to his lips, when a light step was heard on the gravel. natalie blushed, and with a quick, almost frightened movement, drew them away from him. he scowled angrily. before whom was she embarrassed then? a young woman in a very elegant _negligé_ costume, profusely trimmed with valenciennes lace, without hat, and a yellow parasol in her hand, stepped up to the breakfast table. she resembled natalie, although she was smaller, stouter, and the features of her pretty face were coarser. lensky recognized in her his wife's sister, princess jeliagin, a person whom he detested from the bottom of his heart, even if he had until now only known her slightly, before his marriage with natalie. kind friends had told him that she had described his alliance with her sister as _une chose absurde_. wife of a rich, quite incompetent diplomat, she had during her ten years' life in foreign countries made all the most absurd aristocratic prejudices her own, and was always addressed as "princess," although her husband had no title. with all these western-europe grimaces she combined something of her russian, half asiatic exaggeration, by which she became still more grotesque and tactless. in spite of her boasted exclusiveness she had never quite learned to understand the shades of foreign society, and made frequent mistakes in her choice of acquaintances. besides this, with all her weaknesses and affectations, she was good natured to silliness, and hospitable to prodigality. "so early in the morning, barbe what a surprise!" natalie called to her, while she tried not to let it be perceived how inopportune her sister's visit was to her just at that moment. "that is charming, i must introduce my husband to you." "we know each other already, at least i hope that boris nikolaivitch remembers me--once in st. petersburg, at the olins. in any case, i am very happy to renew the acquaintance," remarked the jeliagin, and at once reached him her fat little hand, in a buckskin garden glove. her voice was guttural and rough, her whole face, as lensky could now see plainly, was painted. "how are you, nikolas?" she turned to little kolia, while she stroked his head in a friendly manner. "please greet a person, or have i fallen as deeply in your displeasure as my anna? i assure you that i cannot help it if she talks foolishly. only think, boris nikolaivitch, he cudgelled my daughter anna, day before yesterday, because she ventured to assert that a prince was greater than a genius. he answered her that not even an emperor was greater. a genius came next to the dear god, and as she would not agree to that, he struck her, and hard." the jeliagin laughed. lensky also laughed involuntarily, but remarked in a tone of admonition to his son, who had shyly concealed himself behind his mother: "a boy should never strike a girl; that is not proper." "but why did she say such foolish things?" little nikolas defended himself, while he wrinkled his small forehead. "i cannot bear that, and then she is larger than i, so much"--he measured the width of his hand above his head. "she gave him quite a scratch, she was not defenceless," said barbara alexandrovna, while she sat down and closed her umbrella. "but to come to something more interesting," she continued; "we have, in spirit, followed you on every step of your american triumphal march, boris nikolaivitch; the newspapers gave us the guide thereto. i hope we will now see very much of you. natascha can tell you how well all artists are received at our house,--and h'm!--and if it is a question of a relation--_à propos_, could you not come and dine with us this evening? we are quite _entre nous_, only lis, princess zriny, that eccentric hungarian, marinia löwenskiold, a good friend of yours, you remember her, a few diplomats, etc.; and we are bored as only _gens du monde_ are bored if they have been together under the same roof for ten days. natalie can tell you how bored we are--merely people from our coterie, who know each other by heart; if you please. and how stupid we are! ha, ha, ha! in desperation we arranged a race in the drawing-room yesterday. arthur de blincourt, while jumping a barrier, dislocated a joint, and now lies on a lounge, and lets himself be looked after. but we all long for a new element--_on vous attend comme le messie_, boris nikolaivitch. you will come, will you not? we dine at eight o'clock." while she chattered on with self-satisfied fluency, it seemed to boris as if some one scratched a knife on a porcelain plate. "why does she roll her eyes so incessantly when she speaks? they do not look more beautiful when one sees so much of their orange-yellow whites," he thought to himself. aloud he only remarked: "do you really believe that i would amuse you better than a drawing-room race?" "ha, ha, ha!" laughed she. "that is splendid! i must repeat it to marinia löwenskiold, who raves about you. you will come, will you not?" "no, i will not come," replied he sharply. "i do not feel myself equal to the task of amusing a dozen _gens du monde_ who are bored." "well, as you will," said the jeliagin, shrugging her shoulders. "try to persuade him before evening, natalie, and come, or send me word. i must go, we wish to ride out _en bande_, at eight. adieu! give me your hand, please, kolia, and come and lunch with us. anna will be pleased, and you shall have strawberries and whipped cream. adieu!" with that she went away. lensky stared gloomily before him for a while, then he struck his clenched fist on the table so that all the dishes rattled: "from whence did this goose drop down so suddenly?" asked he. "she lives in the castle in the park," said natalie. "she has hired it for the summer." "so!" grumbled lensky. "now if i had known that, i should never have thought of coming here." "but i wrote you of it." "not a word." "certainly, in many letters; did you not have time to read them?" instead of replying to this, for him very unpleasant remark, lensky said, in increasing rage: "oh! now i understand the change which has taken place in you. she is horrible, your sister! for what does she hold me, that she takes this tone with me?" "i cannot help her lack of tact," replied natalie, gently and reproachfully. "ah, you are still influenced by your relations, by that narrow stupid crowd," he growled, crimson with rage. "you are condescending to me, yes, that is the right word, condescending, indulgent. why do you start back from me when this silly machine comes near? are you then ashamed of our love before her?" "our love!" repeated natalie, with broken voice, strangely emphasizing the word "our." he did not suspect anything from the trembling sadness of her voice, and did not once look at her. meanwhile he felt the anxious touch of a silky, soft child's hand. little kolia had come up to his father, and whispered to him shyly and pleadingly: "papa, mamma is crying." lensky looked up, frightened. yes, she had done her utmost to courageously smile through the unpleasant scene, but her overexcited nerves could not bear it; she sobbed convulsively. "but natalie, my angel, my little dove!" he could not see any woman weep, least of all his wife, whom he loved. he sprang up, took her in his arms, covered her eyes, her mouth, her whole face with kisses. "do not torment yourself, my treasure! you are much, much too good to me; you are an angel! how could you ever take such a rough clown as i am? we are not suited to each other, natascha." "oh, boris! do you mean that?" "yes, i mean it," said he, gloomily. "better, a hundred times better, would it have been for you if you had never seen me! you are so charming, so good, and i love you so idolatrously; but i am a fearful, a horrible man, and i cannot always govern myself--i cannot! i will yet torment you to death, my poor natalie!" and he did not cease to caress and to kiss her. then she raised her head from his shoulder, and looking at him from eyes still shining with tears, with a glance full of tender fanaticism she said: "what does it matter, even if you kill me? it would still be beautiful! i would change with no woman in god's world, do you hear, with none! think of what i have said to you to-day when one day you give me a last kiss in my coffin!" * * * * * lensky could no longer get back into the old ways at home; however much he tried, he could not. as in the former year, only more significantly, more tormentingly, the feeling of growing discontent made itself felt in him. it seemed to him as if he could not remain for any length of time on the same spot; as if he must incessantly seek something which was no longer anywhere to be found. for a couple of days he ill-humoredly stayed away from the castle, but when his brother-in-law paid him a visit and repeated the invitation of barbara alexandrovna in the most polite manner,--when one day, all the ladies staying at the castle as guests had come out in a body to give him an ovation and especially when he had become immeasurably weary of the poetic monotony of life in the hermitage; he replied to natalie, when she once asked him smilingly, with the intention of freeing him from his own constraining obstinacy, whether he thought it was really worth the trouble to longer play the bear: "no!" from that time, he passed every evening in the castle. at first natalie had been glad that the social intercourse there offered him a distraction. but soon the evenings in "les ormes" became a torment to her. the hateful change which had taken place in him during his long absence from his family, that change which natalie had predicted, and by which she yet had been frightened at his return, as by something quite unexpected, never became more significant than during these evenings at the castle. if, during the first years of his marriage, through the lovely influence of his young wife, and especially through the wish to satisfy, to please her in everything, he had learned with quite incredible rapidity to follow the usual social customs of the country, and no longer to bear himself in the world as a genius, but as any other cultivated, well-bred man, he had completely forgotten it during his vagabond life, or rather it had become wearisome to him. more than ever, his circle of action in a drawing-room limited itself to producing music and then being raved over by ladies. the incessant self-bewilderment in this smoke of incense how, where and whenever it might be, had become a necessity of existence for him. everything in him had gone wild, even his art. together with a preference for perilous technical artifices, challenging musical unrestraint of every kind showed itself. oftener than ever he fell into those mad moods in which he demanded things of his poor violin which it could not perform, until it groaned and screamed as if in the torments of hell, and if he had formerly complained that he could not govern himself, he now boasted of it. it was his specialty, by which he was distinguished from all the virtuosos of his time. and, in spite of all the underlying lack of restraint and the impurity, that the sense-enslaving glow of his art now unfolded stronger than before, there could be no doubt. especially over the feminine portion of his listeners his playing exercised a quite degrading charm. the triumphs which he achieved in "les ormes" proved this. he profited by the situation. although it would have been tiresome to him to have passed a whole evening among these people of the world, far removed from all his most intimate interests of life, without playing, he sometimes let himself be urged almost to lack of taste before he took up his violin. it happened once that he waited until a particularly crazy enthusiast presented, kneeling, his violin to him. one of the musical ladies present sat down to the piano to accompany him; the others grouped themselves as near as possible round him, while they anxiously tried to express by their positions a kind of dying-away charm. he felt the longing glances of their eyes resting on him while he played. he saw the beautiful heads bent forward. it went to his head like a stunning oppression; he no longer knew himself. but they no longer knew themselves. if in the bearing of the great ladies who frequented his house in ----, in spite of all their enthusiasm for his art, there had still been a trace of patronage with reference to the artist, many of these beauties now fawned upon him like slaves who would sue for his favor. when he had finished, no one of them knew by what special insanity she should over-trump the others, in order to prove to him her enthusiasm. and while the music-bewitched women crowded around him, to beg autographs or locks of hair from him, and carefully picked out the remains of his thrown-away cigarettes from the ash receiver, in order to keep them as relics, the jeliagin told some new guest, in an adjoining room, the "romance of her sister," which she always concluded with the words: "my poor sister; so courted as she was! you know that she refused prince truhetzkoi. we were inconsolable when we heard of her betrothal with lensky. he is really a great genius!" and then she sighed. but natalie stood on the terrace which opened out of the music-room, quite alone. she was happy if she could remain alone; if no one came up to her to ask if she had a headache, or if anything else was the matter. was anything the matter with her? no one could feel what she suffered, and there was also no human consolation which she would not have felt as an insult, however tenderly it was offered to her. what were the little pin pricks which had excited her impatience in ---- to this pain! around her was the summer night, sultry and still. the black shadows of the trees stretched themselves in the moonlight over the gray-green turf on which not a single dew-drop sparkled. out into the stillness of the night sounded a loud, harsh laugh. natalie looked through one of the flower-encircled windows into the drawing-room. there sat lensky in a circle of ladies. heated by his wearying performance, he wiped the perspiration from his temples, from his neck. he was relating something that natalie could not hear distinctly, but which evidently seemed very droll to him, and which convulsed his listeners; they exhibited a kind of comically exaggerated irritation. an embarrassed smile appeared on his lips, he seized the hand of the lady who sat nearest to him, played with it appeasingly, and drew it to his lips. this was his manner of making his apologies if he had said something too racy. natalie stepped back in the shadow. a desperation, which was mingled with aversion, lay hold of her. then, hollow, paining, quenching all the pleasure of life, quite like a physical discomfort, something crept over her which she would not explain to herself, which at no price would she have called by its name--jealousy. * * * * * the whole mud of his inner nature was stirred up as a stream highly swollen and unsettled after a wild storm, raving and foaming, tumbles in its bed, and can no longer find peace and rest therein. from time to time he invited guests from paris; sometimes they came uninvited. they usually remained to luncheon only, but natalie had always time enough to be alarmed at them and to wish them away. they were no longer artistic celebrities like those whom natalie had charmed to the "hermitage" the year before; no, lensky had reached that point in his career when an artist only tolerates courtiers and court fools about himself. what a motley rabble that sometimes was which assembled around him--artistic bohemians, freed from all social and moral restraint! the men usually remained to luncheon. natalie did her utmost to conceal the repulsion which the bearing and manner of expression of the throng caused her, even from her husband. but sharp-sighted as he was he guessed her feelings. at first he tried to spare her; to keep the conversation in suitable bounds as long as she was present. but one day it became too tiresome for him. whether the wine had gone to his head, or whether some secret vexation irritated him, in any case he felt the need of breaking his conventional shackles. scarcely had he given the sign for excessive freedom of speech, when the other men followed his lead. they laughed, jested with natalie and about her, without the slightest consideration for her, as men heated by wine do when they are together--lensky by far the worst among them all. from time to time he looked at natalie challengingly and angrily. why was she so prudish? why was she so affected? it was laughable in a married woman of her age--was nothing but foolishness and affectation. at dessert she could bear it no longer; she left the table and locked herself in her room. a kind of illness had come over her; she was near a swoon. how painful the recollection of his roughness was to him later she knew nothing of. he was much too proud to let it be noticed. on the contrary, when he was with her again he acted as if he had a humor of hers to pardon. from that time natalie no longer appeared at these lunches. but in the distance she heard the rattling of glasses, the laughter. she stopped her ears and bit her teeth into her lips. * * * * * with all this he became daily more out of temper and discontented. at first his drawing-room triumphs in "les ormes" had amused him; gradually he lost the taste for them, found everything empty childish. his position in the midst of this exclusive worldliness vexed him. while the women threw themselves at his head, he noticed a smile on the lips of the men which offended him. if, even at the beginning of his career, he had felt quite _à son aise_ with the ladies of the aristocracy, he never, on the contrary, to the end of his life, learned to live in harmony with the men of that rank. their treatment of him always remained objectionable to him. true, they always met him with the greatest politeness, but they never treated him as their equal, and were always a trifle too polite to him. if he entered the smoking-room while they, with hands in their pockets and cigars between their teeth, confidentially talked of politics, race-horses or ladies, the conversation immediately took a more earnest tone. as soon as he opened his mouth the others all listened in solemn silence; then one of them would leave the group, take him apart from the others, and try to talk of music with him. he embarrassed them and they embarrassed him. formerly, he had taken such things quite philosophically, but his sensitiveness had increased in recent times. in the long months which he had passed, going from city to city, winning triumphs and absolute, surrounded only by artists of the second and third class, he had gradually begun to feel himself the central point of the world. but here, in spite of the insane homage of the ladies, he very soon saw what a small _rôle_ he really played on the world's stage, although he could give pleasure to so many by his art. he could still tolerate the russians, but sometimes strange diplomats came to the castle. the condescending flattery of these gentlemen was unbearable to him. what was he really in the eyes of these empty heads? he asked himself; an acrobat of the better sort, a man who existed merely for their accursed amusement. as if music were not the most beautiful of all arts, an art ten times holier, more god-like than the political, bungling work of these diplomats! "art is the most enduring in the world. i am the only immortal among you all!" he said to himself. but then came the question: "yes; am i then immortal? what have i accomplished up to this time to deserve artistic immortality?" he only felt really happy on the days when all the men were occupied in hunting, and he and a handsome spanish painter with a wooden leg were the only men in a circle of ten or twelve ladies, although, in his heart, the unmanliness of his position struck him bitterly enough. * * * * * the most charming of his admirers in "les ormes," the one who had decidedly taken the first place in his favor, was the countess marinia löwenskiold. as already mentioned, she was a pole, and married to a northern diplomat, from whom she lived separated, _à l'aimable_. naturally, she was an idealist, as almost all women are who have departed from the usual course in life. in addition, she was very musical. what was most piquant about her was the fact that, in spite of the separation from her husband, whom, besides, no one could bear, and in spite of her perilous coquetries, no one could say anything against her which could seriously injure her reputation. perhaps it was just this, her former haughty blamelessness, which attracted lensky to her. she was very beautiful, she pleased him; and then--why did they say that this little pole was invincible? he would see! among the guests in the castle was count leon pachotin. touchingly faithful to his old enthusiasm, he busied himself by singling out the wife of the virtuoso on every possible occasion, with the most exaggerated homage and attentions. he was still a very handsome man, was rich, had changed his military career, as is quite customary with young cavaliers, for that of diplomacy, in all appearances bid fair to reach the highest honors, and--was still unmarried. it was indescribably bitter to natalie to play the humiliating _rôle_ which had fallen to her in life, so near to him. sometimes she felt his kind blue eyes resting upon her in sad compassion. then the proud blood boiled within her. she collected herself in order that nothing might be noticed, and was again, so truly the charming, seductive, unapproachable natalie assanow of former days. * * * * * on a sultry evening, toward the middle of august, the company in the castle was unusually brilliant and numerous. the men and women sat in groups here and there in an immense pavilion--in which, by means of screens and thickets of flowers, all kinds of confidential nooks were formed--talked, laughed, coquetted, and sipped the refreshments which tall servants with solemn bearing and brilliant liveries presented. natalie had the consciousness this evening of looking particularly beautiful. pechotin scarcely left her side. she observed that the count's manner to her irritated lensky, that he looked over to her more than once uneasily, and she was glad and doubled her lovability to pachotin. then she noticed that boris had left the pavilion. with instinctive jealousy her eyes sought countess löwenskiold. she also was missing. natalie's blood throbbed in every vein, she suddenly found pachotin intrusive and awkward, wished to do nothing more speedily than to get rid of him. "please see if you can get me an ice, count," she remarked. he rose obligingly. scarcely had he left her when she stepped out from the pavilion on the terrace. there was no one there, but out in the park, not very far, no further than a lady should permit herself to wander in the garden on a beautiful summer night in the company of a gentleman, she discovered two figures--he and she. a quite irresistible impulse drove her to follow them, to interrupt their conversation in some manner. already she had taken a step forward, then, blushing for herself, she remained standing. had it already gone so far with her that she should show herself capable of a degrading, pitiful act! she stood as if rooted to the ground. the pair in the park, yonder, also remained standing. she saw how lensky stamped his foot, and threw back his brown head. she knew this despotic, violent movement. then it seemed to her that she heard the words: "_pas de sens commun--enfantillages!_" her heart beat violently, she turned away and reëntered the room. soon after, lensky joined the other guests, so did the countess löwenskiold. it did not escape natalie that the latter entered the room by another door from him. the polish woman was deathly pale, and her lips burned with fever. in lensky's manner, on the contrary, not a trace of excitement betrayed itself; he was even more lovable than usual, and polite to all the ladies, and without being specially urged, took up his violin. while he played, he turned away from the löwenskiold, and he charmed such tones from his amati that evening, tones of such touching, painful sweetness, that the most earnest men present, with the women, bowed before his art. while he played, the nervous countess was seized with a fit of weeping, and left the room. a little later, natalie and lensky walked home together through the park. the way which they took was enclosed on both sides by thick bushes, which almost met over their heads in a transparent arch. the moonbeams slid through the branches, and the shadows of the leaves spread themselves out like ghostly lace-work over the yellow gravel. an oppressive sultriness, the breathless, sticky sultriness of the old heat of the day, which remained hanging in the thicket, made breathing difficult. neither of them spoke a word. but while she, holding her head very high in the air, looked straight before her, his glance rested ever more frequently on her. in accordance with the custom which ruled in the castle, she wore evening dress, and, on account of the heat, had let the white, gold-embroidered burnous slip down a little from her bare shoulders. the moonlight shone on her neck. she held her little head somewhat averted. in vain he tried to look in her eyes; he only saw the outline of her cheek, her chin, and neck; but how charming all that was! never before, since his return, had she pleased him so. it really was worth the pains to only look at another woman near this one. giving way to a sudden excitement, mingled with remorse, he drew her to him and pressed his lips to her shoulder. but she escaped his embrace, not without a certain correcting roughness. his arms fell loosely at his sides, but he could not remove his gaze from her. how high she held her head, what annihilating arrogance her little mouth expressed! in his mind he saw pachotin bent over her chair, humbly intent on the slightest sign of her favor. who knows? perhaps she regrets, thought he to himself, and a furious rage gnawed at his heart. * * * * * about three days after this scene--three days, during which natalie and lensky had lived together in mutual wrath, without speaking a word to each other, lensky told his wife he must to-day go to paris, in order to arrange with flaxland the publication of one of his works; at the same time he wished to make use of the opportunity to see and hear gounod's new opera. he could, therefore, only come home the next day on the five o'clock train. he said all that in a very grumbling tone, did not give her a kiss for farewell, and immediately went to the railroad. she fancied him already far away, when he returned again. "have you forgotten anything?" she asked him. "yes; namely, i would like to know if you perhaps have anything to be done in paris--and then--if you wish, you can come with me; we will go to the opera together. i will wait, as far as i am concerned, for the next train, so that there will be time enough for you to make ready." if he had only said that pleasantly, but he said it roughly, disagreeably, as if it did not concern him at all. he had offended natalie too much recently for her to agree with his first attempt at reconciliation. "i thank you very much," she replied coldly; "you will amuse yourself much better without me." for one moment he hesitated; then he shrugged his shoulders and went. scarcely had he gone when natalie was overcome with remorse for her stubbornness and obstinacy. truly it was unwise and hateful not to come to meet him, if he, proud as he was, took the first step. she could have cried from anger with herself. a true child, as in the bottom of her heart she still was, she could not cease to think of the pleasure which she so petulantly had renounced. how charming it would have been to pass a whole day alone with him in paris. to dine in the café anglais, very quickly and quite early, so as not to miss the opera, but still very excellently; she even made out the _menu_--ah! she knew all his favorite dishes so well; then the next day they would have bought all kinds of useless, pretty things together. she knew, from former years, how good-naturedly and patiently he would let himself be dragged in the great bazaars. she would have bought kolia playthings and baby an embroidered dress--she saw the little dress before her--and instead of all that--ah, how vexatious! the hours dragged slowly; she scarcely put her foot out of the house. she also remained at home in the evening; the castle had really no power of attraction for her. when kolia took the place opposite her at dinner, and unfolded his napkin with an important air, he remarked: "see, mamma, now it is just like the day after papa had gone away to america, only you are not so sad, because you know that he is coming back soon." natalie smiled at the child. after awhile kolia began anew: "mamma, shall we go to meet papa tomorrow?" she nodded. kolia rested his little head thoughtfully on his hand. "i wonder if he will miss the train again?" said he. * * * * * in accordance with a loving agreement, natalie had formerly been the only one who possessed the right to move anything in lensky's sanctum, and to remove the dust from his writing-table. with devoted punctuality she had always performed this task. only very recently had she been untrue to this dear custom. but this time he should observe, as soon as he returned, that she had busied herself for him during his absence. she was in an optimistic frame of mind. she would no longer be angry with him because he of late had caused her so many bitter hours. he himself had not been happy. he was not yet really acclimatized at home. she had known that she must first win him back again after his long absence. why had she from exaggerated pride so soon crossed arms? to remember the low expressions which he sometimes now made use of, and especially in company with the motley crowd that came over to him from paris, this really sent the blood to her cheeks--but still he had scarcely known what he said. she had needlessly irritated him by her childish prudery; one must take these great natures, always inclined to exaggeration, as they were, and not make them obstinate by quite uselessly checking and restraining them. only at the thought of the countess löwenskiold an unpleasant shudder ran over her. and suddenly the thought flashed through her: "what does he really wish in paris?" but almost laughingly she answered herself: "as if he could wish anything evil when he asked me to accompany him!" after she had carefully and daintily set everything to rights on the writing-table, she went down in the garden to cut for it the most beautiful roses which she could find. softly humming one of the songs which he had dedicated to her as bride, she carried the flowers, tastefully arranged in a vase, into his room, and placed them on his writing-table. there she discovered in a brass ash receiver a half-burned paper which had formerly escaped her. she looked at the paper to see whether she might throw it away. her heart stood still. she read the words written in french: "o thou my creator, my redeemer--my ruiner--broken--paris." the rest of the lines were burned. she could scarcely stand. from whom were these lines? was not that the writing of countess löwenskiold? no, no, it was not possible--he asked me to accompany him. yes, he asked me to accompany him. she repeated it ten times, a hundred times, in order to shake off from herself the conviction that began so pitilessly to weigh down upon her. she could not believe such a thing, she would not. countess löwenskiold had certainly not left "les ormes"! but, however she fights with her distrust, she cannot overcome it. a thousand little particulars occur to her. the sun shines down hot and full from the sapphire-blue heaven. natalie does not trouble herself about that; straight through the park she hurries, without parasol, without hat, over to the castle. she will inform herself with as little risk as possible. there is no one at home; the ladies have not yet returned from a walk. what a shame! "_la princesse regrettera beaucoup_," remarked the _maître d'hôtel_, who had received her in the entrance-hall. "perhaps madame will remain to lunch; they will lay a place for madame." he is an old acquaintance, a servant whom natalie has known for years. "oh, no; i cannot stay; i only wished to inquire after the health of the countess löwenskiold; she has looked so miserable of late," murmured she. "madame la comtesse löwenskiold?" says the man, astonished. "ah! she is no longer here. the poor countess left day before yesterday evening, quite unexpectedly. it occurred to me that she looked very badly. did madame also notice it?" what she stammered in answer to his question she does not know. a few minutes later she hurries homeward again through the park, hatless, parasolless. the sun still beams down full and golden upon the earth from the sapphire sky. she does not feel the burning of the sun, and does not see that the sky is blue. for her the sun is dead and the sky black. it seems to her that it sinks slowly down upon her, heavy and breath-robbing, like a sultry, bruising weight. "he wished to take me with him," she still repeats, as if the words held consolation; "yes, he wished to take me with him." then she remembers the embarrassed, uneasy expression which his face wore when he returned at the last minute to ask her to accompany him. evidently he had had a fit of remorse. "i could have prevented it," she murmured, with hollow voice. then she shook in her whole body with rage and horror. * * * * * about this time, gloomily looking before him, lensky went through the rue de la paix. he did not know why he went along this street rather than another. it was quite indifferent to him where he was; he only wished to kill time. a furious anger with himself shook him; at the same time disgust tormented him. it was always the same; one woman was just like the others. the only one who was different was his own wife; and he--well, he had taken the first slight opportunity to insult her. he came by the hotel in which he had lived with her the former year. he hastened his steps. from a jeweller's shop the most wonderful jewels sparkled at him. he entered. he would take something to natalie; would give her a little pleasure. he purchased a pretty pin set with emeralds. she had a preference for emeralds. scarcely had he left the shop when it seemed to him that the little case in his pocket weighed upon him, pulled him down to the ground. how had he dared venture to offer her a gift in this moment! he took the little case and threw it on the ground--trod on it, once, twice, raging, beside himself. so! that did him good. he must vent his wrath in some way. * * * * * when he returned home about five o'clock, he was calmer. what had happened could not be changed, it was now only worth while not to ruin the future. it disquieted him that natalie did not meet him, but after all, he was not very astonished. she still felt a little vexed with him. he would soon make an end of that. he asked where she was. "in her room," they told him. but what was that? everything was upturned, chests stood open, on chairs and tables lay piles of linen, clothes, as before a departure. he did not yet understand, but still he noticed that she started violently at his entrance, without looking around at him. "what are you doing, natalie? are you preparing for departure?" asked he. "as you see," replied she shortly, and continued her strange occupation. "it is a good idea," said he. "i already myself wished to make the proposition to you to move away from here. but how did you really come to think of it?" instead of any answer, she merely shrugged her shoulders. a short pause followed. he stepped somewhat nearer to her. "natalie," said he, earnestly, warmly and gently, with his old, dear voice, the voice which always went so deep to her heart, and which she now heard again for the first time since his return from america, "natalie, do you not think that we would do better to make peace with each other?" he wished to put his arm round her, but she repulsed him. in so doing, for the first time she turned her face to him. with horror he perceived how miserable she looked. her lips were pale, her features sharpened like a dead person's. for one moment she still restrained herself, her eyes sought his. an unrest, a hope fevered in her. "perhaps i have in vain martyred and tormented myself," she said to herself. "he certainly could not speak so to me, if----" with trembling hand she opened a little box, and took out the half-singed letter which she had not been able to overcome herself from carrying about with her. she handed lensky the letter. he changed color. "what accident has played this silly note into your hands?" he burst out. "no matter about that," she replied dully, and with that she tottered so that she must catch hold of a chair so as not to fall. "were you--in company--with the löwenskiold--in paris--or--not?" why could he not lie? he remained silent. once more she looked at him, despairingly and supplicatingly. he turned away his head. she gave a gasping cry, pushed back the hair from her temples with both hands, and sank in a chair. then she pointed with her pale, trembling hand to the door. lensky did not move. "go!" said she, severely; and her hand no longer trembled, and her gesture was more imperious, more proud. instead of obeying her command, he sank down at her feet and covered the hem of her dress with kisses. "i have sinned against you," he said; "yes, but if you knew how furious i am with myself, and how little my heart was concerned in the affair, you would pardon me. you will not certainly be jealous of something that is quite beneath one's notice; one does not always think immediately what one is doing." he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "for this reason you are still the only woman in the world for me. really, my angel, it is not worth the pains that you should torment yourself!" he took her hand in his. but she started back from his touch. "leave me!" said she, violently. "all is at an end between us--go!" for the first time he comprehended the gravity of the situation. "all at an end--" he murmured, while he rose. "what do you mean?" "that i will no longer bear to be under the same roof with you; that i will go back to my mother; that i insist upon a separation--that is what i mean. did you, then, expect anything different?" he clutched his forehead. "a separation! but that is impossible!" he gasped. "a separation--the children!" she started. "yes--the children!" murmured she, dully, inconsolably; "the children!" and with a bitter smile she looked down on her preparations for the journey, on the trunks, the effects lying about. then he once more stepped up to her. "you see that the bond between us can never more be broken," said he, gently. "you cannot go!" "no!" said she harshly. "no, i cannot go--not even that consolation remains to me. as the mother of your children i must remain under your roof. but in everything else between me and you all is at an end. go!" he went. * * * * * he betook himself to his study. scarcely had he entered here when a peculiar feeling of mingled emotion and anxiety came over him. he noticed that she had been here, noticed that she had everywhere removed the dust; that she had arranged his of late neglected writing-table, and how understandingly, with what loving consideration of all his whims! he noticed the vase with fresh roses. evidently she had busied herself for him during his absence. she had wished to be reconciled to him, and while she troubled herself for him she must have found the note somewhere in this room. "it is all over," he told himself; "but that is really not possible. it is jealousy that speaks from her; that will pass away." jealousy! yes, if it had really only been jealousy, but that which he had read in her features was something else--almost a kind of loathing. what, then, had he done? he had left a distinguished young woman, beautiful as a picture, alone for eight months, and when he returned, instead of recompensing her for her long, sad loneliness by loving consideration, he had daily, before her eyes, let himself be raved over by other women, and at last---- "she despises me, and she is right!" he murmured to himself. "if she had borne this also, she would have been pitiable, and i must have despised her like the others--she, my proud, splendid natalie!" he sat at his writing-table, and rested his head in his hand. the twilight shadows spread over the floor, and slid down from the ceiling, and made the corners of the room invisible, and obliterated the outlines of the furniture. the colors died; only the white roses shone in a ghostly manner in the half light. then the door opened; the servant announced that dinner was served. it seemed strange to him that he should go to the table to-day as any other day; it was not possible for him to eat anything, but he was ashamed to cause talk among the servants, and so he went into the dining-room. "will she be there?" he asked himself. how could he have even fancied such a thing? naturally she was missing. only kolia was there, and stood expectantly near the silver soup tureen, which shone on the table. in their little family circle, lensky always himself served the soup. kolia had raised himself on tiptoes, and with one slender finger had pushed the cover of the dish somewhat to one side. he stretched his little nose eagerly forward, and slowly inhaled the rising odor, while with a deliciously old, wise connoisseur expression he drew down his nostrils and closed his eyes. "i see already, it is crab soup--my favorite soup, papa!" he remarked, and then with agility he climbed up on the chair, which, on account of his still insufficient stature, was prepared with a cushion for him. it was certainly only a quite trivial little affair, and yet it stabbed lensky to the heart. _potage au bisque_ was also his favorite soup. he stared at natalie's place, which remained vacant. a great embarrassment mingled with his pain. he sent the servant, busy at the side-board, out of the room on some pretext. "mother is not coming?" he turned to the boy, who had already begun to eat his soup. "no; mamma has a headache. poor mamma!" "do you wish to be a very clever boy, kolia?" "yes, papa!" "then take this bowl of soup to your mother. do not spill it; perhaps mamma will take a few drops." with an important face kolia undertook his errand. lensky opened the door of the dining-room for him, and looked after him while he tripped along the green-carpeted, dimly-lighted corridor. how pretty and pleasing all that was! the lamps, which stood out from old-fashioned inlaid plates of polished copper, the stags' antlers on the brown wainscoting. and he had not felt happy at home! then kolia came springing back. "i left the soup there," he told his father, who had remained listening and spying in the doorway, "but mamma did not wish to eat it." "what is mamma doing?" "she is holding little sister on her lap." in the course of the meal, and when he noticed that his father's plate continually remained empty, kolia also lost his appetite. at first, in the most caressing tones, he urged his father to eat. "but, papa, don't you see, you must help yourself to a little bit; it is such a good dinner to-day. we made out the bill of fare, mamma and i, early this morning at breakfast, and i remembered all your favorite dishes which she had forgotten. she was so gay to-day, before she had a headache, and she only got that headache because she ran through the park to-day without any hat, in the noon sun. but eat something, papa." lensky still stared at natalie's empty place. all at once he noticed an unusual commotion in the house; confused talking together, quick running to and fro. he sprang up and went out in the corridor. there he saw natalie's maid, with disturbed face, and anxious, over-hasty steps, coming out of her mistress' room. "what is the matter; is madame more ill?" he asked in sudden fright. "no, monsieur, but the little girl is very ill; it came on quite suddenly. madame has told me to hurry over to chancy for the doctor." for one moment he stood still; then he turned to the sick-room--entered. it was no contagious illness. kolia was not sent away from the house; only they told him to keep very quiet, for which he was ready without that, for the weight which oppressed the house was sufficient to constrain the fresh animation of his elastic child-nature. quite cautiously he only occasionally crept up to the sick-room, opened the door, whose knob he could scarcely reach with his little hand, and whispered: "how is little sister now?" yes, how was the little sister? it was an inflammation of the lungs which had attacked the little one. the physician did not conceal from the parents what little hope there was of recovery. two days, three nights long, they both sat together near the cradle in which the sick little girl lay; two days, three nights, in which the tiny body restlessly threw itself here and there between the lace-trimmed pillows, while the breath, interrupted by fierce and tormenting fits of coughing, with difficulty gaspingly forced itself out from the little breast. sometimes maschenka cried impatiently and pulled at the coverings with her weak little hands, and then looked at her parents with that hurt, reproachful look with which quite little children desire relief from their parents. why did not her parents help her--why must she suffer so? and natalie, who formerly had been the tenderest mother in the whole world, took this all wearily, almost indifferently, as a person whose heart, benumbed by a great despair, is no longer susceptible to a new pain. she scarcely worried herself over the endangered little life. yes! maschenka would die, she told herself, the dear, charming maschenka, over whom she had always so rejoiced. she still heard her cooing laughter like a distant echo in her remembrance. yes, maschenka would die! why should she not die? it was really better for her than to grow up to feel such grief in the future as had burned and parched her mother's heart. yes, she would die, and then natalie would lay her head down on the little pillow, near the pale face of the child, and fall asleep forever rest forget! when maschenka was dead, natalie had no more duties!--kolia?--oh, kolia would make his way in the world. but maschenka did not wish to die: this world pleased her too well, she did not wish to. the fever became higher; ever more impatiently the child threw herself about in the cradle. on the evening of the third day the doctor, a skilful, wise, conscientious family physician, whom natalie had frequently consulted for any little illness of the children, and who, under the direction of a parisian specialist, fought with death for maschenka's little life,--on the evening of the third day he said that probably the crisis would occur in the night; he would come again at six o'clock in the morning and look after it. he said that very sadly. lensky accompanied him out. when he came back in the sick-room, the expression of his face was still sadder than before. the little one became still more restless--she would not stay in her cradle. incessantly she raised herself from the pillows, cried pitifully, and stretched out her little arms. natalie took the little patient, warmly wrapped in coverings, on her lap, but the little one would not stay there either. she felt that her mother was not just the same to her as formerly. quite angrily she turned away from her, and stretched out her little hands to her father. lensky took her in his arms, wrapped the covering still closer round her tiny limbs, and with a thousand tender words, coaxed her to rest. with what evident pleasure the little body leaned against his breast! natalie's eyes rested on him. it had been just the same for two days. he had cared for the child, not she. only she now, for the first time, took account of it. how tenderly he held the child! what touchingly poetic words of love he whispered to it! expressions, such as one finds only in those songs in which the people complain of their pain! just such words had he formerly found for her--at that time--in those old days, when he still loved her--and a stream of new, animating warmth crept through her benumbed heart. she still watched him. her eyelids became heavy. suddenly she started up, looked confusedly about her; she had been fast asleep. what had happened meanwhile? the morning light already streamed into the room; without the rain rattled against the window panes. when had it begun to rain then? where was lensky? he stood near the window and gazed out. how sad he looked, how pale! the child!--and with a feeling of immeasurably painful anxiety her heart now fully awoke to new life. she had not the courage to look in the cradle. then lensky turned to her. "the child!" murmured she. he laid his finger on his mouth. "she sleeps--" then listening: "the doctor comes." the physician entered. he bent over the cradle; the little patient slept calmly and sweetly, her little fist against her cheek. her little face was very pale and sadly lengthened, but her brow was moist and a peaceful expression was on her tiny mouth. "she is better," said the doctor, astonished and pleased. he scarcely understood it. "the fever is gone, the crisis is past, and if there are no quite unusual circumstances, the danger is over. a couple of spoonfuls of strong broth when she wakes, and no more medicine. adieu, _à tantôt!_" and he left the room. the door had closed behind him, his steps resounded in the corridor. natalie rose; she did not know what she wished; to look at the child, to fall on her knees, to pray! then her eyes met lensky's. she started, stretched out her arms as if to repel a suddenly awakened pain--a swoon overcame her--she sank down. he took her in his arms, carried her into the adjoining room, and stretched her out on a couch. he opened the window and let the spicy, rain-cooled morning air stream in. then he wet the temples of the unconscious woman with cologne and loosened her dress. at that her only carelessly fastened-up hair loosed itself and slid down in all its dark abundance over her shoulders. how wonderfully charming she looked in her pale, melancholy loveliness! involuntarily he approached his lips to her temples; then she opened her eyes; a shudder shook her frame and she turned her face away from him. it went through him from the top of his head to the sole of his foot. he had forgotten, but now he remembered accurately. how dared he approach this woman so confidentially!--she was no longer his wife. she had only tolerated him near her as long as the child lay sick, really only tolerated! with fearful bitterness he remembered how she had held herself far from him, even near maschenka's bed of pain. and now, when the little one was well--why let himself be shown the door a second time? "you need not be afraid, natalie, i am going; i had only forgotten--pardon!" with that he could not deny himself to take her hand; he believed she would draw away her hand from him; no, she let it lie quite passively in his. now he wished to free it, but then, quite softly, but ever firmer, her fingers closed round his. she herself held him back. rejoicing and sobbing he drew her to his breast. scarcely a moment later he felt in his inmost heart quite strangely, uncomprehendingly, a cold gnawing vexation. he did not understand that she could pardon so easily. he had not expected that of her. fourth book. dear natalie!--owing to business affairs which will claim me still longer, it will be impossible for me to come to trouville before the beginning of september. i am very sorry, but i hope and wish that you will not, on this account, put off your journey to the sea-shore; you know how you need the stay in the bracing air. i have engaged a residence for you through madame de c., and also had everything arranged for your comfortable reception--a low châlet with a look-out over the sea. i know how you love it,--the poor wild sea, that cannot help it if it sometimes crushes a ship, and that finds no rest from despair over the evil which it does and cannot prevent. you must not take any sea-baths; dr. h. suitably impressed that upon me in the spring. but in any case, wait until i come. from my great, clever boy i often receive long, pretty, regularly written letters which please me very much. i will show them to you when we are together again. the boy is romantic, through and through, which touches me in these our present times, and also a little of a pedant, which makes me impatient, but still, he is a dear, splendid fellow, and that you must tell him from me. the little note, which i recently received from maschenka, was laughably comic, and sweet enough to eat. the little witch wrote me quite secretly, without telling you anything about it. she confessed all her naughtinesses to me very remorsefully and over hurriedly, from anxiety that you might write something about them to me. is she really so naughty, and passionate, and wild? she is still charming in spite of all, so thoroughly good-hearted and tender and generous, and withal so incredibly gifted. i tell you her little note--it was adorned with three ink spots, and i could not read a word of the writing--but still it was a little poem. and how she loves you! just as she is, i find her charming enough to make one lose one's head over her; and i am very sorry that one must cure her of her amusing little faults; they are so becoming to her. that you must naturally not tell her from me, but give her a very warm kiss from me on her full, defiant lips, of which you always assert that they are like mine. do not vex yourself too much over it,--rejoice in our little gypsy as she is. and if you again worry over her inherited good-for-nothingness, then look in her wonderfully beautiful, large eyes, which she did not inherit from me. you will find your soul in them--let that be your consolation. farewell, my angel, spare yourself really--really! only do not think of saving at all on the journey. you know that i cannot bear that. think only of your comfort and of what a joy it would be to me if, at our next meeting, i should find your poor thin cheeks somewhat rounder than when i left you. your boundlessly devoted boris. it is in berlin, in the hôtel du nord, nine years after the first violent quarrel, the first passionate reconciliation with her husband, that natalie receives this letter. she had left st. petersburg a few days before, in order, as by agreement, to meet lensky, whom she has not seen since the beginning of march, in the german capital. it had been a great disappointment for her that she had not found boris in berlin, but he has accustomed her to disappointments. she reads the letter once more. it is a dear, good letter. ah! natalie has received such dear, good, tender letters from all the large cities in europe and america--and knows---- not that boris is deceiving her when he writes to her in this tender tone. no, every trace of falseness is strange to him, his attachment to her, his anxiety about her, are sincere--but---- what use to grieve over it? these great geniuses are never different. one must not judge them like other men! with this shallow commonplace, with which she has so often put to sleep her inconsolable heart if it sometimes wishes violently to rise up against its oppressive, ignominious lot, she compels it to rest again to-day. it is easier now than formerly; her poor heart has already accustomed itself to grievances. nine years have passed since that time in the pretty, cosey hermitage when she--forgave him too easily, and thereby lost her power over him forever. she has known it a long time. late in that following autumn a great symphony by him was given in the "gewandhaus," in leipzig. the work was beautiful, the success moderate, lensky's discouragement exaggerated, quite morbid. a few months later he took up his wanderer's staff anew, and left petersburg, where he had returned with his family, in order to distract himself by the most exaggerated virtuoso triumphs from the humiliation which had befallen the composer. oftener, ever oftener, he had then left wife and children, and now, in his own house, he had long been only an indulged, distinguished guest. but in the time which he every year devoted to his wife, to his family, he behaved in an exemplary fashion. he did everything that lay in his power to make life bearable to natalie--everything except to lay a restraint upon himself; that he simply could not, and for that reason he must leave home so often in order to vent his passion. natalie's nature was broken. an unexpressed, numbing, blunting conviction that this was the natural course of things, and that nothing of all this could be changed, had overpowered her. as to what might take place while he was away from her, of that she did not permit herself to think. with his art matters had long gone downward, even more rapidly than natalie--who already after his return from america had been startled by the exaggerations to which he had accustomed himself in his playing--had deemed possible. at that time he had given the reins to his temperament with assiduity in order to dazzle the public. now--now, he had long lost power over himself. and concerning his compositions! a fearful pain contracted natalie's heart if she thought how she had formerly, in her tender enthusiasm, called him the last musical poet, in opposition to the other great composers of modern times, whom at that time she had described as--musical bunglers. she could no longer remember the speech without blushing. the bunglers had all grown above his head. one scarcely spoke of his compositions now, and the worst of it was--natalie herself no longer cared to hear them. where was the sweet, sunny, charming element of his first little works? where the fiery earnestness, the penetrating, noble sound of pain in his later works? sleepy monotony, noisy emptiness were now the characteristics of his musical creations. certainly, here and there appeared melodies of wonderful beauty; but who had the patience to seek out the lovely oases in this sterile musical wilderness? once, natalie had hesitatingly made a remark to him about a new composition. but he, who had formerly showed himself of such unimpeachable gentleness toward her, had flown into a passion, and had even for many days remained irritable. since that time she said nothing more, but let him have his way, as she let him have his way in everything, only that she might not break the last thin thread which still held them together. * * * * * she had read the letter a third time. "business affairs detain him," she murmured to herself. "business affairs! he writes from leipzig; why does he not ask me to come to him?" she shrugged her shoulders--what good to think of it? suddenly her cheeks burned, her breath came short. she pours out a glass of water, throws a couple of bits of ice from a porcelain bowl in it, and drinks thirstily. "such great geniuses are never different," she says to herself again. she begins to walk up and down in the room uneasily. at last she goes to the window and looks out. a great weariness lay over everything. the lindens slept, wrapped in white dust; the stony heroes at their feet looked morose and weary, as if they were satiated with letting themselves parch on their pedestals. they throw pitch-black shadows over the sun-burned road. a black poodle lies at the foot of one of the memorials, on its back, and does its utmost to pull off the muzzle on its nose. the people are weary and pale, and crowd into the shadow wherever they can. everything flees the sun. no one remembers another such hot, dry, oppressive summer. and suddenly a strange longing for shade comes over natalie; for some deep, cool, shady place in which she can rest. the hollow, oppressive feeling about her heart has become more significant, has taken, at length, the form of a piercing physical pain. she lays her hand on her breast; the physicians have told her that she should spare herself, should guard against every vehement sensation, because her heart is affected. suddenly she breaks out in convulsive sobbing. spare herself! is it worth the trouble to spare one's self; to exert one's self for the preservation of this poor life; is it worth the trouble to bend down again and again in the mire for the poor little bit of happiness that is thrown to one as an alms? then the door opens; a charming little girl of about ten years, large-eyed, gay, with wonderful curly hair hanging far down her back, with very long black stockings and very short white dress, hops in--maschenka, who had been to walk with the maid. the first thing which she discovers when she has scarcely greeted her mother and given her a somewhat breathless and hurried account of the various impressions she has formed on her walk, is lensky's letter, which has remained lying on the table. "oh, from papa!" says she. "when is he coming; to-morrow?" and her eyes shine. "he is not coming; we are going to trouville without him," replies natalie, wearily. "without him," repeats maschenka; her sweet, large-eyed cherub's face lengthens. "oh!"--looking at natalie attentively--"did you cry over that, mamma?" natalie says nothing, only turns her head away with a gesture of displeasure. "he is coming after us?" asks maschenka, embarrassed. "he promises to," replies natalie, with difficultly restrained bitterness. "poor mamma!" and maschenka tenderly kisses the tears away from her mother's cheek. "you must not cry, it is not good for you. you know papa cannot bear to see you cry." it is quite inexplicable how nature has been able to bestow upon this tender, childish, velvet-cheeked little being such a striking likeness to the face stamped by time, weather, and life of the virtuoso. the troubled, strangely deep look with which maschenka regards her mother; the tender and still defiant expression of her full lips; the manner of drawing together her delicate brows, all that reminds one of her father. but that in which her likeness to him is most strikingly announced, is the bewitching heartiness of her manner, the flattering insinuation of her caresses. natalie observes her with quite fixed attention, then draws her to her and kisses her passionately on both eyes. meanwhile there is a knock at the door. it is a waiter, who brings a telegram from petersburg. natalie starts, her thoughts fly to her son whom she has left behind them. but no the telegram has nothing to do with kolia. it is really not from petersburg, but has only sought her there, and has been sent after her to berlin. she reads: dresden, hôtel bellevue, _august th_. can you not take the roundabout way through dresden? we would be very glad to see you. sergei. why should she not take the roundabout way through dresden? why should she hasten to reach trouville, the full, empty trouville, where no one will be glad to see her? * * * * * shortly after his reconciliation with his sister, sergei had left st. petersburg, in order to follow his brilliant but exacting diplomatic wandering career from one important but remote post to another, and now he had at length been recalled to petersburg, to fill a high position at home. natalie cherished the conviction that he suspected nothing of the slow crumbling together of her happiness. how should he! before him, more than before all the others, she had concealed her great inconsolableness. in the long letter which, by agreement, she wrote him every month, she had always forced herself to take as gay as possible a tone, and even if she was accustomed, in the description of her "domestic happiness" to dwell at especial length on the lovability and happy dispositions of both of her children, she yet had never failed to mention the goodness of their father and his unwearied consideration for her. "how he would triumph if he knew!" she said to herself, on the platform in dresden, while she uneasily looked round for her brother, whom she had informed by telegram of the hour of her arrival. "if he knew anything of it!" she said to herself, and at the mere thought, it seemed to her that she would flee to the end of the world, rather than bear the cold scrutinizing glance of his eye. then a very slender man in blameless english clothes came up to her, looked at her a moment uncertainly, put up his eye-glass--"natalie! it is really you!" and evidently truly pleased to see her again he draws her hand to his lips. and now she is also glad to see him, is pleased to be with her brother, as she has never yet been glad since her betrothal to lensky. he has changed very much since that time in rome when he had vainly sought to destroy natalie's illusions; but, as with all really distinguished men, growing old was becoming to him. if his bearing is still proud, it has yet lost much of its harsh, nervous, immature arrogance of that time. his fine features are still sharper, but his glance has become softer, more benevolent. "that is your little girl?" says he, bending down to maschenka, pleasantly. "may one ask a kiss of such a large young lady?" the gay maschenka, always bent upon the conquest of all hearts, hops up to him with hearty readiness, and throws both her little arms round his neck. "_elle est charmante!_" whispers sergei in a somewhat patronizing tone to natalie. "we find her very like the maria Ægyptica of ribera--your favorite picture in the dresden gallery. do you not remember it?" "indeed!" the prince bends down a second time, wonderingly, to maschenka. suddenly his face takes on a discontented expression. "she chiefly resembles lensky; i do not understand how that could escape me!" says he, and his tone expresses decided displeasure. "and still if he knew!" thinks natalie. "kolia looks like you," says she, hastily. "they have often written me that," says the prince. "besides, they tell me only good things of him; i shall be glad to see a great deal of him in petersburg. and now come, natalie. i wished to have rooms in bellevue for you, but there were none to be had; not a mouse hole; all engaged. we ourselves live at the extreme end of a corridor. so i have taken a little apartment for you in the hôtel du saxe. it is a plain house, but the nearest one to us, and you will not be there much. send your maid ahead with the luggage. i hope you will now come direct to our rooms with me, you and the little one; my wife awaits you at dinner." * * * * * and now natalie has been in dresden since many hours. the joy of the meeting with her brother has fled, a great depression benumbs her whole being. what a home! sergei's wife, born a countess brok, who is two years older than he, and whom he has married on account of the influential position of her father, suffers with rheumatism, on which account she fears a little bit of too warm sunshine as well as a slight draught. the meal is taken in the drawing-room of the married pair, instead of down on the gay, sunny terrace, as sergei had ordered. after the princess has welcomed natalie, and has said something in praise of maschenka's beautiful hair, her remarks consist in commanding her companion, a very homely little frenchwoman, by turns to open or close a window. after dinner the married couple quarrel over several immaterial trifles, which momentarily interest no one; over the latest russian table of duties, and as to whether it is better to treat scarlet fever with heat or with cold. then varvara pavlovna busies herself in her favorite occupation; that is to say, twisting paper flowers. natalie took part in this, but maschenka, to whom they have confided an album with views of dresden for her entertainment, has uneasily crept about the room, now reached after this and now that, has hopped around first on the right, then on the left leg, until at last natalie's maid presents herself to ask her mistress if she has anything to command or to be done, whereupon natalie has commissioned her to take the little one out for a walk, and then to take her to the hôtel du saxe. then sergei read something aloud from the newspaper; then tea was brought. it is nine o'clock. natalie rises, says that she is tired, and that she would like to retire early to-night. sergei asks: "do you wish to drive? shall i send for a carriage? it would really be a shame! the evening is lovely; if you go on foot, i will accompany you." they go on foot. "i do not know what fancy has seized me to loiter about a little," she says in the passage, where sergei has remained standing to light a cigarette. "would you have time?" she asks her brother. "yes," replies he, "i am very willing to walk a little. where do you wish to go?" "anywhere, where it is quiet and pretty, and where one does not hear this café chantant music." she points over the elbe, where from out a dazzlingly lighted enclosure, frivolous dance measures sound boldly and obtrusively over the dreamy plash of the waves. "come in the fortress grounds," says sergei, and gives her his arm. and suddenly a kind of anxiety at being alone with him overcomes natalie. "now he will question me," thinks she, and would like to tear her arm away from him and--has not the courage to do it. they are quite alone in the court-yard, the world-renowned court-yard of the fortress, with its enclosure of strange, carved, exaggerated, and charming irregular architecture; only the sentinel continually goes along the same path, up and down, and above, on the flat terrace roofs of the fortress, a couple of friends are walking. one hears them laugh, jest; yes, even kiss, standing in the court below. they may be lovers, or some couple on their wedding tour. the lanterns burn red and sleepily in the transparent pale gray of the summer half light, and the buttons of the sentinel shine dully; all other light is extinguished in the world, but up in heaven the stars slowly open their golden eyes. what is there down here to-day for them to look at? a thunder-storm threatens, but one does not see it as yet, but only hears its hollow voice growling in the distance. slowly the brother and sister wander along the narrow way between the old-fashioned, regularly laid-out flower-beds. the stony faces of satyrs and fauns grin down upon them with triumphant cynicism. one can still see their small eyes, slanting upward toward the temples, distinctly in the dull, shadowless, clear twilight. the air is sultry and close, and quite immoderately impregnated with the sad, penetrating perfume of weary flowers which have been tormented by an over-hot summer day. "do you remember the last time that we walked around here together?" remarked sergei, at length breaking the silence. "yes," says natalie. "it was the year before our father's death. i was not much older than maschenka, and you had not completed your studies." "quite right, i did not yet feel myself obliged to be ambitious, in order to help raise our family from its sunken condition," said sergei very bitterly. "father had taken me with him during my vacation, in order to cultivate my æsthetic taste. only think, natalie, at that time i wrote a poem on the sistine madonna! i! that is very laughable, is it not?" "you--a poem," says natalie, astonished, and still absently; the affair has in reality little interest for her. "yes, i--a poem!" repeats sergei. "i--now at that time i was an idealist, however improbable that may seem to you! now, now i am a machine, who still sometimes dreams of having been a man!" he laughs harshly and forcedly, and is suddenly silent. after a while he begins again: "just look at the roses, natascha," and he points to the slender bushes which are almost broken under their weight of dried blossoms. "have you ever seen such an ash wednesday? early this morning they were still fresh! it is a pitiless summer." natalie lowers her head. "now it is coming," she thinks. "now it is coming." but no, not what she has expected, but something different, comes. "did it ever occur to you," continues sergei after a little while, "how very much a tree struck by lightning resembles one killed by frost? in the end it all tends in the same direction." he is silent. after a while he says, looking her straight in the eyes: "did you understand me?" "yes, i understand," murmurs she, tonelessly. "hm! it was plain enough. you are dying of heat, i of cold!" says he, and laughing slightly to himself, he adds: "do you still remember how i lectured you at that time in rome?" instead of any answer, she pulls her hand away from his arm. compassionately her brother looks at her through the gray veil of the now fast-descending twilight. "poor natascha!" he says. "you surely do not believe that i will return to my wisdom of that time--no! i will make you a great confession!" his voice sounds hissingly close to her ear. she feels his breath unpleasantly hot on her cheeks. "there are moments when i envy you!" he whispers. "bah! that one must say of one's self: it is over, one is old, one will die, without once having been deeply shaken by a true shudder of delight,--_sans avoir connu le grand frisson_--it is horrible! i know what you have to bear, natalie, and still--yes, there are moments when i envy you!" "who has then permitted himself to assert that i have anything to bear?" natalie bursts out. "who?" sergei raises his eyebrows. "you surely do not fancy that it is a secret?" says he. "many wonder that you endure it; as it seems, he exercises an incredible charm over all women!" her eyes and his meet in the sultry half darkness. "what have they told you?" asks natalie, with difficulty. but then he replies with fearful emphasis: "you surely do not demand an answer of me in earnest?" she breathes heavily. "it is not true!" says she. "they have lied to you!" thereupon he remains silent. the sultriness becomes ever more oppressive. heavy thunder-clouds creep slowly and threateningly over the roof of the fortress and blot out the stars from the heavens. natalie has turned away from her brother, and with uneasy haste she hurries to the gate of the yard; he comes after her. "i am sorry to have wounded you," he says. "i had not that intention." she answers nothing; silently she walks along near him. from time to time he pulls her gently by the sleeve and says: "this is the way." the stars are all extinguished, clouds cover the whole heaven, and close to the ground sighs a heavy wind which cannot yet rise to a hurricane. what is it in this depressing sound of nature which chases the blood more rapidly through her veins? at the door of the great, many-storied hotel, natalie wishes to take leave of her brother. "i will accompany you to your room," says sergei. silently, she lets him remain near her. with bowed head she goes up the broad staircase to the first landing; then something wakes her from her brooding thoughts--the rustling of a woman's dress. she looks up--there goes a man up the stairs to the second story with a heavily veiled woman on his arm. she sees him for one moment only; then the shadow of his profile passes quickly over the wall; she turns away her head. it is he--she has recognized him! silently and with doubled haste she follows her brother's guidance. "your room is no. ," says he, and turns the door-knob of a room. the lamp is lighted, everything cosily prepared for her reception. "i will disturb you no longer," says sergei. his manner has become very stiff, his voice is icy cold, and before he leaves the room his glance seeks a last time the eyes of his sister. * * * * * she is alone. trembling in all her limbs, she has thrown herself down on a sofa. the maid presents herself with the question whether her mistress wishes to undress. natalie signifies to her to go away, to retire for the night to her room in an upper story. the maid goes, happy to be released from her service, weary, sleepy. natalie does not think of sleeping. how should she think of it when she knows that here, under the same roof, a few rooms distant from her-- it is horrible! it seems to her that she is slowly suffocating in a close, oppressing dread. the lamp burns brightly. as a maid of good form, lisa has already unpacked those little objects which luxurious women always carry about with them, even on the shortest journey, in order to make a hotel residence cosey. on the table lies natalie's portfolio; her travelling writing utensils stand near by; and near the ink-case two photographs in pretty little leather frames the pictures of her husband and of her son. shuddering, she turns away. she pushes the hair back from her temples. "sergei recognized him also!" murmurs she to herself. "it was impossible not to recognize him," whispers she, "and sergei believes that i will still bear this also. and why should he not believe it?" for years she has waded through the mire after a _fata morgana_, and the world laughs, and points its fingers at her. what does she care about the world, if she can only once shake off the feeling of boundless degradation which drags her down to the ground? in a few days he will come to her with loving glance, uneasily concerned about her, with a thousand anxious, tender words, with open arms. and she--well, she--she will rush into those arms, forgive and forget everything as before. ah!--she springs up. a few moments later she stands near the bed of her little daughter. the child looks very lovely in her white night-gown, richly trimmed with lace and embroidery. one of her hands rests under her cheek, the other is hidden under the pillow. formerly natalie has come every night to the bed of the child in order to kiss and bless her, still asleep. but to-night her tortured heart is capable of no tender emotion. "wake up!" she commands, in a harsh, strange voice. maschenka starts up, thereby involuntarily drawing her hand out from under the pillow, and with the hand a little letter which she immediately tries to conceal again from her mother. but natalie tears it away from her. "what have you to conceal from me?" she says to the little girl, imperiously. "i have only written to papa!" replies maschenka excusingly, tearfully. "i wrote him that you are sad, and that he must come very soon because we will be so glad--that was all." natalie tears the poor little letter apart in the middle. "dress yourself!" she orders. "is there a fire?" asks maschenka, frightened. "no, but something has happened; we cannot stay in the hotel; do not ask." sleepy, but obedient, as a good child who has the most complete confidence in her mother, maschenka sets about putting on the clothes daintily arranged on a chair near her little bed. natalie helps her as well as her fingers, trembling with fever, will permit her, then wrapping head and shoulders in a lace scarf, she takes the child by the hand and hurries down the stairs. "is the princess going out?" asks the porter, who has not the heart to give the sister of prince assanow another title. "the weather is very threatening; shall i send for a carriage?" natalie takes no notice of him, pushes by him like a strange, inexplicable apparition. * * * * * the stars are all extinguished, clouds cover the whole heaven, and close to the ground sighs a weary wind. what is it in this confused, depressing sound of nature which chases the blood through her veins? in the midst of her excitement she hears the chromatic succession of tones--her breath stops--it is that inciting, musical poison, that now follows her with a longing complaint, a strange, alluring call--asbeïn. the wind rises, screams louder and more shrill, its sultry breath rages so powerfully against natalie that she can scarcely proceed. one, two great water-drops splash in her face, then more. pointed hailstones prick her between them; all drive her back--back. has not some one seized her by the dress? she looks round. no! she is alone on the street with her child and the raging storm. forward she hastens, panting, breathless. the way to bellevue is quite easy to find--quite straight along the street. it grows darker and darker, the rain falls in streams, the clothes hang ever heavier on her body, she can scarcely lift her feet from the paving; it is as if all would drag her down to the ground--all! twice she loses her way, twice she suddenly, as if attracted by an evil charm, stands before the hôtel du saxe. maschenka cries silently and bitterly to herself. there--this wall ornamented with black lead, natalie remembers, and here--the large mass of formless shadow--is not that the catholic church? a flash of lightning rends the darkness--natalie sees the immense stairs of the brühl terrace, with its adornments of colossal gilded statues; she sees the broad, black river flowing along, cool, alluring; hastily she goes across the place, for one moment her eyes rest on the stream--maschenka pulls her by the arm with her tender little fingers, and whispers: "i am afraid, mamma; i am afraid!" then natalie turns away from the most alluring temptation that has ever met her in life, and the water ripples behind her as if in anger that they have torn away a sacrifice from it. now they have reached the hôtel bellevue; the phlegmatic hollander in the porter's lodge looks after her in astonishment as she rushes past him, stretches his powerful limbs, sticks his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, closes his eyes, sleepily, and murmurs, "these russian women!" she finds the number of her brother's sitting-room. light still shines through the keyhole. she bursts open the door. varvara pavlovna is still busy making flowers. sergei sits bent over a railroad courier, the eternal samovar stands on its small table. "what has happened, natalie, for god's sake?" says varvara, as she discovers natalie's figure, dripping with water, her pale, staring face, her burning eyes, and the little girl by her side. "what has happened?" the brother does not ask. "i come to seek shelter with you," murmurs natalie, breaking down, as she sinks upon a sofa; then turning to sergei, she with difficulty gasps out: "you understand--i could not stay there--it--it is all over!" * * * * * yes, it was all over--all. the bond between him and her was broken. he was beside himself when he discovered what had taken place, begged for a meeting, wrote her the tenderest letters. she left his letters unanswered. then a wild defiance overcame him. it angered him that she had placed herself under her brother's protection--that brother, who from the beginning had wished to sow discord between him and her. he also could not be persuaded that the prince had not alone been the cause of the separation. the circumstance that natalie travelled in advance with her sister-in-law to baden-baden, while assanow remained in dresden to arrange with lensky, strengthened him in his conviction. it did not come to a legal separation. lensky was not the man to use compulsion with a woman; if she did not wish to stay with him, he let her go voluntarily. that she wished to keep the child with her was understood of itself; he could see the child from time to time, for a couple of weeks, on neutral ground. nikolas, as one could not interrupt him in his studies, quite naturally remained with his father in st. petersburg. "all that is understood of itself; why lose words over it?" thought lensky to himself, while he quite passively consented to all the propositions of the diplomat. for what reason did the unendurable man remain sitting there and tormenting him? quite everything was wound up between them--it was afternoon, and the brothers-in-law sat opposite each other at a long table strewn with papers, in a large, gloomy room, with dark green damask hangings, in the hôtel du saxe. a pause had occurred. "what does he still wish?" thought lensky, and drummed unrestrainedly on the top of the table, while at the same time he gave a significant glance toward the door. assanow coughed a couple of times; at last he began: "in conclusion, i must touch upon a delicate point--the question of money. my sister formally rejects all assistance on your part, boris nikolaivitch, and wishes strictly to limit herself to live on her own income!" then lensky flew into a rage: "and you have declared yourself agreed to that?" he cried, to his brother-in-law. "i should have considered it undignified in my sister if she had wished to act otherwise!" replied assanow. lensky clutched his temples with a gesture which was peculiar to him. "ah! leave me in peace with your pasteboard dignity," said he, impatiently. "i cannot endure the word--a parade expression which means nothing--live on her own income--my poor luxurious natalie--but that is madness, simply not possible! you are indeed her brother, but still you do not know her. such a tender, guarded hothouse plant as she is! why, she would die if she did not have what she needed." "with the best will, i would not be able to persuade her to take anything from you," replied sergei, earnestly. "not?" lensky struck his clenched fist on the table. "listen, sergei alexandrovitch, you are not only pitiless, you are also stupid. if she will not take anything from me, deceive her a little, tell her that the rents of her estate have increased, that you have sold building land for her, or what do i know! with women that is so easy, especially with her, poor soul!--who has never understood the difference in appearance between ten rubles and a thousand--but force the money upon her, she must have it! and hear me! if you do not so care for it that she takes it, then i will make a scandal for you, and insist upon a legal exposition!" for a moment assanow was silent, then he said: "good, i will arrange it!" with that he rose and offered lensky his hand. but lensky refused it. "let that go! between you and me there is no friendship. after the 'service' which you have rendered me such grimaces are repulsive." "you are mistaken if you believe i would have persuaded natalie to the separation," assured the prince. "naturally, however, as a conscientious man, i could not dissuade her therefrom." "conscientious! certainly, hangmen are always conscientious--that one knows," murmured lensky, and stamped his foot on the ground. "well, you will see what you have done! meanwhile--go. i will not longer bear it--go!" * * * * * when assanow hereupon wrote natalie in baden that the affair was arranged with lensky, and the separation declared he added, at the same time: "i feel myself obliged to say to you, that lensky in this whole affair has acted not only honorably, but really nobly." to his wife wrote sergei at the same time: "i do not understand the man!--_figurez-vous_ that i myself for a moment, was _sous le charme_. what a depth of nobility is in this prodigy! his is an enormous nature!" * * * * * as long as the separation was still impending, as long as the conferences still lasted, a kind of restless life fevered in natalie; she forced her being, naturally inclined to tender reliance and dependence, to an independent strength of will, of which no one had thought her capable. but when the last word was spoken, the separation at length validly arranged, she fell into a condition of brooding sadness from which nothing more could rouse her. for still three years she lived after the separation; three years, in which every hour endlessly dragged itself along, and which flowed together in the recollection into a single endless, cold, dull day; a day in that northern zone where the sun, with far-extending, weak, weary beams, tardily remains the whole twenty-four hours long, standing on the horizon, and grudges the night its refreshing darkness and the day its light. her torment reached an exquisite culmination when maschenka, who idolized her father, and who, in her childish innocence, had no idea of the state of affairs, in the beginning incessantly and anxiously asked her mother little questions referring to the separation. natalie gave her no answer, frowned and turned away her head. and sometimes maschenka then became ungovernable and angry. her little warm, loving heart could not understand why they had taken away her idol. once, lensky asked for his daughter for two weeks. maschenka, with her english governess, was sent to nice to her grandmother, where lensky daily visited her. when, loaded with presents, her heart full of sweet, tender recollections, she came back again to cannes, where natalie had meanwhile awaited her, with fearful obstinacy she insisted in relating to natalie endless things about the goodness and lovability of the father, and especially how impressively and anxiously he had inquired after mamma. her full, deep little voice trembled resentfully thereby, and an angry reproach darkened her large, clear child's eyes. for a while natalie was quite calm, then, without having replied a word to the child, she stood up and left the room. maschenka observed with astonishment how she tottered and hit against the furniture like a blind person. thereupon the child remained as if rooted to the ground, with thoughtfully wrinkled brow, her little hands glued to her sides, standing, staring down at the carpet as if she there sought the solution to the great, sad riddle which so occupied her. then with a short motion as if shaking off something, which she had caught from her father, like so much else, she threw her little head back and hurried after her mother. natalie had retired to her bedroom. maschenka found her deathly pale, with helpless, stiff bearing, and hands folded straight before her, sitting in an easy chair; her weary glance, directed in front of her, expressed inconsolable despair. "little mother, forgive me, oh, forgive me!" begged the child, embracing her mother with her soft, warm arms. "sometimes it seems to me as if you love him as much as i, only you do not wish to. but why do you cover your soul with a veil; why? oh, why did you separate yourself from him? he was not very much with us without that, but still it was so lovely to expect him and to rejoice over him from one time to another!" and maschenka burst out in violent weeping. natalie remained silent, but she raised the child on her knee and kissed her, ah, how tenderly! every tear she kissed away from the round little cheeks. and maschenka never repeated her question. once, in the night--maschenka's little room was next to her mother's bedroom--the child awoke; from the adjoining room sounded soft, whimpering, difficultly restrained sobs. * * * * * she wandered from venice to florence, from florence to nice, from nice to pau--all the european cities of refuge for uprooted existences she sought out. nowhere could natalie find rest. sometimes she tried to distract herself. she never visited large entertainments, but she associated with her old friends if she met them in their different exiles, gradually slid back into the old, aristocratic atmosphere in which she had been brought up; but, strange! she no longer felt at home therein, and in her inconsolable misery a feeling of insensible _ennui_ mingled itself. his name never crossed her lips. did she ever think of him? day and night. the more she tried to accustom herself to other people the more she thought of him. how empty, how shallow, how insignificant were all the others in comparison to him; how cold, how hard! her health went rapidly downward. a short, nervous cough tormented her, her hands were now ice-cold, now hot with fever. associated with that was something else strangely tormenting: she almost incessantly had the feeling that her heart was torn away from its natural place; she felt in her breast something like an uneasy fluttering, like the beating of the wings of a deathly weary, sinking bird. she slept badly and was afraid of sleep, for always the whole spring of her love, with its entrancing charm and perfume of flowers, arose in her dreams again. again vibrated through her soul the swelling musical, alluring call--asbeïn. little trifles, which in her waking condition she no longer remembered, came to her mind, and when she awoke she burned with fever and hid her face, gasping, in her pillows. she consumed herself in longing; a longing of which she was ashamed as of a sin, and which she fought as a sin. * * * * * gradually she became wearier and more calm. his picture began to obliterate itself from her memory. * * * * * it was in geneva, in a music shop. natalie, who had gone out to attend to a few trifles, entered and desired the chopin Études, which she had promised to bring the extremely musical maschenka. while a clerk looked for the music, she observed an elderly man--she divined the piano teacher in him--talking about a photograph which he held in his hand, to the woman who managed the business. she glanced fleetingly at the photograph--she shuddered. "so that is he; that is the way he looks now! _c'est qu'il a terriblement changé_," said the piano teacher. "_que voulez-vous_, with the existence which he leads?" replied the woman. "if one burns the candle of life at both ends!" "but he should stop it, a married man, as he is," said the music teacher. "my goodness; his marriage is so--so--he has been separated, who knows how long, already." the woman shrugged her shoulders. "ah! who, then, is his wife?" "some great lady who has made enough out of him, and to whom he has become inconvenient," replied the old woman. "so--h'm! that explains much," said the musician, and laying down the photograph, he added: "_enfin c'est un homme fini_." with that he seized the roll of music which had been prepared for him and left the shop. natalie bought the photograph, without having the courage to look at it before strangers. arrived at home, she unwrapped the portrait. for the first time since that evening when she ran out of the hôtel du saxe she looked at a picture of him. she was frightened at the fearful physical deterioration designated in his features. around the mouth and under the eyes hateful lines were drawn; but from the eyes still spoke the deep, seeking glance as formerly, and on the lips lay an expression of inconsolable goodness. "a great lady who has made enough out of him, and to whom he has become inconvenient," natalie repeated to herself again and again. that truly was false from beginning to end. still, a great uneasiness overcame her. the reproofs which she believed she had expiated once for all by the easy, tender confession that she had set aside her beloved husband on account of her scruples, now rose sharply and reprovingly before her. a nervous condition, which culminated in a long-enduring cramp of the heart, befell her; the cramp was followed by an hour-long swoon which could not be lifted. when she could again leave her bed, a great change had taken place in her. she no longer evaded the recollection of lensky; the old love was dead, but a new love had risen from the ruins of the old, a new enlightened love, which was nothing more than a warm, compassionate pardon. * * * * * with the restlessness of those mortally ill, who in vain seek relief, she was again driven to leave geneva, where at first she had intended to pass the whole winter. she longed for rome. the physicians laid no difficulties in the way. in the end, a dying person has the right to seek out the place where she will lay down her weary head for the last time. * * * * * in rome, it seemed at first as if she would be better again. at the end of march, nikolas came to visit her. he was now a young man, tall, slender, with great dreamy eyes in an aristocratically cut face, and with pretty, still somewhat embarrassed manners. already he had twice come to foreign countries to visit his mother, but never had she been so glad to see him. as the day was beautiful, and she felt better than usual, she proposed a drive. "to the via giulia," she ordered the coachman. "i will show you the palazzo morsini, in which we lived when your father was betrothed to me," she said to her children. mascha looked at her mother in astonishment; it was the first time in quite three years that she had mentioned her father before her. so they drove in the via giulia, on a bright march afternoon they drove there. but natalie in vain sought the palazzo morsini; she did not find it. a pile of rubbish stood in its place, surrounded by a board fence. disappointed almost to tears, with that childish, foolish disappointment such as only those mortally ill know, she turned away. on the way, it occurred to her to order the coachman to stop at the trevi fountain. she quite started with delight when she saw the irregular collection of statues again. "here i met your father for the first time in rome; it is just twenty years ago," said she, and rested a strange, brilliant, dreamy glance on the old wall. the sculpturing was still blacker and more weather-worn than twenty years before, but the silver cascade rushed down more arrogantly than ever in the gray stone basin, and the sky, which arched over the time-blackened walls, was as blue as formerly. "ah, how much beauty, nobility, and immortality there still is in the world, together with the bad that passes away," murmured natalie, softly; then passing her hand over her eyes, and as if speaking to herself, she added: "it is thus with great men, and therefore i think, considerately overlooking their earthly failings, one should rejoice over that which is immortal in them!" maschenka had not quite understood the words, but nikolas sought by a glance the eyes of his mother, and raised her hand to his lips. it was evening of the same day, in natalie's pretty apartment on the piazza di spagna, opposite the church of trinità dei monti, and the sick woman, relieved of her constricting and heavy street-clothes, lay, in a white, lace-trimmed wrapper, on a lounge. mother and son were alone. he had read her a couple of verses from musset, which she particularly loved--_les souvenirs_--but it had become dark during the reading; he laid the book away. for a while they were both quiet, silently happy in each other's presence, as very nearly related people when they are together after a long separation; but then nikolas laid his hand on that of his mother and said, softly: "little mother--do you know that it was really papa who sent me to you?" the hand of the mother trembles, and softly draws itself out from under the son's. nikolas is silent. but what was that? after a while his mother's hand voluntarily stole back into his, and the young man continued: "yes, papa sent me here, so that i might accurately report to him how you are. you really cannot imagine how he always asks after you, worries about you." the hand of the poor woman trembles in that of her son, like an aspen leaf. after a pause, quite as if he had waited so that his words might sink warmly and deeply into her heart, he continues: "father commissioned me to bring before you a request from him--namely, whether you would not permit him to visit you?" again natalie drew her hand away from her son, but more hastily than the first time. her breath comes quickly and pantingly, for a few moments she remains silent, then she says slowly, wearily: "no! it must not be; tell him all love and kindness from me, and that i think only with emotion of the great consideration which he always shows me, but it must not be--it is better so!" after she had made this decision, which had a sad and intimidating effect upon the inexperienced boy, she remained for the rest of the evening taciturn and with that, out of temper and irritable, as one had never formerly seen her. in the night she had one of her fearful attacks; the doctor must be sent for. when the horrible oppression of breath and shuddering had subsided, as usual, she fell into a condition of pale, cold numbness, which resembled a deep swoon. nikolas, who had watched by the sick one, accompanied the physician without. he begged him, in the name of his father, to tell him the truth about the condition of the sufferer. the physician told him that her condition was very serious, and a recovery absolutely out of the question. it might last a few weeks still, perhaps only a few days. when nikolas, with difficulty restraining his tears, came up to his mother's bed, she lay exactly in the same position as when he left the room; still, something about her had changed. her eyes were closed, but around her beautiful mouth trembled a smile whose happy loveliness he never forgot. after a while she looked up and said in a quite weak voice: "perhaps only a few days"--she had heard the doctor's speech. after a pause, she added: "write your father--write--he must hurry--only a few more days!" nikolas telegraphed to st. petersburg. * * * * * the consciousness of her near death had given her back her lack of embarrassment toward lensky. she insisted that he should stay in her house, that they should prepare a room for him. one day she was well enough to overlook the preparations herself. but the improvement did not last. quite every night came on an attack, shorter and weaker, but still very painful; in between she slept, and always had the same dream. it seemed to her as if she could fly, but only about two feet from the ground; if she wished to rise higher, she awoke. of the young happiness of her love, she dreamed never more. * * * * * lensky had telegraphed back that he would set out immediately. they counted the days and nights which must elapse before his arrival--kolia and she; they consulted railroad time-tables together--so long to eydtkuhnen--so long to berlin--so long to vienna--so long to rome. they were twelve hours apart in their reckoning. natalie expected lensky already on the morning of the fifth day, nikolas not until the evening. on the fourth day she was so well that she wished to undertake a walk. "i would so like to see the spring once more," said she. nikolas begged her to save herself until his father had come, in order not to aggravate her heart by excitement--that great, rich heart through which she lived, and of which she was now dying. "we will bring the spring in to you," said he tenderly. they brought flowers, whatever kind they could buy, and placed them in the pretty, pleasant boudoir in which she lay, stretched out on her couch bed. the broad sunbeams slid like a golden veil over the magnolias, violets, and roses. dreamily the dying woman let her eyes wander over the fragrant splendor. "how lovely the spring is!" murmured she, and then she added: "how can one fear to die, when the resurrection is so beautiful!" the windows stood wide open; it was afternoon; from without one heard the rattling of carriages which rolled along in the heart of the city. it sounded like the rolling of a stream which forced its way to the sea. * * * * * the night came. nikolas sat near his mother's bed and watched. she slept uneasily. frequently she started and listened, then she looked at her watch--it could not yet be! once maschenka came in, with little bare feet peeping out from under her long night-dress, and face quite swollen with weeping. on tip-toes she crept up to the dying woman's bed. since a couple of days natalie had no longer permitted her to sleep in the adjoining little room, from fear that the child might be awakened by her painful attacks. maschenka had dreamed that her mother was worse; she wished to see her mother. natalie opened her eyes just as she entered. then the child ran up to her, kneeled down near her, and sobbing hid her little face in the covers. natalie stroked her little head with weary, weak hand, and asked her to be brave, and lie down and sleep; that would give her the greatest joy. then maschenka stood up, and went with hesitating steps as far as the door; then she turned round, and hurried back to her mother. natalie made the sign of the cross on her forehead, then kissed her once more, and held her to her thin breast. it should be the last time--the child went. natalie looked after her tenderly, sadly. toward morning nikolas fell asleep in the arm-chair in which he watched by his mother's bed. all at once he felt that some one pulled him by both sleeves. he started up; his mother sat half upright in the bed. "wake up, your father is coming!" she called quickly and breathlessly. "but, little mother, it is quite impossible--not before evening can he be here." with a short, imperious motion she admonished him to silence. now he heard quite plainly--softly, then louder--the rolling of a single carriage through the deathly-quiet, sleeping city. it came nearer stopped before the house. "go to meet him, kolia; i do not wish him to think we did not expect him." kolia went, did, like a machine, whatever was required of him. natalie sat up, listened--listened. if she had been mistaken--no. heavy steps came up the stairs. steps of two men--not of one--and this voice! rough, deep, going to the heart. she did not understand a word; but it was his voice. a quite numbing embarrassment and shyness overcame her. she drew the lace cuffs of her night-dress over her thin arms, she arranged her hair; she felt as shy as before a stranger. what should she say to him? she would be quite calm--calm and friendly. then the door opened--he entered, dusty, with tumbled, badly arranged gray hair, with fearful furrows in his face, aged ten years since she last had seen him. what should she say to him? he did not wait for that; he only gave one look at her pale face, then he hurried up to her and took her in his arms. behind the church of trinità dei monti there was already a golden light, and the whole room was filled with brilliancy and light. "oh, my angel! how could you so repulse me!" are the first words which he speaks. she says nothing, only lies on his breast, silently, unresistingly. through her veins creeps for the last time the feeling of pleasant, animating warmth which has always overcome her in his nearness. she tries to rouse herself, to consider; she had certainly wished to tell him something for farewell. but what was it--what---- ah, truly! "boris," she breathes out softly, "do you know--at that time in your study--in petersburg--do you still remember how you once said to me i should show you the way to the stars?" "yes, my little dove, yes." "i was not fitted for my task," whispers she, sadly; "forgive!" for one moment he remains speechless with emotion; then he presses his lips to her mouth, on her poor emaciated hands, on her hair. "forgive--i you! o my heart!" murmurs he. "how could you draw me up when i had broken your wings! but now all is well; we will seek our old happiness hand in hand. you shall become well, shall live!" "live," whispers she, quite reproachfully; "live," and shakes her head. he looks at her with a long, tender glance, and is frightened. her face is still angel beautiful, but there is nothing left of her lovely form. it pains him to see the sharp, harsh lines which outline her limbs under the covering. that is no longer a living woman who stretches out her arms to him, it is only an angel who wishes to bless him. it is quite clear between them, and also the last shyness, which still held her back from him, has vanished. "yes, it is over," whispers she; "only a few more days--how many is that?--three days--five days--oh, perhaps it will last longer--physicians are so often mistaken. we will drive out once more together to see the spring--out there where the almond trees bloom between the ruins--by st. steven, do you still know?--and until i feel it coming--the last, the end--then you will hold me by the hand, will you not? like a child that fears the dark, you will lead me quite tenderly up to the threshold of eternity--is it not true? no one can be so tender and loving as you. but do not be sad--not now; to-day i feel well, quite well. ah!----" what is that? she clutches at her heart--there it is again, the strange fluttering feeling in her heart. her face changes, her breath fails. "the doctor, kolia!" calls boris beside himself. kolia hurries away; at the door his mother calls him back once more. "not without a farewell, my brave boy," she says, and kisses him. "god bless you!" then he rushes away down the stairs, to fetch the doctor--there is haste. no, there is no more haste--the attack is short--only a couple of strange shudders--then the invalid grows calm in lensky's arms. "how wonderfully the trees bloom--" murmurs the dying one. "it grows dark--give me your hand--do not grieve--my poor genius----" suddenly her eyes take on a peculiarly longing expression. a last time the asbeïn tones glide through her soul, but no longer an inciting, alluring call--but as something elevating, holy. she hears the tones quite high and distinct, as if they vibrated down to her from heaven, resounding strangely in a sublime, calm harmony that is no longer the devil's succession of tones, that is the music of the spheres. "boris," she murmurs, and raising her hand, points upward, "listen ..." the hand sinks slowly, slowly--when, a little later, the physician enters she is dead. a wonderful smile lies on her countenance, the smile of one set free. footnotes: [footnote : when the devil, banished from heaven, resolved on the temptation of mankind, he loved to make use of music which had been made known to him as a heavenly privilege when he still was a member of the eternal hosts. but the almighty deprived him of his memory, so he could remember but a single strain, and this mysterious, bewitching strain is still called in arabia "the devil's strain--asbeïn."--_arabian legends_.] transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/blanchemaidof schuiala . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. blanche: the maid of lille [illustration: tête de cire.] blanche: the maid of lille translated from the german of ossip schubin by sarah h. adams privately printed boston mcmii _copyright, , by_ sarah h. adams colonial press electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u. s. a. introduction a few years since we chose to spend the summer in a châlet among the dolomites of south tyrol. weird, fantastic, inaccessible, mysterious, grotesque, and yet often wearing a jewelled crown of eternal ice, these peaks soared into the ether above and around us. "nothing," says a recent traveller, "can surpass the majesty and beauty of the towers and ramparts, the battlemented walls, impregnable castles, and gracefully pinnacled cathedrals into the forms of which their summits are built up. their colouring is another striking characteristic; many of them rivet the eye with the richness of the tints,--deep reds, bright yellows, silvery whites, and the dark blues and blacks of the rocks. but all these colours are modified and softened by a peculiar grayish white tint. the mountains look as if powdered over with some substance less hard and cold than newly fallen snow." although within a day's drive of pieve di cadore,--titian's birthplace--and not far from cortina, we could hardly have found a more isolated spot. it was a hermitage, and we knew literally no one within hundreds of miles. ossip schubin, the popular german novelist at that time, had sent us a volume of stories, with the request that we would translate them. we selected the story now offered as being most in sympathy with our romantic surroundings. a learned englishman has said, "if histories were written as histories should be, boys and girls would cry to read them." but alas! how is the spirit, the tone, of a dead century to be made to breathe again and report itself? the landscape alone is permanent; new figures constantly fill the foreground. poetry, legend, myths, help us to divine some of the strange chords in the human chant, which, heavily burdened with sorrow, come down to us through the ages. in this twentieth century no one sentiment or emotion is allowed so far to dominate as to crush out all others. but how was it in the days of the crusaders, of the minnesingers, of the troubadours? if we would realise the seclusion, the loneliness of many lives centuries ago, we have only to enter either "the wartburg" or the castle of solmes brauenfels in the rhine valley, which dates back a thousand years. look into the gloomy keeps; hear the shrieking of the bars in the heavy portcullis; gaze down into the damp, ugly moats; or listen to the soughing of the stormy winds in the branches of the tall forest trees which closely environ these grim abodes. it is conceivable that elizabeth languished and died at "the wartburg," when the chivalrous tannhäuser no longer came to inspire with love and song. could even martin luther have lived in these cold, black walls without his work which daily rekindled his soul as he studied the inspired pages of the bible? among the annals of a wicked old past, this story appears as a legend dimly connected with the pathetic face of the "maid of lille" a copy of which is in the boston art museum. there is no appeal here to the modern girl. the word "altruism" had not been invented. yet there was genius in loving as blanche did--what trustful, boundless love, what exaggeration of the object loved! and while to-day we strive to master a useless sorrow by a useful activity, we can still appreciate the beauty and holiness of such love. sarah h. adams. blanche in the museum at lille, somewhat aside from the bewildering mass of pictures, stands, in a glass case, a masterpiece of unknown origin--the "tête de cire,"--a maiden's bust moulded in coloured wax. you will smile when you hear of a coloured wax bust and think of madame tussaud's collection, or of a pretty, insignificant doll's head; but should you ever see the "tête de cire," instead of laughing you will fold your hands, and, instead of madame tussaud's glass-eyed puppets, will think of a lovely girl cut off in her early bloom, whom you once saw at rest on the hard pillow of her coffin. pale, with exquisite features, reddish brown hair, eyes slightly blinking, as if afraid of too much sun, a painfully resigned smile about her mouth, and with neck slightly bent forward, as if awaiting her death-stroke, full of touching innocence and of a languid grace, this waxen bust stands out of its dull gold case,--the image of an angel who had lived an earthly life and whose heart was broken by a mortal pain. whence came this masterly production? nobody knows! one ascribes it to leonardo, another to raphael, while still others have sought for its origin in antiquity. upon one point only all agree,--that the bust was made from a cast taken after death. the painter, wickar, brought it out of italy into france. 'twas said that he found it in a tuscan convent. * * * * * the lovely girl smiles, pleased at the critical debates of the curious, who wish to attribute this graceful creation to one of the illustrious heroes of art: smiles and dreams! i no, it could not be--'twould be a sacrilege! he was forty-five and she scarcely seventeen. it could not be! after a series of adventurous campaigns, after mourning over many defeats and celebrating many victories, and finally losing his left leg in the memorable battle of marignano, gottfried de montalme, finding himself disabled for the rough work of a soldier, had returned to france and to his father's castle, whose gates his brother, the duke, hospitably opened to him. he found this brother a widower, and at the point of death; but beside the dying man's couch was a lovely little maiden who offered her cheeks to be kissed in welcome to the wanderer. she was the duke of montalme's only child--blanche, a heart's balm! the light of his eyes! leaving no male heir, the entire inheritance of the duke of montalme--his castle and lands, with all the feudal rights appertaining thereto,--would devolve upon the returned warrior, gottfried. the little maiden was badly provided for, and this the duke knew full well, and it made his dying heart sad. gottfried sat by the bedside of his brother through the warm may nights. he heard the ticking of the death-watch in the wainscoting of the old walls, heard the dewdrops, as they slowly rustled through the leaves of the giant lindens outside, heard the laboured breath of the dying man--but more distinctly than all did he hear the beating of his own heart. toward morning, when the first slant sunbeams shed a rosy glimmer into the gray twilight of the sick man's room, this beating grew louder, for, with the early sun, blanche slipped into the chamber, and, leaning compassionately over the sufferer, whispered, "are you better, my father?" ah! for the duke of montalme there was no better, and one night he laid his damp, cold hand upon his brother's warm and powerful one, saying, with the directness his near relationship warranted, "gottfried, it would be a great comfort to me if you would take blanche for your wife." at this gottfried blushed up to the roots of his gray hair, and murmured, "what an idea to come into your head--i an old cripple, and this young blossom! it would be a sacrilege!" "she does not dislike you," said the duke. the brave gottfried blushed deeper, and said, "she is but a child." "oh, these conscientious notions!" grumbled the exhausted man. but notions or not, gottfried was firm, and of a marriage-bond with the child would not hear; he promised to afford the little maiden loving care and protection--promised to guard her as the apple of his eye--as his own child, until he could, with confidence, lay her hand into that of a worthy lover's. and while he promised this, his voice sounded hollow and sad like the tolling of a funeral bell. the duke, with the clear-sightedness of the dying, cast a glance into his brother's heart, and discovered there a holy secret. "you're an angel, gottfried," he murmured, "but you make a mistake," and shortly after breathed his last. on the day of the funeral dame isabella von auberive, a distant relative whom gottfried, for propriety's sake, had summoned hither, arrived at the castle to share with him in the care of the young girl. beside her father's bier, surrounded by the dim, flickering candles, he kissed the sweet orphan reverently on the brow, as one kisses the hem of a madonna's robe; and promised her his loving care. but when she, in a torrent of childish grief, wound her arms about his neck and pressed her little head against his shoulder, he became almost as white as the dead man in his coffin, and tenderly but firmly released himself from her. it could not be--'twould be sacrilege. ii during the brilliant period in the reign of king francis i., it happened that in the marvellously fair, luxuriant touraine, through whose velvet green meadows ran the "gay-jewel-glistening loire,--the frolicsome, flippant loire,"--there arose on its banks, one by one, the stately dwellings of many a proud lord. somewhat apart from the others, in a retired spot, where king francis's elegant hunters seldom found their way, towered up the castle of montalme; large, massive, with gloomy little windows sunk into deep holes in the walls, and with a round turret on either wing. stern and forbidding, it looked down into the moat in whose waterless bed toads and frogs revelled amid the moist green foliage; for the age was fast drawing to a close in which every nobleman had been a little king, and the simple heroic french feudality, blinded by the nimbus of francis i., were rapidly being transformed into a mere host of courtiers. the dull uniformity in the architecture of montalme stood out in striking contrast to the rest of the castles of sunny, pleasure-loving touraine. the internal arrangement corresponded to the plain exterior, and to the naïve pretensions of a century when, even in blois and amboise, the favourite castles of the king, the doors were so low that francis himself, who is known to have been of regal stature, had to stoop to enter them. the scantiness of the furniture in this huge castle of montalme added to its forlorn aspect; nor was the slightest deference paid to prevailing fashion. the ladies wore sombre-coloured dresses, cut high in the neck, and covering the arms down to the very end of the wrists; skirts hanging in long, heavy folds, allowing only the pointed toe of the leather shoe to peep out. the gentlemen wore the hair long, and their faces smoothly shaved; their doublets reached in folds almost to the knees, as had been the fashion under the simple, economical rule of the late king. * * * * * a year had glided by since the death of the duke. blanche enjoyed the happiness of youth, free from care, and gottfried the peace of honest, high-souled self-denial. a guardian angel, he limped about modestly at the side of his niece, rejoicing to be able to remove every stone which threatened to mar the smoothness of her path, or to scare away the hawks lurking in ambush to surprise her innocence. and when considering the charms of his dear little niece, gottfried thought of the orgies in the amboise castle, of the "petite bande" and the merry raids of the king, the real aim of which was nothing higher than some foolish love-adventure, he shuddered. deeply and often he pondered the matter. blanche was eighteen--it was time for her to be married--and yet his brave, faithful heart shrank with anguish at the bare thought of it. he would not hesitate (at least he believed this of himself) to part with her if only he could find a true-hearted, honourable man. but in this age of beauty and song--the age of king francis such an one was hard to find. meanwhile blanche was contented with her lonely, monotonous life, perhaps, in part, because she knew no other, yet, also, because a fountain of youthful gaiety was still unexhausted in her heart. there were many things to do in the daytime, and she played chess with her uncle in the long winter evenings, while sparks flashed out of the heavy oak logs in the chimney, and the single tallow candle in its artistically wrought iron candlestick wove a little island of light in the cimmerian darkness of the monstrous hall. sometimes gottfried entertained her with stories--the legend of tristran and iseult--or the pathetic tale of the count of lusignano and the fair melusina; often, too, he told her of his own adventures in foreign lands. but the happier blanche made herself in this lonely life, the more furious became dame isabella. she was a worthy woman, but never could realise that her once distinguished beauty had long been buried under a weight of corpulence, and therefore did not restrain herself from putting on all sorts of ridiculous airs and graces, in order to attract the attention of the whole neighbourhood to her supposed charms. out of sheer _ennui_ she ogled even her page, philemon, a boy of twelve years, although he cherished a modest but so much the more glowing adolescent passion for the lovely blanche. whilst winding endless skeins of silk off the hands of the page, she sighed in a heart-breaking way, and made the most pointed remarks about the laziness and unmannerliness of those noblemen who purposely avoided any approach to the kind, chivalrous king. gottfried long forbore to respond to such innuendoes. of what use would it be to try to explain to this silly old person that the court of king francis was not the proper sphere for such a fat old woman as herself, or for a little maiden like blanche, who would receive a kind of adulation before which the good, true-hearted warrior shuddered? once, however, when dame isabella, more excited than usual, stormed in upon him and insisted that the young girl's future should be taken into immediate consideration, he gave her an angry answer. but it did not silence her, and though the worthy woman talked plenty of nonsense, yet she sometimes made a remark that gottfried could not think wholly unjustifiable. "blanche is eighteen years old!" stormed dame auberive; "if you do not wish her to marry you must resolve to place her in one of the nunneries, which are the only respectable refuge for unmarried women of her position." "who told you that i did not want blanche to marry?" exclaimed gottfried, with anger and agitation; "it is only that i have not yet found any one good enough for her." but dame isabella replied with cutting scorn, "no one will ever seem to you good enough for her!" and bounced out of the room the picture of righteous indignation. shortly after this it happened that a young knight was brought into the castle badly wounded; he had fallen among thieves, been robbed, and left unconscious by the roadside. he must be a man of rank, the servants thought who brought him in, for his dress, though soiled and torn, was of the finest material, and he wore the full beard with close-shaved hair which most of the courtiers wore in imitation of the king. gottfried recognised in him a certain henri de lancy who, at the battle of marignano, had fought beside him and won general admiration for his bravery, and had, more than all, dragged him--his old friend gottfried--out of the thick of the battle after a ball had broken his leg. as he bent over the handsome youth lying there before him with closed eyes, so pale and helpless, an emotion of deep pity overcame gottfried, and he exerted himself to the utmost to lavish on de lancy all the comforts which the poor castle of montalme could command. the sight of the wounded knight roused the quiet castle out of its phlegmatic drowsiness, and the heart of dame isabella beat so wildly that her orders confused the heads of her servants. even through the veins of the innocent blanche thrilled a strange, dreamy unrest. at that time there prevailed, together with a sultry kind of viciousness, compared with which modern profligacy appears petty and childish, a frank, genial naïveté, which is lost to our age with its prudish, artificial morality. the most delicate maiden did not hesitate, at that time, to lend help in nursing a sick man; and besides, women in that century--thanks to the rarity of doctors--found it necessary to acquire some knowledge of the healing art. hence it was that blanche came to the assistance of dame isabella and her uncle gottfried in the care of de lancy, and as her hand was the most delicate, it usually fell to her to loosen the bandages around the ugly wound on his head, and as she had the steadiest nerve, it was she who, with gottfried's help, removed the splinter of a broken sword-point from his shoulder. quiet and helpful as an angel, she hovered about the unconscious man. but once, as she was bending over his couch to watch the breathing of the sufferer, a great abatement of the wound fever happily set in. de lancy opened his eyes, which, though at times blue as the heavens above, were at others black as an abyss. the "petite bande" knew these eyes well. just now they were very blue and fixed with peculiar pleasure on the tender little maiden. but she drew back embarrassed. the strange, marvellous eyes had driven away his guardian angel, and from that hour she avoided the sick man's room. * * * * * we shall readily imagine that henri de lancy would not endure to be nursed like a sick woman, and, as soon as he could lift hand and foot, he dragged himself off his couch--possibly his impatience to see the pretty girl again had also something to do with this haste. it provoked the young dandy that he could not introduce himself into the presence of the ladies in a more elegant costume; yet his comparatively simple travelling dress was becoming to him, and still more (at least in the eyes of the sweet blanche) his paleness, his deep-sunk, feverish eyes, and the weakness in all his movements, which he strove to hide; for there is something which appeals to the sympathies of a true woman in seeing a strong, chivalrous man impatient and mortified at his weakness. under her dropped eyelids blanche watched all his movements, and was constantly considering how to remove what might interfere with the comfort of the helpless invalid. yet she did not offer him the slightest service herself, only secretly made dame isabella acquainted with the need. her sympathy and her charming bashfulness did not fail to touch the heart of the convalescent. the "petite bande" would have laughed in scorn and right heartily, had they seen how modestly the audacious de lancy exerted himself to please the unpretending little girl with the pale face of a novice. and lady isabella neglected the page philemon and adorned herself to such a degree that--well--it cost de lancy all the trouble in the world not to laugh in her face. the finest part of her toilet was her "coiffure," which in style dated back at least thirty years. it consisted of a towering head-dress that ran up to a point, from which an enormous veil fluttered down to her knees. * * * * * the days came and went--the beautiful july days--flooding touraine with golden sunshine from dawn to dewy eve. the air was heavy with the perfume of roses and linden blossoms. henri's hollow face had regained its full, natural contour, and his arm had long been freed from the sling. he was able to travel--yet of his departure spoke never so much as a dying word. he was only a merry-hearted, heedless fellow, but with a very attractive manner; when it pleased him he could assume toward women at once such a courteous, amiable, respectful manner that no one could long be vexed with him, even were she the proudest of the daughters of earth. he had so completely enchanted dame isabella that she spent whole nights pondering over the preparation of the most _recherché_ viands. she served up to him the most skilfully made pies, capons dressed with spices after the spanish custom, or young peacocks which she knew how to roast so artistically as not to singe a feather on tail or little crown; and when the dame saw with what love-intoxicated gaze he often fastened his eyes on the beautiful girl, she furthered his intercourse with her as only she could. it would have delighted her to win such an aristocratic connection as de lancy. but there was one person in montalme who could not feel friendly toward the gallant young knight--and this was the lord of the castle himself. "how long is he going to stay?" he growled out one day to dame isabella. "he has sent for his clothes and his pages, and next he will be inviting his friends here to display blanche's charms to the whole country." "don't imagine this," said isabella, with a shrewd smile; "lovers are miserly, and would, if possible, keep the joy of their heart out of sight of the entire world." "the joy of his heart!" exclaimed gottfried. "then it is high time that i interfered and obliged him to declare himself!" "let nothing of the kind occur to you!" exclaimed isabella, with a look of horror. "spare the germ of his young love until it ripens into an earnest desire for the happiness of marriage." gottfried became gloomy. "if i thought that the man would woo the girl honourably! he is a most attractive fellow, but although brave and generous, the best among the young coxcombs of to-day are proud of transgressions which the worst in my day would have been ashamed of, and, in fact, they regard it only as a good joke, an aristocratic pastime, to seduce an innocent girl!" and he struck his brow with his fist. "such an idea should never come into your mind," said isabella, passionately; "it is shocking in you to insult the man who saved your life, by such scandalous suspicions. you call your suspicions conscientious--they should properly bear quite a different name." "what, then?" growled gottfried. dame isabella stood on the tips of her toes, and hissed in his ear, "jealousy!" at this he ground his teeth,--his eyebrows contracted with pain;--he turned on his heels and left the room: determined to watch and be silent! iii in the cool, lofty rooms of the castle of montalme blanche wandered about all this time like one bewildered by a great joy. her eyes were half-closed, as if dazzled by too clear a radiance, and her voice was full of plaintive rapture, like that in which the nightingale sobs his love through the warm summer nights, and all her motions had an added grace. but one day dame isabella whispered to her, "he is desperately in love with you!" and it awakened blanche out of her sweet, unconscious ecstasy. she began to test it--to doubt! she noticed exactly how often he addressed a word directly to her, was sad if he passed her without seeking response; his glance to her glance--his smile to her smile! iv dreamy afternoon stillness brooded over montalme, the doves cooed monotonously on the roof. in one of the deep, oak-panelled window niches blanche stood gazing down into the courtyard, which was full of dark shadows. there stood de lancy in the picturesque costume titian has immortalised in the portraits of francis i., the puffed sleeves and high ruff under which the handsomest man in france was pleased to hide the stoop in his shoulders and the thickness of his neck. to young de lancy this costume was wonderfully becoming. with the black velvet bonnet at his ear, he was amusing himself with a falcon, which, perched on his shoulder, he alternately teased and soothed; then a greyhound stretched to full length came bounding forward with light, quick leaps, and sprang upon him. de lancy slipped his thin, delicate hand behind his ear, and stroked him with all the tenderness which men of our day are accustomed to bestow on their dogs and horses, with a certain pride in their training. at this, however, the falcon became jealous, beat his wings, and pecked the hound with his beak. de lancy enjoyed teasing the two animals, and when by alternate caresses he had made both positively unhappy, he pressed with one hand the head of the falcon against his cheek, and with the other the head of the hound to his breast. then the two creatures were contented, and he smiled--his eyes grew darker, and his white teeth glistened. but the heart of the maiden, who, gazing down into the court, saw the pretty play, was convulsed with pain,--was it a kind of jealousy which agitated her--or simply a wish? suddenly de lancy glanced up, and espying the young lady of the castle, greeted her respectfully. blanche thanked him somewhat bashfully, and drew back trembling from head to foot. when she ventured again to look down into the court, de lancy was no longer to be seen. but the wings of the gently moved afternoon air bore to her ear a little song which the gay youth trilled to himself as he strolled away: "ha! me chère ennemie si tu veux m'apaiser, redonne--moy la vie par l'esprit d'un baiser. ha! j'en ay la douceur senti jusque au c[oe]ur. c'est une douce rage qui nous poindra doucement quand d'un même courage on s'aime incessament. heureux sera le jour que je mourrai d'amour!" v this audacious love-song at that time flitted from lip to lip at the court of king francis, until about a year later the poet ronsard sang it,--and after he had enriched it with two or three daintily elaborated verses it was incorporated with his works. de lancy had often hummed it when hastening through the gray corridors, or walking in the garden under the sombre boughs of the blossoming lindens. but never had blanche heard it so completely and clearly. warm and full the tones of his voice rang in her ears. through this exuberant and frivolous nature passed the agitating sense of an almost pathetic tenderness. blanche stared before her into the empty air, and there came into her face a great terror--a mighty longing! vi gottfried watched and suffered--each hour more suspicious and uneasy. in the castle chapel of montalme stood a narrow-chested saint with peaked beard,--st. sebaldus,--who bore on his wooden forefinger an amethyst ring. with this ring was connected a legend,--viz.,--that whoever would have the courage to draw it off the finger at midnight and put it on his own--to him heaven would grant the fulfilment of his wish, even were it the most presumptuous in the world. but should the one who took off the jewel let it fall from his linger ere returning it on the following night, as in duty bound, to the saint, some terrible misfortune would speedily overtake him. it was midnight, and deathly stillness reigned; the moonlight played about the pointed roof and glittered in the deeply set windows of the old castle. black and heavy, almost as a bier-cloth, the shadow of this gigantic old building spread over the ground. in the garden below, the nightingales sobbed their sweet songs in the flowering lindens, sometimes interrupted by the weird screech of an owl. then a slender figure glided softly through the echoing corridors of the castle--the figure of a love-sick girl. at times she paused and listened and laid her hand upon her breast. a vague, ghostly fear chilled the blood in her veins. now she stepped through the high hall adjoining the chapel. she opened the door heavily weighted with its ornamental iron bands and rosettes. the moonlight glanced through the coloured windows and painted fantastic images on the brown church pews. two long, brilliant streaks of light cut through the shadows which broadened out over the marble floor. above the altar hung a madonna with attenuated arms and too long a neck, as the "primitives" in their naïve awkwardness like to picture her. blanche knelt before her and lisped an ave and the lord's prayer; then turning to the saint who, stiff and complacent, gazed down from his pedestal, she drew the ring off his finger and put it on her own. just at this moment she heard a slight rustle outside, a confused feeling of dread and fear suddenly came over her,--a vague, painful fear of all the mysterious powers of night and darkness. quite beside herself, she was hurrying out of the chapel when, in her confusion, she almost rushed into the arms of a man who stepped toward her in the adjacent hall. although she had passed so softly through the house, one ear had recognised her step,--henri de lancy,--by whose chamber she was obliged to go in her way to the chapel. and now he stood before her, and his blue eyes shone in the clear moonlight, and he bent over her smiling. she started back, but did not fly--only remained standing as if spellbound. when he seized her hand and she tried to free herself, however, he held her fast, whispering, "stay only a little while, i pray you; i've so much to say to you!" "leave me! leave me!" she cried, timidly. "only a minute!" he begged of her. "you have always avoided me, i could never say it to you, but indeed you must long have known how infinitely i love you!" he stooped over her--she trembled like a delicate rose-bud with which the spring wind plays. she thought of the saint's ring which she had on her finger for the purpose of conjuring heaven to grant her henri de lancy's love. had the conjuration then worked so speedily? oh, measureless joy! oh, never-anticipated blessedness! and yet-- it was so still--so late! "leave me! leave me!" she whispered. "wait, i must ask gottfried." "and do you believe he will know better than yourself whether you love me?" he laid his arm round her--his kiss hovered over her lips--when--the door was torn open, and, with drawn dagger and face distorted with rage, gottfried rushed upon de lancy. "cowardly traitor!" he yelled, and stopped, for blanche, uttering a hoarse shriek of anguish, stretched out her arms before the beloved man to protect him. woe! woe! in this moment the enchanted ring slipped from her finger! vii angry men's voices echoed through the halls and galleries--then stillness reigned again. without, the dewdrops rustled in the leaves, but the nightingales were hushed. in her lonely chamber sat a pale, sad girl, tearless and comfortless. when the gray morning came a gloomy rider stormed out of the castle. viii at that time,--in the beginning of the sixteenth century,--shortly after the battle of marignano, and the great awakening at wittenberg, there brooded over creation a sultry atmosphere, in which the thoughts and feelings of men frothed and raved with unbridled wantonness, stimulated by the storm-ridden air. king francis had brought back with him to his native land, after his sojourn in italy and his conference with pope leo, a highly cultivated artistic taste, united with a certain subtle depravity of morals. henceforth his court became an open field for the fine arts, and an arena for the most debauched, sensual orgies. and not merely owing to his high position, but also because he maintained in the midst of his wildest excesses the prestige of a magnanimous chivalry, his example influenced all the young people of france directly and irresistibly. it was in the zenith of this regal frivolity and regal favour that henri's voluptuous life was interrupted by the above-related intermezzo of sincere, honest love for this child of montalme. but it was at the very time when king francis, basely deserting his noble wife, the good queen claude, at the head of a jolly troupe of knights, accompanied by the most beautiful women of france, was roving from city to city, from castle to castle, from forest to forest, making the air resound with the clang of cymbals, the blowing of horns, and the baying of dogs; in summer dropping down on the fairest flower-strewn meadows, or near mossy-green woods to hold their revels, and in winter pelting each other with snowballs and filling the various castles with shouts and laughter. now here--now there--he appeared as in a fairy tale--like a vision--the impersonation of joy. where one hoped to find him he had just vanished, and where he was not expected he came. this constant change of residence frequently embarrassed his ministers or those immediately responsible for affairs of state, as well as the foreign ambassadors. and whilst the most serious problems were perplexing their heads, he, with his knights and the "petite bande," was ranging all over the country in search of adventure, and when needed was never to be found. it was as difficult to prevent one's self from being infected with the frivolity of the king's court--if living in the midst of it--as to keep one's health intact in a plague lazaretto. to have done it, one must have been peculiarly organised, and henri de lancy was not peculiarly organised. ix weeks passed. ever slower the time dragged on amid the aching stillness of montalme. blanche's trembling hope, which resolved itself at first into hot, feverish unrest, changed by degrees to stony despair. she grew paler and paler--her languid steps ever more feeble--her talk abstracted and disconnected. with head slightly bent forward, her lips half-open, and her eyes fixed on vacancy, she watched and listened--in vain! he came not, and nobody came who could give her any knowledge of him. once when gottfried, who did not allow her to be out of his sight in this sad, sad time, sought for her in vain in castle and garden, led by a jealous suspicion, he climbed up into the tower chamber which de lancy had occupied. through the half-open door he espied blanche. she was sitting at the foot of the bed upon which de lancy had been laid when wounded. she smiled, and on her innocent lips trembled the words of his daring love-song: "si tu veux m'apaiser redonne--moi la vie par l'esprit d'un baiser." she was dreaming! whole nights she sat up sleepless in her bed and murmured or sang softly to herself. and now many times through the stillness of night she heard the beat of a horse's hoof at full speed passing her window. who could the rider be who thus hurried by montalme at the dead of night? there was one person in the castle whose faith was firm as a rock in de lancy's truth. this was dame isabella. daily she invented fresh excuses for his remaining away--daily arrayed herself in expectation of his return. for hours together she would grin and curtsey before the mirror, preparing for her advent at court. * * * * * one day when blanche, with her hands in her lap, sat brooding, dame isabella rushed to her, exclaiming, "blanche! blanche! quick, the royal hunting party is coming by the castle!" blanche trembled, for she knew that he must be among the king's retinue. she stepped to the window. like a gold embroidered thundercloud, the hunting-party whirled out of the distance and drew nearer. horns sounded and rapid hoof-beats vibrated on the air. as they approached, a good chance was afforded to see the costly apparel of the ladies, and also of the gentlemen, of whom an old chronicler of the times avers, not without point, that some among them wore their lands and castles on their shoulders. they fluttered by like a glittering swarm of birds of paradise. blanche stretched her little head forward--there he was--one of the first! he did not even look up--but rushed by like a storm-wind, his face turned to a blonde, regal lady, and looking proud and imposing indeed. blanche staggered back. what could there have been in that brilliant throng of further interest to her? dame isabella, however, lingered at the window, and grinned and bowed with might and main, while her huge head-gear rocked comically back and forth. and now the king approached on a milk-white steed with scarlet velvet, gold-embroidered housings. he looked up, and was reminded of an amusing picture which de lancy, on his return to court, when questioned by the ladies as to the adventure which had detained him so long away, had drawn of a worthy old scarecrow who tended his wounds in montalme. the existence of the lovely maiden blanche he had deemed it wisest to conceal. stifling a laugh, francis returned dame isabella's greeting with roguish exaggeration, then turning, whispered to those nearest him, whereupon they also looked up, and being greeted by her, the entire retinue stopped a minute to inspect the self-satisfied old monstrosity. but they did not all possess the amiable courtesy which distinguished the king even in his unrestrained naughtiness. one of the ladies smiled, another laughed, and, like a spark in a ton of powder, this laugh was enough to set off the kindling stuff of repressed hilarity which at once exploded. so pointed were the looks--so hearty the laughter of the party--that even the self-admiring isabella could not in the slightest degree be deceived as to the cause of their merriment. mortified, she drew back out of sight, and the hunting party passed on. yet at a distance the sound of the continued laughter was audible. dame isabella was furious. "they laughed at me, they pointed at me with their fingers!" she repeated, over and over again, her corpulent figure, and especially her double chin, trembling in a remarkable way; and utterly forgetting her former admiration of the court, she added, "the disorderly mob! the base women!" blanche, who, with her elbows in her hands, was staring straight before her like one stunned, thought, "perhaps he is laughing at me too!" and thought these words aloud; since she had been so absorbed in sorrow and longing she had often uttered whole sentences like one in a feverish dream. "that you may be sure of!" said dame isabella, in a huff, and rustled out of the room to lay aside once and for all the ugly headgear which she had had a chance to observe was in appalling contradiction to the prevailing style. she distinctly recalled henri de lancy's expressed admiration for this same head ornament. now she knew that he had been making fun of her, and anger and resentment gnawed at her heart. it chanced that on the following day two mendicant friars sought admission to the castle. dame isabella asked to have these bare-footed martyrs conducted to her room, welcomed them hospitably and in the most respectful manner; in the first place because she was pious, but in the second because these wandering monks served as a kind of peripatetic newspaper; for which their roving life afforded them sufficient variety of material. thus the lady obtained the most precise information about the frivolities of the king and his rollicking companions, especially the handsome de lancy, who, she was told, among all these lawless revellers was the worst. he was not only following the royal example to the last extent (the monks exaggerated perhaps a trifle, seeing how much it pleased their listener), but of late he had actually formed a liaison with a married woman, the countess de sologne, whom, as she was carefully guarded by her husband's jealousy, he visited secretly at night. and they ended by saying, "it would not surprise us if the castle lady heard the reckless knight ride by, since it was the shortest way to laemort, the hereditary seat of the solognes." we may rest assured that dame isabella gave the monks for this precious communication plenty of money to spend on their way. possessed of her glorious bit of knowledge, she was dying to tell it, and seeing blanche at the chess-board, opposite her uncle, who exerted himself all the time to try to distract her thoughts, she began immediately to relate what she had heard. they were not prudish in those days, and if here and there one cared to preserve the innocence of a young girl, that blissful ignorance was by no means maintained which to-day is held peculiarly sacred and inviolate. dame isabella repeated word for word all she had heard of the shameful proceedings which hourly went on in the castle of amboise, and of the startling depravity of henri de lancy. in vain gottfried attempted, by his displeased looks, to silence her; she went on further, and advised blanche to rejoice that she had escaped the danger of becoming the wife of this vicious fellow. blanche sat stiff and straight, not uttering a word, and continued to shove the little ivory figures slowly over the board--that she made the castle execute the peculiar leaps of the knight, isabella did not notice. but when she finished by saying that they might hear henri de lancy ride by nightly, since the nearest way to his beloved duchess led by montalme, they suddenly heard a painful quiver like the dropping of a little bird which had been shot through the heart. blanche had fainted and fallen. "cruel woman!" exclaimed gottfried, furiously, "must you tell? i could be silent!" he had long known of henri's infidelity. consciousness soon returned to the poor girl, and with it the recollection of her sorrow. blanche longed to lose herself again, but the blessing was denied her. not even the repose of sleep did heaven grant her. she would lie awake, listening feverishly the whole night; but no sound disturbed the deathlike stillness either the first or the second night. during the day blanche dragged herself from room to room, as if her once flying feet were weighted with lead, but most of the time she sat stiffly erect with her hands lying helplessly in her lap, staring before her with glazed eyes. the third day was drawing to a close. gottfried came in, and, seating himself beside her, inquired after her health. she replied there was nothing the matter with her, but at the same time crept close to him like a very sick child, and he, who had usually repulsed her innocent caresses, now put his arm around her slender body and laid her little head tenderly on his shoulder; he no longer thought of his own pain, but of hers. she begged him to tell her a story, as a sick child begs for a cradle-song. he had told her many a tale in bygone days, yet of all she liked best to hear of his own adventures and what he himself had seen. therefore he asked now, "a true story, my jewel?" she shuddered, "oh, no! no! a fiction, my uncle, pray!" he passed his hand thoughtfully over his brow. nothing occurred to him but a little legend which had been told him by a half-crazy monk who was crouching on the steps of the milan cathedral, and with a somewhat tremulous voice he began: "it happens occasionally that in the midst of the blessedness of heaven an angel looking down yearns for earth, which seems attractive in the enchantment of distance. then st. peter, at the almighty's command, grudgingly opens the gates of heaven a little, and the angel slips through. but however much he exerts himself and beats his wings, the little fluttering things carry him up, and he cannot escape from the spheres of sinless purity which float around paradise. st. peter rattles his bunch of keys and again the gates of heaven open, and now on the threshold stands jesus christ, well-beloved son of the father, and infinitely compassionate son of man, who knows the earth thoroughly. and when the lovely, unwise rebel turns his gold-encircled little head to question him concerning it, he beckons him to come nearer, and smiling lays a warm beating weight on his breast. then he says, 'try it!' "and lo! when now the angel attempts to lift his wings the little weight which jesus christ has laid on his breast draws him down to earth--for the weight is a human heart. slowly, slowly he descends from the spheres until he lands on a green meadow. there he sinks into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when he awakes he has lost his wings, forgotten his heavenly origin, and has become a man--only with an intense longing in his soul for virtue and purity, which he is not himself aware is homesickness; holiness, happiness, heaven, and home being to him unconsciously one and the same thing. yet but now howe'er much his yearning may hurry him upward again, his heart chains him fast to the earth and he cannot return to his radiant home until a great human grief has broken the heart which was laid on his breast. then our lord jesus christ glides downward to earth--takes the poor rebel in his arms and carries him back to paradise." gottfried paused. blanche was silent a moment, then she sighed, "your story is sad, almost as sad as if it were a true one!" to which gottfried replied, "but it has a lovely ending!" the sad maiden, however, was perfectly silent, and looking into her melancholy eyes he discerned a doubt in them if even the joy of heaven could compensate for that which we suffer and are deprived of on earth. after a little while blanche began, "is the dear god then displeased if an angel looking down yearns for the earth?" "no," murmured gottfried, "but he is sad, very sad!" x for two nights she had had no sleep; on the third she was exhausted and slept soundly, and dreamed a sweet--wonderfully sweet dream. it seemed to her that she met her beloved in the garden. a delicious perfume was wafted from the crown of the lindens, soft greenish shadows spread twilight over the earth, and all nature, as in measureless rapture, held its breath, no lightest touch of air stirred--she lay in his arms, love-enchanted and his lips closed her mouth. thus she dreamed--when suddenly she sprang up as if one had struck her heart with an iron hammer. was not that the sound of a horse's hoof which broke on the stillness of night? in her long white nightdress she flew to the window. she recognised him, notwithstanding the speed of his horse, and in spite of the curtain of darkness with which midnight sought to veil his figure. she bent far over the window-breasting and stretched out her arms; a frightful longing confused her senses, and she sang--poor child!--without knowing what the words meant: "si tu veux m'apaiser redonne--moi la vie par l'esprit d'un baiser. "heureux sera le jour quand je mourrai d'amour!" louder and louder the voice swelled out, piercing as a cry of anguish; yet full of a powerful sweetness the song echoed through the sultry stillness of night. it struck the ear of the rider. he checked his horse, looked around him, and then spurred the animal anew until he leaped wildly on. she bent forward--farther forward,--"plus d'espoir!" she groaned. her heart was so heavy, so heavy! beneath, the dew glistened like a silver sheen over the azure fields, out of which an angel seemed calling her to "cool rest--cool rest!" she bent forward--forward! and then fell many, many fathoms deep into the moat below. * * * * * the heavy fall was heard in the castle, and soon the servants with torches hurried forth to see what had happened. there, below, glimmered something white as a blossom broken off by the storm. they climbed down. the light of the torches played over a pale, lovely face which smiled in death. she was not disfigured, not a particle of dust, not a speck of mud or soil of earth, adhered to her white garment, although she had fallen among plants growing in the mud. in spotless purity the white folds wound about her beautiful limbs. and when the people saw this, they marvelled, and said, "a miracle!" then one pressed through the throng, deathly pale with distorted face--henri de lancy! but gottfried coldly turned him away from the dead maiden. right tenderly the old soldier lifted the lovely body in his arms, murmuring: "her heart was broken--she is released!" xi it was an age full of horrors, when the noblest blood of illustrious hellenism rose up to face a background of battles, orgies, and pulpit harangues. it was not only a period in which lorenzo de' medici, in disguise and at the head of a bacchanalian troop tore through the streets of florence; benvenuto cellini stabbed his enemies at the street corners; pope leo at a cardinal's supper presented a sacrifice of doves to the goddess of love upon a white marble altar, and offered to his favourite, raphael, a cardinal's hat in payment of his bills--but a time also when savonarola preached the loftiest asceticism; rabelais, in the midst of his obscene rhapsodies, created the wonderful idyl of l'abbaye de telesme; fra angelico on his knees painted his picture of christ, and the triumphal procession of an emperor ended in a monastery! a time full of enigmas! and among the many enigmas which lived in it, was one of a sad, silent monk, of whom his cloister-brethren asserted that he once had led a very dissolute life, but now was the most absorbed _dèvoté_. and whilst king francis, at variance with himself and the world, tried to maintain, even to the end, the appearance of ostentatious levity, and to win fresh renown as a patron of art, and to console himself for his lost self-respect with the flatteries of the duchess d'etampes, this monk devoted every single hour which remained to him, after the barest satisfaction of his physical needs, and the fulfilment of his religious duties, to one and the same work,--a sweet girl's head,--which he, with his slender, effeminate, courtier's hand, formed out of wax after a death mask, and ever again re-formed, and could never finish to his own satisfaction. discouraged, disappointed, he destroyed each day the work of the preceding until finally, in the very last year of his life he became more tranquil, and then under his never-weary hands arose an exquisite maiden's head with a sweet, thoughtful expression of face,--the little head bent forward as if listening to a great joy, yet weighed down by the presentiment of a terrible pain! and he worked at the head on his knees, like fra angelico at his ecstatic pictures of saints, and he coloured it most beautifully--but still, not as if it were the head of a living maiden, but as of one who had died in the freshness of youth. when he succeeded, he smiled and closed his eyes for ever. xii after long wanderings, the bust has found a resting-place in the museum at lille. full of a dreamy pathos, it stands in its glass case--an atonement for love betrayed--in memory of the bitterest repentance. as the embodiment of an old legend, it interests us and seems to say: "a tear for blanche of montalme; for henri de lancy--a prayer!" transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/ourownsetanovel schugoog our own set a novel by ossip schubin from the german by clara bell revised and corrected in the united states new york william s. gottsberger, publisher murray street entered according to act of congress, in the year by william s. gottsberger in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington this translation was made expressly for the publisher press of william s. gottsberger new york our own set part i. the carnival. chapter i. at rome in . roman society was already divided into "_le monde noir_" and "_le monde blanc_" which as yet gave no sign of amalgamation into a "_monde gris_." his holiness the pope had entrenched himself in the vatican behind his prestige of martyrdom; and the king already held his court at the quirinal. among the distinguished austrians who were spending the winter in rome were the otto ilsenberghs. otto ilsenbergh, one of the leading members of the austrian feudal aristocracy, was in rome professedly for his health, but in reality solely in order to avail himself of the resources of the vatican library in compiling that work on the history of miracle which he has lately given to the world under a quaint pseudonym. he and his wife with a troup of red-haired ilsenberghs, big and little, inhabited a straggling, historical palazzo on the corso, with a glacial stone staircase and vast drawing-rooms which looked more fit for the meetings of conspirators than for innocent tea-drinkings and dances. the countess was "at home" every evening when there was no better amusement to be had. she was by birth a princess auerstein, of the auerstein-zolling branch, in which--as we all know--the women are remarkable for their white eyebrows and their strict morality. the ilsenbergh _salon_ was much frequented; the prevailing tone was by no means formal; smoking was allowed in the drawing-room--nay the countess herself smoked: to be precise she smoked _regalias_. it was in the beginning of december; a wet evening and the heavy drops splashed against the window panes. count ilsenbergh was sitting in an immense reception-room decorated with frescoes, at a _buhl_ table, evidently constructed for no more arduous duties than the evolution of love letters. he was absorbed in the concoction of an article for "our times." a paper of strictly aristocratic-conservative tendencies, patronized by himself, taken in by his fellow-aristocrats, but read by absolutely no one--excepting the liberal newspaper writers when in search of reactionary perversities. count ilsenbergh was in great trouble; the austrian ministry had crowned their distinguished achievements by one even more distinguished--for the fourth time within three years a new era was announced, and in defiance of prejudice a spick-and-span liberal ministry was being composed, destined no doubt to establish the prosperity of the austrian people on a permanent basis--and beyond a doubt to cause a fresh importation of "excellencies" into the fashionable _salons_ of the ringstrasse at vienna. count ilsenbergh was prophesying the end of all things. the countess was sitting at her ease on a sofa close to the fire-place, with its renaissance chimaeras of white marble. the handsomest editions of the works of ampère and mommsen lay on the tables, but she held on her lap a ragged volume of a novel from a circulating library. she was a tall, fair woman with a high color and apricot-colored hair, a languid figure, slender extremities and insignificant features; she spoke french and german alike with a strong viennese accent, dressed unfashionably, and moved awkwardly; still, no one who knew what was what, could fail to see that she was a lady and an aristocrat. at all court functions she was an imposing figure, she never stumbled over her train and wore the family diamonds with stately indifference. the portière was lifted and general von klinger was announced. general von klinger was an old austrian soldier whose good fortune it had been to have an opportunity of distinguishing himself with his cavalry at sadowa, after which, righteously wroth at the national disaster, he had laid down his sword and retired with his general's rank to devote himself wholly to painting. even as a soldier he had enjoyed a reputation as a genius and had covered himself with glory by the way in which he could sketch, with his gold-cased pencil on the back of an old letter or a visiting-card, a galloping horse and a jockey bending over its mane; a work of art especially admired for the rapidity with which it was executed. since then he had studied art in paris, had three times had his pictures refused at the _salon_ and had succeeded in persuading himself that this was a distinction--in which he found a parallel in rousseau, delacroix and fifty fellow-victims who had been obliged to submit to a similar rebuff. then he had come to rome, an unappreciated genius, and had established himself in a magnificent studio in the piazza navona, which he threw open to the public every day from three till five and which became a popular rendezvous for the fashionable world. they laughed at the old soldier's artistic pretensions, but they could not laugh at him. he was in every sense of the word a gentleman. like many an old bachelor who cherishes the memory of an unsuccessful love affair in early life, he covered a sentimental vein by a biting tongue--a pessimist idealist perhaps describes him. he was handsome and upright, with a stiffly starched shirt collar and romantic dark eyes--a thorough old soldier and a favorite with all the fine ladies of roman society. "it is very nice of you to have thought of us," said the countess greeting him heartily; "it is dreadful weather too--come and warm yourself." the count looked up from his writing: "how are you general?" he said, and then went on with his article, adding: "such an old friend as you are will allow me to go on with my work; only a few lines--half a dozen words. these are grave times, when every man must hold his own in the ranks!"--and the forlorn hope of the feudal cause dipped his pen in the ink with a sigh. the general begged him not to disturb himself, the countess said a few words about some musical soirée, and presently her husband ended his page with an emphatic flourish, exclaiming: "that will give them something to think about!" and came to join them by the fire. a carriage was heard to draw up in the street. "that may be truyn, he arrived yesterday," observed the countess, and count truyn was in fact announced. erich truyn was at that time a man of rather more than thirty with hair prematurely gray and a glance of frosty indifference. people said he had been iced, for he always looked as though he had been frozen to the marrow in sublime superiority; his frigid exterior had won him a reputation for excessive pride, and totally belied the man. he was an uncommonly kind and noble-hearted soul, and what passed for pride was merely the shrinking of a sensitive nature which had now and again exposed itself to ridicule, perhaps by some outburst of high-flown idealism, and which now sought only to hide its sanctuary from the desecration of the multitude. "ah! truyn, at last, and how are you?" cried the countess with sincere pleasure. "much as ever," replied truyn. "and where is your wife?" asked ilsenbergh. "i do not know." "is she still at nice?" "i do not know." and as he spoke his expression was colder and more set than before. "are you to be long in rome?" said the countess, anxious to divert the conversation into a more pleasing channel. "as long as my little companion likes and it suits her," answered truyn. his 'little companion' always meant his only child, a girl of about twelve. "you must bring gabrielle to see me very soon," said the lady. "my mimi and lintschi are of the same age." "i will bring her as soon as possible; unluckily she is so very shy she cannot bear strangers. but she has quite lost her heart to the general and to our cousin sempaly." "what, nicki!" exclaimed the countess. "do you mean that he has the patience to devote himself to children?" "he has a peculiar talent for it. he dined with us to-day." "he is an unaccountable creature!" sighed the countess. "he hardly ever comes near us." at this moment a quick step was heard outside and count sempaly was announced. "_lupus in fabula!_" remarked ilsenbergh. the new-comer was a young man of eight or nine and twenty, not tall, but powerfully though slightly built; his remarkably handsome, well-cut features and clear brown complexion were beautified by a most engaging smile, and by fine blue eyes with dark lashes and shaded lids. under cover of that smile he could say the most audacious things, and whether the glance of those eyes were a lightning flash or a sunbeam no one had ever been quite certain. he gallantly kissed the tips of the countess's fingers, nodded to the men with a sort of brusque heartiness, and then seated himself on a cushion at the lady's feet. "well, it is a mercy to be allowed to see you at last; you really do not come often enough, nicki; and in society i hardly ever meet you," complained the countess in a tone of kindly reproof. "why do you so seldom appear in the respectable world?" "because he is better amused in the other world!" said ilsenbergh with a giggle in an undertone. but a reproachful glance from his wife warned him to be sober. "i simply have not the time for it," said sempaly half laughing. "i have too much to do." "too much to do!" said truyn with his quiet irony.... "in diplomacy?--what is the latest news?" "a remarkable article in the '_temps_' on the great washing-basin question," replied sempaly with mock gravity. "the washing-basin question!" repeated the others puzzled. "yes," continued sempaly. "the state of affairs is this: when, not long since, the young duke of b---- was required to serve under the conscription, his feelings were deeply hurt by the fact that he had not only to live in barracks, but to wash at the pump like a common soldier. this so outraged his mamma that she went to the minister of war to petition that her son might have a separate washing-basin; but after serious discussion her application was refused. it was decided that this separate washing-basin would be a breach of the immortal principles of ' ." "it is hardly credible!" observed truyn; ilsenbergh shrugged his shoulders and the countess innocently asked: "what are the immortal principles of ' ?" "a sort of ideal convention between the aristocracy and the canaille," said sempaly coolly. "or if you prefer it, the first steps towards the abdication of privilege at the feet of the higher humanity," he added with a smile. the countess was no wiser than before, sempaly laughed maliciously as he fanned himself with a japanese screen, and ilsenbergh said: "then you are a democrat, sempaly?" "from a bird's-eye point of view," added truyn drily; he had not much faith in his cousin's liberalism. "i am always a democrat when i have just been reading 'the dark ages,'" said sempaly--'the dark ages' was the name he chose to give to ilsenbergh's newspaper.--"besides, joking apart, i am really a liberal, though i own i am uneasy at the growing power of the radicals. by the bye, i had nearly forgotten to give you two items of news that will delight you fritzi,"--addressing the countess. "the reds have won all the paris elections, and at madrid they have been shooting at the king." "horrible!" exclaimed the countess, and she shuddered, "we shall see the commune again before long." "' ," said truyn, with his tone of dry irony. "we really ought to draw a cordon round the austrian throne to protect it against the pestilential flood of democracy," said sempaly very gravely. "ilsenbergh you must petition the upper house." "your jokes are very much out of place," said the countess, "the matter is serious." "oh, no! not for us," said truyn. "our people are too long suffering." "they are sound at the core," interrupted ilsenbergh with dramatic emphasis. "they do not yet know the meaning of liberty," said sempaly laughing, "and to them equality is a mere abstraction--a metaphysical delicacy." "they are thoroughly good and loyal!" exclaimed ilsenbergh, "and they know...." "oh!" cried sempaly, "they know very little and that is your safeguard. when once their eyes are opened your life will cease to be secure. if i had been a bricklayer i should certainly have been a socialist," and he crossed his arms and looked defiantly at his audience. "a socialist!" cried ilsenbergh indignantly. "you!--never. no, you could not have been a socialist; your religious feelings would have preserved you from such wickedness!" "hm!" replied sempaly suspiciously, and truyn said with a twist of his lips: "as a bricklayer sempaly might not have been so religious; he might have found some difficulty in worshipping a god who had treated him so scurvily." "hush, truyn!" exclaimed sempaly, somewhat anxiously to his cousin. "you know i dislike all such discussions." "true. i remember you wear catholic blinkers and are always nervous about your beliefs; and you would not like to feel any doubt as to the unlimited prolongation of your comfortable little existence," said truyn in a tone of grave and languid banter. for sempaly was not burthened with religion, though, like many folks to whom life is easy, he clung desperately to a hope in a future life, for which reason he affected 'catholic blinkers' and would not have opened a page of strauss for the world. "the sword is at our breast!" sighed the countess still sunk in dark forebodings. "this new ministry!..." and she shook her head. "it will do no harm beyond producing a few dreary articles in the papers and inundating us with new acts which the crown will not trouble itself about for a moment," observed sempaly. "the austrian mob are gnashing their teeth already!" said the lady. "nonsense! the austrian mob is a very good dog at bottom; it will not bite till you forbid it to lick your hands," said her cousin calmly. "i should dislike one as much as the other," said the countess, looking complacently at her slender white fingers. "but tell us, nicki," asked ilsenbergh, "has not the change of ministry put a stop to your chances of promotion?" sempaly was in fact an apprentice in the roman branch of the great austrian political incubator. "of course," replied sempaly. "i had hoped to be sent to london as secretary; but one of our secretaries here is to go to england, and the democrats are sending us one of their own protégés in his place. my chief told me so this morning." "oh! who is our new secretary?" asked the countess much interested. "if he is a protégé of those creatures he must be a terrible specimen." "he is one sterzl--and highly recommended; he comes from teheran where he has distinguished himself greatly," said sempaly. "sterzl!" repeated ilsenbergh scornfully. "sterzl!" cried the lady in disgust. "it is to be hoped he has no wife,--that would crown all." "on that point i can reassure you," said the general; "sterzl is unmarried." "you know him?" murmured the countess slightly abashed. "he is the son of one of my dearest friends--a fellow-officer," replied the general, "and if he has grown up as he promised he must be a man of talent and character--his abilities were brilliant." "that is something at any rate," ilsenbergh condescended to say. "yes, so it strikes me," added sempaly; "we require one man who knows what work means." "i was promised that my nephew should have the appointment," muttered the countess. "it is disgusting!" "utterly!" said sempaly with a whimsical intonation. "a foreign element is always intrusive; we are much more comfortable among ourselves." tea was now brought in on a japanese table and the secretary and his inferior birth were for the time forgotten. chapter ii. sempaly was not merely affecting the democrat to annoy his cousin the countess; he firmly believed himself to be a liberal because he laughed at conservatism, and regarded the nobility as a time-honored structure--a relic of the past, like the pyramids, only not quite so perdurable. but in spite of his theoretical respect for the rights of man and his satirical contempt for the claims of privilege, sempaly was really less tolerant than his cousin of "the dark ages." ilsenbergh, with all his feudal crotchets, was an aristocrat only from a sense of fitness while sempaly was an aristocrat by instinct; ilsenbergh's pride of rank was an affair of party and dignity, sempaly's was a matter of superfine nerves. a few days after this conversation sempaly met the general and told him that the new secretary had arrived, adding with a smile: "i do not think he will do!" "why not?" asked the general. "he speaks very bad french and he knows nothing about _bric-à-brac_," replied sempaly with perfect gravity. "i introduced him yesterday to madame de gandry and he had hardly turned his back when she asked me--she is the daughter of a leather-seller at lille, you know--'is he a man of family?'--and would you believe it, i could not tell her. that is the sort of thing i never know." then he added with a singular smile: "his name is cecil--cecil maria. cecil maria sterzl! it sounds well do not you think?" cecil maria! it was a ridiculous name and ill-suited the man. his father had been an officer of dragoons who had retired early to become a country gentleman--the dearest dream of the retired officer; his mother was a faded fräulein von ---- who had all her linen--not merely for her trousseau but all she ever purchased--marked with _her_ coronet, who stuck up a flag on the turret of their little country house with _her_ arms, and insisted on being addressed as baroness--which she never had been--by all her acquaintance. when, within a year of her marriage, she became the mother of a fine boy it was a burning question what his name should be. "cecil maria," lisped the lady. "nonsense! the boy shall be called anthony after his grandfather," said his father, and the mother burst into tears. what man can resist the tears of the mother of his first-born? the child was christened cecil. his father died at the early age of forty; his youngest child, a little girl whom he worshipped, was dangerously ill of scarlet fever and he fell a victim to his devotion to her. cecil was at that time a pretty but rather delicate boy, with an intense contempt for the french language which his sister's governess tried to instil into him, and a pronounced preference for the society of the stable-lads and peasant boys; the baroness was always complaining that he was dirty and did not care to keep his hands white. the guardianship of the orphans devolved on general sterzl, their father's elder brother, who honestly did his best for them, managing their little fortune with care, and conscientiously directing their education. after a brief but keen inspection of the clever spoilt boy, of his silly mother, and of his cringing tutor, he shrugged his shoulders over this country gentleman's life and placed the lad in the _theresianum_, a college which in the estimation of every austrian officer is the first educational establishment in the world--provided, that is to say, that he himself was not brought up there. during the first six months cecil was boundlessly miserable. all his life long till now he had been accustomed to be first; and it was hard suddenly to find himself last. although his abilities were superior his neglected education placed him far below most of his companions, and besides this he was, as it happened, the only boy not of noble birth in this fashionable college, with the exception of a young tyrolese whose descent was illegitimate, though he nevertheless was always boasting of his family. then his companions laughed at his provincial accent, at his want of strength and at his queer name. we have all in our turn had to submit to this rough jesting. he could not for a long time get accustomed to it, and during the first half-year he incessantly plagued his mother and guardian to release him from what he called a prison; but they remained deaf to his entreaties. the visible outcome, when cecil went home for the summer holidays, was a very subdued frame of mind, and nicely kept, long white nails. the next term began with his giving a sound thrashing to the odious tyrolese who bored the whole school with his endless bragging and airs. this made him immensely popular; then he began to work in earnest; his masters praised his industry--and his complaints ceased. had the subtle poison of pretentious vanity which infected the whole college crept into his veins? had he begun to find a charm in hearing mass read on sundays and highdays by a bishop? to be waited on by servants in livery, to learn to dance from the same teacher who gave lessons at court, and to call the titled youth of the empire '_du_'? it is difficult to say. he seemed perfectly indifferent to all these privileges and assumed no airs or affectations.--his pride was of a fiercer temper. he finished his education by learning eastern languages, passed brilliantly, and, still aided by his uncle, went in for diplomacy. he was sent to an asiatic capital which was just then undergoing a visitation of cholera and revolution; there again he distinguished himself and was decorated with the order of the iron crown. one thing was soon very evident to every one in rome: the new secretary was not a man whose character could be summed up in an epigram. there was nothing commonplace or pretty in the man. externally he was tall and broad shouldered, with a well set carriage that gave him the air of a soldier in _mufti_; his hair was brown and close-cropped and his features sharply cut. in manner he was awkward but perfectly well-bred, unpretentious and simple. the ambassador's verdict on the new secretary was very different from sempaly's. "he is my best worker," said his excellency: "a wonderful worker, and a long head--extraordinarily capable; but not pliant enough--not pliant enough...." nor was it only with his superiors that he found favor; the younger officials with whom he came in contact were soon on the best terms with him. he had one peculiarity, very rare in men who take life so seriously as he did: he never quibbled. the embassy at rome at that time swarmed to such an extent with handsome, fashionable idlers that the palazzo di venezia was like a superior school for fine ladies with moustaches--as sempaly aptly said. sterzl looked on at their feeble doings with indulgent good humor; it was impossible to hope for any definite views or action from these young gentlemen; it would have been as wise to try to make butterflies do the work of ants. he himself was always ready to make good their neglect and gave them every liberty for their amusements. he wished to work, to make his mark--that was his business; to fritter away life and enjoy themselves was theirs. thus they agreed to admiration. but though his subalterns were soon his devoted allies, society at large was still disposed to offer him a cold shoulder. his predecessor in office had never pretended to do anything noteworthy as a diplomatist, but he had been an admirable waltzer, and--which was even more important--he had not disdained that social diversion; consequently he had been a favorite with the ladies of rome who loudly bewailed his departure and were not cordial to his successor. sterzl took no pains to fill his place; he had no trace of that obsequious politeness and superficial amiability which make a man popular in general society. his blunt conscientiousness and quite pedantic frankness of speech were displeasing on first acquaintance. in a drawing-room he commonly stood silently observant, or, if he spoke, he said exactly what he thought and expected the same sincerity from others. he could never be brought to understand that the flattery and subterfuge usual in company were merely a degenerate form of love for your neighbor; that the uncompromising truthfulness that he required must result in universal warfare; that the limit-line between sincerity and rudeness, between deference and hypocrisy, have never been rigidly defined; that the naked truth is as much out of place in a drawing-room as a man in his shirt-sleeves; and that, considering the defects and deformities of our souls, we cannot be too thankful that custom prohibits their being displayed without a decent amount of clothing. merciful heaven! what should we see if they were laid bare? no, we cannot live without lying. a man who is used to society demands that it should tell lies, it is his right, and a courtesy to which he has every claim. when a man finds that society no longer thinks him worth lying to his part is played out and he had better vanish from the scene. in short, sterzl had no sort of success with women; they dubbed him by the nickname of '_le paysan du danube_.' men respected him; they only regretted that he had so many extravagant notions, particularly a morbid touchiness as to matters of honor; however, that is a fault which men do not seriously disapprove of. to sterzl himself it was a matter of entire indifference what was said of him by people who were not his personal friends. for a friend he would go through fire and water, but he would often neglect even to bow to an acquaintance in the street as he walked on, straight to his destination, his head full of grand schemes. he was fully determined to make his mark: to do--perhaps to become--something great ... but.... chapter iii. princess vulpini, who had not escaped the fashionable complaint--the _morbus schliemaniensis_, had found a treasure no further off than in an old-clothes shop in the via aracoeli, where she had bought two wonderful shields from designs, she was assured, of benvenuto cellini's and a fragment of tapestry said to have been designed by raphael, and she had invited a few intimate friends--truyn, sempaly, von klinger, and count siegburg, an austrian attaché, to give their opinion as to the genuineness of her find. she was truyn's sister and a few years younger than he; she had met prince vulpini at vichy when spending a season there with her invalid father and soon afterwards had married him, and now for twelve years she had lived in rome, loving it well, though she never ceased railing at it for sundry inconveniences, was always singing the praises of vienna and would have all her shopping done for her "at home" because she was convinced that nothing was to be had in rome but photographs, antiques and wax-matches. the company had just finished a lively dinner, throughout which they had unanimously abused the new italian ministry; but with the arrival of the coffee and cigarettes they turned to the consideration of the princess's antiquities which she had spread out on the floor for inspection. the gentlemen threw themselves on all-fours to examine the arras and the shields, and pronounced their verdict with conscientious frankness. no one, it seemed, was thoroughly convinced of the authenticity of the treasures but the countess marie schalingen, a lady who had been for some few weeks in rome as the princess's guest; all the others had doubts. the most vigorous sceptic of them all was count siegburg, who, to be sure, was the one who knew least of such matters, but who nevertheless spoke of "electrotype casts and modern imitations" with supreme decisiveness. wips, or more correctly wiprecht siegburg, was the spoilt child of the austrian circle; i doubt whether he could have invented gunpowder, have discovered america, or have proved that the earth goes round, but for work-a-day company he was certainly pleasanter than schwarz, columbus or galileo. he had been attached to the embassy with no hope of his finding a career, but simply to get him away from vienna, where his debts had at last become inconveniently heavy. his widowed mother, after much meditation, had hit upon this admirable plan for checking her son in his extravagance. "you make me quite nervous, siegburg," said the princess at length, "though i know that you have not the faintest glimmering of knowledge on the subject." "perhaps you are right," he answered coolly. "at any rate, i have lost confidence lately in my critical instincts. i always used to think that the genuineness of antiquities was in proportion to their dirt; but now that i have learnt that even the dirt is counterfeit i have lost all basis of judgment." they all laughed at this confession, not so much for its wit as because every one laughed at siegburg's little sallies. they were in the smoking-room, a snug apartment, picturesquely and comfortably furnished with carved wood and oriental cushions. all the party were on the intimate terms of "just ourselves," a mixture of courteous deference and hearty friendliness. the conversation was not precisely learned; on the contrary, there was a certain frivolity in its tone; very bad jokes were perpetrated and some anecdotes related savoring of saint-simon in raciness without any one being scandalized, for they were not in the mood to run every jest to earth, to treat every point by chemical analysis, or take every word literally. superficiality is sometimes a gracious and a blessed thing. "i feel so thoroughly at home to-day--in such an austrian atmosphere...." exclaimed the hostess. "but i have a presentiment that it will not be of long duration. mesdames de gandry and ferguson are dining in this neighborhood...." as she spoke the servant announced prince norina. "'coming events cast their shadows before,'" quoted sempaly; it was well known that when prince norina made his appearance the countess de gandry would soon follow. norina was fat and fair, handsome on the barber's block pattern, and for the last four or five years had been dancing attendance on the french countess. he bowed to the princess, shook hands with the men and was instantly seized upon by the master of the house to listen to a tirade on the latest misdemeanors of the government. vulpini was the blackest of the black, a strong adherent of the pope, though from political rather than religious bias---chiefly indeed as a fanatically exclusive roman, who scorned to make common cause with italy at large, and regarded "_italia unita_" as a wild chimera. prince norina, who had no political convictions, listened to him and nodded assent to anything and everything. the company now adjourned to the drawing-room, a large uncomfortable room furnished in a motley style, partly louis xv. and partly empire, and which opened out of the more splendid salon in which the princess received formally, and the boudoir to which none but her most intimate friends were admitted. the conversation had lost much of its liveliness, and had flattened to a level at which some of the company had taken refuge in photographs when madame de gandry and mrs. ferguson were announced and rustled in. madame de gandry--a pale brunette, interesting rather than pretty, with a turned-up nose and hard bright eyes, noisy and coquettish, inconsiderate and saucy, because she fancied it gave her style--had for the last five years ruled the destinies of prince norina. society had, however, agreed, perhaps for its own convenience, to regard their intimacy as mere good fellowship. the lady was looked upon as one of those giddy creatures who love to sport on the edge of an abyss. mrs. ferguson, the daughter of a hotel-keeper at san francisco and wife of a man whose wealth increased daily, was the exact opposite to madame de gandry--white and pink, with large eyes and sharp little teeth, very slender and flat-figured like many americans. she dyed her hair, rouged, dressed conspicuously, spoke eccentric english and detestable french, sang judic's songs, and had been introduced to roman society by the marchese b---- who had met her at nice. her friendship with madame de gandry had begun on the strength of a landau they had hired between them, had culminated in an opera-box on the same terms, and would probably be destroyed by a lover--in common too. a few gentlemen had also arrived: count de gandry, who looked like a hair-dresser and was suspected of carrying on a covert business as dealer in antiquities; m. dieudonné crespigny de bellancourt, a square-built french diplomatist, the son of a butcher and son-in-law to a duke, etc., etc. the latest bankruptcy, the climate of rome, the excavations, were all discussed. madame de gandry and mrs. ferguson submitted at first to the tedium of a general conversation, but contrived at the same time to attract as much of the men's attention as was possible under the circumstances. soon after eleven the countess ilsenbergh came in; she had come from a grand dinner and looked bored to death. "it really is absurd how one meets every one in rome," she said presently, when she had been questioned as to the how and where of the party she had just quitted. "who do you think i came across to-day, marie?--that lenz girl from vienna; now she is a duchess or a countess montidor--heaven knows which; once, years ago, i had something to do with a charity sale she got up, so now she comes up to me as if i were an old acquaintance and pretends to be intimate, talks of 'we austrians,' and 'at home at vienna.'--amusing, rather?" "poor fritzi! i feel for you!" exclaimed sempaly with a malicious laugh. "but there is a greater treat in store for you. the sterzl women, mother and sister, are coming in a few days." "indeed! that is pleasant certainly!" "why?" asked madame de gandry, throwing herself into the conversation. "are they objectionable people?" "by no means," said the countess quickly. "i believe they are the most respectable people in the world, but--it is a bore to be constantly meeting people here whom one could not possibly recognize in vienna. you should give him a hint, nicki--tell him--explain to him...." "to be sure," said sempaly laughing, "i might say: look here, my good friend, beware of taking your mother and sister out anywhere; my cousin the countess would rather not meet them." the countess shrugged her shoulders and turned away from her flippant interlocutor, tapping her fan impatiently. "do you mean to receive them marie?" she asked. "whom do i not receive?" said the princess in an undertone, with a significant glance. "well i cannot--decidedly not," said the countess excitedly, "though i shall be grieved to annoy sterzl. it will be his own fault entirely if he forces me to explain myself." "do as you think proper," replied her friend, "but you know i am very fond of sterzl; he stands high in my good graces." "what! _le paysan du danube_?" giggled madame de gandry, who had only partly understood the conversation. "sterzl is a man of the highest respectability," said the countess icily; she did not intend to allow that little french woman to laugh at her fellow-countryman, though he was not a man of birth. "_le paysan du danube_ is my particular friend," said the princess with the simple heartiness that was so peculiarly her own. "i am very fond of him; he is quite one of ourselves." "he can have no higher reward on earth," said her brother with good-humored irony. "when my small boy fell and broke his arm, here in this very room, sterzl picked him up, and you should have seen how gently he held my poor darling," added the princess. "that is ample evidence in favor of the fact that his woman-kind are presentable," laughed sempaly. "but allow me to ask," interposed the madame de gandry, "just that i may understand what i am about--these sterzls, they are not in good society in austria?" "our austrian etiquette can afford no standpoint for foreign society," said truyn with unusual sharpness, for he could not endure madame de gandry; "we receive no one who is not by birth one of ourselves." "yes," said sempaly with a keen glance, "austrian society is as exclusive as the house of israel, and scorns proselytes." and the leather-seller's daughter, who had not understood--or not chosen to understand truyn's speech, replied with much presence of mind: "ah, i am glad to know what i am about." siegburg, who was sitting behind her, glanced at sempaly and made an expressive grimace. princess vulpini looked almost spiteful. "i will not leave sterzl in the lurch," she said, "and if his sister is like his description of her...." "he has talked to you about his sister?" interrupted sempaly. "to be sure," said the princess with a smile, "and to you too, i should not wonder, nicki?" "no indeed, he does not show me his sacred places, i am not worthy," replied sempaly. "he only told me that she was coming, and with a very singular smile. hm, hm! he seems to set great store by the young lady and will no doubt look out for a fine match for her. i should not wonder if he had got her here for that express purpose. norina, take care of yourself--forewarned you know...." "mademoiselle sterzl will hardly aspire to a prince's crown!" exclaimed madame de gandry, up in arms to defend her property. "sterzl will not let his sister go for less," asserted sempaly. "do not talk such nonsense," said truyn, to check sempaly's audacity. but sempaly was leaning over a table and scribbling on the back of an old letter; presently he handed the half sheet to the countess ilsenbergh; madame de gandry peeped over her shoulder. "capital!" she exclaimed, "delicious!" sempaly had sketched sterzl as an auctioneer, the hammer in one hand and a fashionably-dressed doll in the other, with all the princes in rome crowded round. in one corner he had written: "this lot--fräulein sterzl--once, twice, thrice...." the sketch was handed round; the likeness of sterzl was unmistakable. soon after the countess ilsenbergh went away, and as the company were not in the best of humors the two friends also withdrew shortly after midnight followed by those gentlemen who had come in their train. "fritzi is really a victim to an _idée fixe_," the princess began when this indiscreet group had departed; "she wants me to entrench myself in dignified reserve against this poor little thing. what harm can the child do me?" "i cannot imagine," said siegburg; "indeed, if she is pretty and has some money, it strikes me i will marry her myself--that will set matters straight" siegburg was fond of talking of the money that his wife must bring him, and liked to air the selfishness of which he was innocent, as very rich folks sometimes make a parade of poverty. "and it was really very stupid of fritzi to ventilate this idiotic nonsense before those two women," added the princess, who was apt to express herself strongly; but nothing that she said ever sounded badly, on the contrary, she lent a grace to whatever she said. "does she think she can make me turn exclusive!" "i hope you observed how that pinchbeck countess was prepared to tread in her footsteps," said seigburg. truyn meanwhile was hunting eagerly about the chimney-shelf and the tables, assisted by the master of the house. "what are you looking for, erich?" asked his sister. "for that sketch of sempaly's. i should not like to leave the thing about. excuse me, nicki, the caricature was capital, i have nothing to say against it, if it had only been among ourselves; but you really ought not to have shown it to strangers. you are so heedless, you do not think of what you are doing." "and what have i done now?" asked sempaly without any trace of annoyance. "you have simply stamped this young girl as an adventuress on the look-out for a husband." "pooh! as if so trifling a jest could be taken in earnest!" said sempaly. they searched everywhere for the caricature but in vain. "i am convinced that wretched woman put it in her pocket!" cried the princess indignantly. that wretched woman was of course madame de gandry. * * * it was true that princess vulpini was very fond of sterzl, and he returned her regard with almost rapturous devotion. in spite of an unpolished and absent manner he had a vein of poetic chivalry and a pure reverence for true and lofty womanhood. he could not think it worth his while to offer to any woman that flattery--often impertinent enough in reality--that gratifies some of the sex, and he had never learnt the a b c of modern gallantry; but in his intercourse with those whom he spoke of as "true women" there was a touch of chivalrous protection and reserved deference. his behavior to them was so full of an old-fashioned courtesy that he was certain to win their favor; he treated them partly like children that must be cared for, and partly like sacred beings before whom we must bow the knee. immediately on his arrival in rome the princess found great pleasure in their acquaintance, she confided to him all her little indignation at this or that grievance in rome, and allowed him to take a variety of small cares off her shoulders, being, as all women of her soft nature are, very fastidious and utterly unpractical. there had been few sweeter girls in the vienna world than the countess marie truyn in her day, and there was not now in all rome a more lovable woman than the princess vulpini. when in the afternoons she drove out in her open carriage, with her four or five children that looked as though they had been stolen straight out of one of kate greenaway's picture books, along the corso to the villa borghese, her fashionable acquaintance, who had brought out their most recent or most fashionable bosom-friend instead of their children, would exclaim: "here comes true happiness!" and the men bowed to her with particular respect, eager to win the friendly and gracious smile that warmed all hearts like a ray of spring sunshine. she had never been a regular beauty and had early lost her youthful freshness and the slim figure that had been almost proverbial. nevertheless her charm was undiminished; her chief ornament, a wonderful abundance of bright brown hair, was as fine as ever and she wore it still, as when a girl of sixteen, simply combed back and gathered into a knot low down at the back. in spite of her faded complexion there was a childlike sweetness in her small round face, with its kind little eyes, its delicate turned-up nose, and soft lips that had no beauty till they smiled. all her movements were simple and graceful and her whole appearance conveyed the impression of exquisite refinement and the loftiest womanliness. her dress was apt to be a little out of fashion, the latest _chic_ never suited her. she was a great reader, even of very solid books, especially affecting natural science; but she retained nevertheless the literal faith of her infancy, and this innocent orthodoxy was part and parcel of the simple fervency of her character. sempaly, who was sincerely attached to her, always spoke of her devout piety as one of her most engaging qualities; he declared that a woman to be truly sympathetic must be religious; that a man may allow himself to profess free thought, but that a sceptical woman was as odious as a woman with a hump. to this observation, which sempaly once threw out in the presence of sterzl, cecil took great exception, though he himself was as devoid of religious beliefs as sempaly himself; he thought it impertinent. "men do not jest about the women whose names are sacred to them," he said with the pedantic chivalry, which always provoked his colleague's opposition. however, sempaly only retorted with a sneering smile and a shrug. chapter iv. a few days after the evening when sempaly had given such brilliant proof of his talent as a caricaturist, general von klinger was sitting in his studio on a divan covered with a picturesque persian rug and endeavoring--having for the moment nothing better to do--to teach his parrot to sing the austrian anthem--a loyal task which the bird, perched on the top of its cage, persistently refused to learn. it was a gorgeous studio, with a coved ceiling painted in fresco and a _rococo_ plaster cornice, the walls hung with old tapestry, eastern stuffs and other "properties." it was so large that men looked like dwarfs in it, and the general's works of art like illustrations cut out of a picture book. the scirocco brooded in the atmosphere and the general was out of sorts; he could not get on with his painting, and though it was now a quarter to five not a visitor had he seen. usually by this hour he had a number--nay sometimes too many. the general often grumbled--to himself of course--at the interruption; but he always enjoyed the little dissipation; it made him melancholy to be left to himself. he was thinking just now how difficult it was to get on as a painter; his coloring was capital--so all his artist friends assured him; but that his drawing left much to be desired he himself confessed. his two strong points were a harmonious effect of grey tone and horses seen from behind. all his pictures returned to him from the exhibitions unsold, excepting one which was purchased by the emperor in consideration of the general's former merits as a soldier rather than of his talents as an artist. the painters who came to smoke his cigarettes accounted for this by saying that his artistic aims were too independent, that he made no concessions to public taste and so could not hope for popularity. he was in the very act of whistling the national anthem for the sixteenth time to the recalcitrant bird, when he heard a knock at the door; he rose to open it and sempaly came in. he had called to inform the general that he had discovered a very fine though much damaged piece of tapestry in a convent, and had bought it for a mere song; he had in fact purchased it for the general because he knew that it was just such a specimen as he had long wished for. "but if you do not care to take it i shall be very glad to keep it," he added. no one had the art of doing an obliging thing with a better grace than he; it was one of his little accomplishments. when they had settled their business sempaly broke into loud lamentations that he was obliged to dine that day at the british embassy, and then to dance at the french ambassador's, and raved about the ideal life led by his friend--he only wished he could lead such a life--in which there were no evening parties, routs, balls or dinners. next he wandered round the room looking at all the studies that hid their faces against the wall. "charming!" "superb!" he kept exclaiming in french, with his austrian accent, from a sheer impulse to say something pleasant--he always tried to make himself pleasant. "why do not you work that thing up?" he said at length, pointing to a sketch on canvas of a group of bashibazouks. "it might sell," replied the artist whose great difficulty always lay in the 'working up,' "but you know i am independent in my aims, i set my face against making concessions to the vulgar; i must work on my own principles and not to pander to the public." sempaly smiled at this profession of faith. "as it is a mere whim with you ever to sell at all," he answered, "my advice is that you should never attempt it, but leave all your works to the nation, so that we may have a _musée wierz_ at vienna." the general assured him that he was quite in earnest in his desire to sell his pictures, but sempaly smiled knowingly. "there was once upon a time," he began, "a cobbler who was a man of genius, but he prided himself on his sense of beauty and his artistic convictions, and he heeded not the requirements of his customers--he would make nothing but greek sandals. he died a beggar, but happy in the consciousness of never having made a concession to the vulgar." the general was on the point of making an indignant reply to this malicious anecdote, when the loud rap was again heard which seems to be traditional at a studio door; it is supposed to be necessary to arouse the artist from his absorption in his work. the general went to admit his visitor. there was a small ante-room between the studio and the stairs. the door was no sooner opened than in flitted a slender creature, fair and blooming, tall, slim, and bewitchingly pretty, in a dark dress and a sealskin jacket. "what, you zinka!" cried the old general delightedly. "this is a surprise! how long have you been in rome?" "only since this morning," answered a gay voice. "and are you alone?" asked the artist in astonishment, as zinka shut the door and went forward into the atelier. "yes, quite alone," she said calmly. "i left the maid at home; she and mamma are fast asleep, resting after their journey. i came alone in a carriage--it was very nice of me do not you think?--why, what a face to make!... and why have you not given me a kiss. uncle klinger?" she stood before him bright and confident, her head a little thrown back, her hands in a tiny muff, gazing at him with surprise in her frank grey eyes. "my dear zinka...." the general began--for, like all conscientious old gentlemen with romantic memories, he was desperately punctilious as to the proprieties when any lady in whom he took an interest was implicated, "i am charmed, delighted to see you.... but in a strange place, where you know no one, and in a strange house where...." "oh, now i understand," cried the girl. "it is not proper!... i shall live to be a hundred before i know exactly what is proper; it is very odd, but uncle sterzl used always to say that it was of no use to worry about it; that if people were ladies and gentlemen everything was proper, and if they were not why it was all the same. but he did not know what he was talking about, it would seem!" and she turned sharply on her heel and made for the door. "but, my dear zinka," cried the general holding her back, "tell me at least where you are living before you whisk off like a whirlwind. do not be so utterly unreasonable." "i am perfectly reasonable," she retorted. she was both embarrassed and angry; her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes full of tears. "it never would have occurred to me certainly that there was anything improper in calling on an old gentleman," and she emphasized the words quite viciously, "in his studio. oh, the vanity of men! who can foresee its limits!--but i am perfectly reasonable, i acknowledge my mistake--simpleton that i am!... and i have been looking forward all day to taking you by surprise. i meant to ask you to dine with us at the hotel de l'europe and to come with me first to the pincio to see the sunset. and these are the thanks i get!... do not trouble yourself to get your hat, it is waste of trouble; i do not want you now. good-bye." and she flew off, her head in the air, without looking back once at the general who dutifully escorted her to the carriage. the old man came back much crest-fallen. a voice greeted him cheerfully: "quite in disgrace, general!" it was sempaly, who had witnessed the whole scene from a recess, and whom the general had entirely forgotten. "so it seems," said he shortly, beginning to scrape his palette. "but tell me who is this despotic little princess?" "who? my god-daughter, zinka sterzl." * * * thunderbolts are out of date, no one believes in them now-a-days; nevertheless it is a fact, which sempaly himself never contradicted, that he fell in love with zinka at first sight. and when a few days after zinka's irruption into the general's studio the old gentleman accepted an invitation to dine with the baroness sterzl at the hotel de l'europe, on entering the room he found, eagerly employed in looking over a quantity of photographs with the young lady--count sempaly. the two gentlemen were the only guests, and yet--or perhaps in consequence--the little party was as gay and pleasant as was possible with so affected and formal a hostess as the "baroness." this lady, a narrow and perverse soul as ever lived, was the very essence of vanity and affectation. she imagined--heaven alone knows on what grounds--that the general had formerly loved her hopelessly, and she always treated him accordingly with a consideration that was intolerably irritating. she had made great strides in the airs of refinement since she and the general had last met--at a time before she, or rather her children, had become rich through an advantageous sale of part of their land, and this of course added to the charms of her society. she was perpetually complaining in a tone of feeble elegance--the sleeping-carriages were intolerable, the seats were so badly stuffed, rome was so dirty, the hotels were so bad, the conveyances so miserable; she brought in the names of all the aristocratic acquaintances they had made at nice, at meran, and at biarritz, and asked--the next day being a saint's day--which church was fit to go to. the vehement old general answered hotly that "god was in them all." but sempaly informed her with the politest gravity that cardinal x---- read mass in the morning at st. peter's and that the music was splendid. "i advise you to try st. peter's." "indeed, is st. peter's possible on a saint's day?" she asked. "the company is usually so mixed in those large churches." the general fairly blushed for her follies on her children's account. "have you forgiven me, zinka?" he said to change the conversation. "as if i had time to trouble myself about your strait-laced proprieties!" exclaimed she, coloring slightly; she evidently did not like this allusion to her little indiscretion: "i have something much worse to think about." "why--what is the matter, sweetheart?" asked her brother, who took everything seriously. "i have lost something," she said in a tone of deep melancholy which evidently covered some jest. "not a four-leaved shamrock or a medal blessed by the pope?" asked the general. "oh, no! something much more important." "your purse!" exclaimed the baroness hastily. but zinka burst out laughing. "no, no, something much greater--you will never guess: rome." on which sterzl, who could never make out what his fascinating little sister would be at, only said: "that is beyond me." but sempaly was sympathetic. "i see you are terribly disappointed," he said, and zinka went on like a person accustomed to be listened to. "yes, ever since i could think at all i have dreamed of rome and longed to see it. my rome was a suburb of heaven, but this rome is a suburb of paris. my rome was glorious and this rome is simply hideous." "do not be flippant, zinka," said the general, who always upheld traditional worship. "well, as a city rome is really very ugly," interposed her brother, "it is more interesting as a museum of antiquities with life-size illustrations. still, you do not know it yet. you have seen nothing as yet...." "but lodgings, you mean," retorted zinka, casting down her eyes with sanctimonious sauciness. "it is dreadful!" the baroness began, "we have been here five days and cannot find an apartment fit to live in. wherever we go there is some drawback; the stairs are too dark, or the entrance is bad, or there is only one door to the salon, or the servants' rooms...." "but my dear zinka," interrupted the general, "if you really have seen nothing of rome excepting the lodgings in the corso, of course...." "oh! but i have seen something else," cried zinka, "indeed, i know my way about rome very well." "in your dreams?" "no, i went yesterday; mamma had a sick headache." "oh! those headaches!" sighed the baroness putting her salts to her nose, "i am a perfect martyr to them!" to have sick headaches and be a strict catholic were marks of good style in the baroness's estimation. sempaly put on a sympathetic expression, but returned at once to the subject in hand. "yes, i know rome very well," zinka went on: "you have only to ask the driver of the street cab no. , and he will tell you. i drove about with him for three hours yesterday. you see, to have been in rome a whole week and to have seen nothing but furnished lodgings was really too bad, so i took advantage of the opportunity when mamma was in bed; i slipped out--you need not make that face, uncle, i took the maid with me--we meant to walk everywhere with a map. of course we lost our way, _cela va sans dire_, and as we were standing helpless, each holding the map by a corner, a driver signed to us--so, with his first finger. in we got and he asked us where we wished to go, but as i had no answer ready he said with the most paternal air: 'ah! the signora wants to see rome--good, i will show her rome!' and he set off, round and round and in and out, all through the city. i was positively giddy with this waltz round all the sights of rome. he showed me a perfect forest of fallen pillars, with images of gods and fragments of sculpture carefully heaped round them, like christmas boxes for lovers of antiquities--'the _campo vaccino_,' he called it--i believe it was the forum; then he pointed out the palace of beatrice cenci, the jews' quarter, the theatre of marcellus, the temple of vesta; and every time he showed me anything he added: 'now am i not a capital guide? many a driver would only take you from place to place, and what would you see? nothing ... a heap of stones ... but i tell you: that is the colisseum, and this is the portico of octavia, and then the stones have some meaning.' and at last he set me down at the door of the hotel and said quite seriously: 'now the signora has seen rome.'" they were now at dessert; the baroness looked anything rather than pleased. "allow me to request," she said, "that for the future in the first place you will not make friends with a common driver and in the second, that you will not drive about rome in a _botta_ (a one horse carriage); it is not at all the thing. you have no sense of fitness whatever." zinka, who was both sensitive and spoilt, colored. "let her be, mother, why should she not learn a little italian and ride in a _botta_? said sterzl, who rubbed his mother the wrong way from morning till night. sempaly took prompt advantage of the situation to whisper to zinka: "i cannot promise to be as good company as your _botta_ driver, but if you will allow me, i will do my best to help you to find the rome you have lost." "are you sure you know your way about?" asked the girl with frank incivility. "i am the _laquais de place_ of the embassy i assure you," replied sempaly laughing; "my only serious occupation consists in showing strangers the sights of rome." after this the evening passed gaily; the baroness made a few idiotic speeches but sempaly forbore to be ironical; he was on his very best behavior, and the baroness was quite taken in by his elaborate reserve. not so sterzl, who was himself too painfully alive to her aristocratic airs and pretensions. however, the society of his sister, whom he adored, had put him into the best of humors; he launched forth a few bitter epigrams against the priesthood, and was satirical about the society of rome, but zinka stopped him every time with some engaging nonsense, and in listening to her chatter he forgot his bitterness. at last he asked her to sing a moravian popular song; she seated herself at the hotel piano and began. there was something mystical in the low veiled tones of her voice like an echo of the past, as she sang the melancholy, dreamy strains of her native land. sterzl, who always yawned all through an opera, listened to her singing, his head resting on his hand, in a sort of ecstasy. in sempaly too, who in spite of his hungarian name was by birth a moravian, zinka's simple melody roused the half-choked echoes of his youth, and when she ceased he thanked her with genuine feeling. zinka's was an april weather nature. after bringing the tears into the eyes of her hearers, nay into her own, with her song, she suddenly struck up an air by lecocq that she had heard judic sing at nice. the words, as was perfectly evident to all the party, were hebrew to the girl, but the baroness was beside herself. "zinka!" she exclaimed in extreme consternation, "you really are incredible--what must these gentlemen think of you!" "do not be in the least uneasy," said the general. but zinka stopped short; her face was pale and quivering; sterzl interposed: "it is often a little difficult to follow my sister's vagaries," he said turning to sempaly; then he tenderly stroked her golden head with his large, firm hand, saying: "do not be unhappy, sweetheart; but you are a little too much of a goose for your age." when presently sempaly had quitted the hotel with the general his first words were: "tell me, how is it that with such a fool of a mother that child has remained so angelically fresh--so _botticelli_?" chapter v. a mine somewhere in poland or bohemia came to grief about this time by some accidental visitation, and five hundred families were left destitute through the disaster. of course the opportunity was immediately seized upon for charitable dissipations, for qualifying for orders of merit by liberal donations, and for attracting the eyes of europe by the most extravagant display of philanthropy. after much deliberation countess ilsenbergh had arrived at the conviction that, as both the ambassadors' families were hindered by mourning from giving any public entertainment, the duty of taking the lead devolved upon her. the rooms in her palazzo were made on purpose for grand festivities, and after endless discussion it was decided that the entertainment should be dramatic. an operetta, a _proverbe_ by musset, and a series of _tableaux vivants_ were finally put in rehearsal and a collection was to be made after the performance. madame de gandry threw herself into the undertaking with the most commendable ardor. she was on intimate terms with the leading spirits at the villa medici--the french academy of arts at rome--and she interested herself in the painting of the scenes, and in the artistic designing of the dresses in which she proved invaluable. up to a certain point all went smoothly. the operetta--an unpublished effort of course--by a russian amateur of rank who was very proud of not even knowing his notes, was soon cast. it needed only three performers and led up to the introduction of an elaborate masquerade and of certain suggestive french songs. mrs. ferguson, who never let slip an opportunity of powdering her hair and sticking on patches, was to sing the soprano part; crespigny took that of a husband or a guardian in a nightcap or flowered dressing-gown, and a young french painter, m. barillat, who was at all times equally ready to sketch or to wear a becoming costume, was to fill that of the lover. the cast of the little french play was equally satisfactory; but when the arrangement of the tableaux came to be considered difficulties arose. in the first place all the ladies were eager to display their charms under the becoming light of a tableau vivant; and the number of volunteers was quite bewildering to the committee of management that met every day at the ilsenberghs' house. then squabbles and dissatisfaction arose; the ladies did not approve of the choice of subjects, they thought their dresses unbecoming, their positions disadvantageous; each one to whom a place at the side was assigned was deeply aggrieved; an unappreciated beauty who prided herself on her profile from the left would not for worlds be seen from the right, etc., etc. and above all--an insuperable difficulty--almost all the available men of the set manifested the greatest objection to 'making themselves ridiculous' and positively rejected the most flattering blandishments of the ladies' committee. sempaly, who had been asked to appear as a roman emperor, would not hear of putting on flesh-colored tights and a wreath of vine; and truyn had shrugged his shoulders at the proposal that he should don a wig with long curls. siegburg--little siegburg, as he was always called, though he was nearly six feet high--after defending himself with considerable humor, good-naturedly agreed to stand as _pierrot_, in a watteau scene in which the vulpini children were to appear; and sterzl, being personally requested by his ambassador, submitted, though with an ill grace, to be the executioner in delaroche's picture of lady jane grey. this tableau was to be the crowning glory of the performance; barillat had taken infinitely more pains with it than with any other; the part of lady jane was to be filled by a fair english girl, lady henrietta stair; and then, within a few days of the performance, lady henrietta fell ill of the measles. the committee were in despair when this news reached them, and all who were concerned in the performance were summoned to meet at the palazzo that evening to talk the matter over. hardly any one was absent; only sterzl, who detested the whole charity scramble, as he called it, sent his excuses. every lady present expected to find herself called upon to stand--or rather to kneel--as lady jane grey; but mrs. ferguson was the first to give utterance to the thought, and to offer herself heroically as lady henrietta's substitute. to the astonishment of all the company sempaly, whose interest in the work of benevolence had hitherto displayed itself only in satirical remarks, and suggestions as to the representation of makart's 'entrance of charles v.' or of siemiradzky's 'living torches,' took an eager part in the discussion. "your self-sacrifice, mrs. ferguson," said he, "is more admirable every day." "dear me," replied the lady innocently, "where is the self-sacrifice in having an old gown cut up into a historical costume?" "that, indeed, would be no sacrifice," said sempaly coolly. "but it must be a sacrifice for a lady to appear in a part that suits her so remarkably ill." mrs. ferguson smiled rather like some pretty little wild beast showing its teeth. "ah!" she said, "i suppose you think i have none of that pathetic grace that m. barillat is so fond of talking about." "no more than of saving grace," said sempaly solemnly. then, while the women were disputing over the matter, he found an opportunity of whispering a few words to barillat; barillat looked up delighted. at this moment they were joined by countess ilsenbergh. "i have another suggestion to offer madame la comtesse; i have thought of some one...." "some newly-imported american," laughed madame de gandry, "or a painter's model with studied grace and yellow hair?" "you may rest assured that i should not for an instant think of proposing to employ a model," barillat emphatically declared; "no, the lady in question is a very charming person: fräulein sterzl. i saw her the day before yesterday at lady julia ellis's; she is an austrian--you must know her surely?" "i have not that pleasure," said the countess drily. "you do not think she will do?" murmured the artist abashed. the countess cleared her throat. "bless me!" cried madame de gandry furious at the pride of her austrian friend, "you take the matter really too much in earnest. why on earth should not the girl act with us? on these occasions, in vienna, as i have been informed, even actors are invited to help." "that is quite different," said the countess. madame de gandry shrugged her shoulders and turned away and the countess beckoned to her cousin sempaly. "i am heartily sick of the whole business," she exclaimed. "at home i have got this sort of thing up a score of times, and everything has gone well ... while here...." "yes, there is more method among us," replied sempaly sympathetically. "the people here are so unmanageable; every one wants to play the best parts," said the countess. "that is the result of the republican element," observed sempaly. "and now there is all this difficulty about the lady jane grey tableau," sighed the countess. "why need that english girl take the measles now, just when she is wanted." "the english are always so inconsiderate," said sempaly gravely. "do you happen to have met this little sterzl girl?" "yes." "what does she look like?" "well, she looks like a very pretty girl...." "and besides that?" "besides that she looks very much like our own girls; it is really a most extraordinary freak of nature! she seems to be very presentable on further acquaintance; princess vulpini is quite in love with her." "indeed!--well, barillat is possessed with the idea of having her to play the part of lady jane grey and in heaven's name let him have his own way!" cried the countess. "if marie vulpini will bring her here i will make the best of it." "what, you mean to say that you will let her figure in your tableau and not invite her mother?" laughed sempaly. "invite her!--to the performance of course. i invite tom, dick, and harry, and all the english parsons and all the foreign artists." "and all their families. fritzi, you are an admirable woman!" retorted sempaly ironically. "but the rehearsals are so perfectly intimate," she murmured. time pressed however. "well, have it so for all i care;" said the countess resignedly and next morning she paid a polite call on the baroness sterzl to request zinka's assistance; and as she had as much tact as pride she had soon reconciled not only zinka, but her sensitive thin-skinned brother, to the fact that the young girl had only been asked at the last moment and under the pressure of necessity to take part in the performance. cecil did not altogether like the idea of displaying his pretty sister in a tableau and only consented because he did not like to deprive zinka of the pleasure which she looked forward to with great delight. he adored the child and could refuse her nothing. the evening of the festival arrived; the performances took place in a vast room almost lined with mirrors and lighted by wonderful venetian chandeliers that hung from the decorated ceiling where frescoes were framed in tasteless gilt scroll work. in spite of its size the room was crowded; the most illustrious of the company sat in solitary dignity in the front row, and behind them was packed a fashionable but somewhat mixed crowd. manly forms of consummate elegance were squeezed against the walls, and the assembly sparkled like a sea of sheeny silks and glittering jewels. princess vulpini, who was helping the countess to do the honors, hovered on the margin, graceful and kindly, but a little pale and tired, and the countess herself reigned supreme in that regal dignity which she could so becomingly assume on fitting occasions. there were very few women who could wear a diamond coronet with such good grace as fritzi ilsenbergh--even her intractable cousin sempaly did her that much justice. the great success of the evening was not the little french play, in which madame de gandry and the all-accomplished barillat made and parried their hits after the accepted methods of the _théatre français_; it was not the operetta, in which mrs. ferguson looked bewitchingly pretty and sang '_le sentier convert_' to admiration; it was not even the children's tableau, in which the little vulpinis looked like a bunch of freshly-gathered roses; the great success of the evening was the tableau of lady jane grey. sterzl's face in this scene was a perfect tragedy, all the misery of an executioner who adores his victim was legible there. and zinka!--gazing up to heaven with ecstatic pathos, her whole attitude expressive of sacred resignation and childlike awe, she was the very embodiment of the hapless and innocent being before whom the executioner lowers his gaze. a string quartet played the _allegretto_ from beethoven's seventh symphony and the melancholy music heightened the effect of the poetical tableau, thrilling the audience like a lullaby sung by angels to soothe the struggling, suffering human soul. the whole artistic corps who had been invited from the villa medici, with the director at their head, unanimously decided that this performance far excelled all that had gone before, and countess ilsenbergh forgot in its success all the annoyance it had occasioned her. after the collection, which produced a magnificent sum, most of the company dispersed. ilsenbergh, with his most feudal smile, expressed his thanks to all the performers in turn and presented elegant bouquets to the ladies. the entertainment lost its formal character and became a social gathering. zinka was sitting in a side room, surrounded by a host of young romans and frenchmen. as she was one of those rare natures who derive not the smallest satisfaction from the homage of men for whom they have no regard, she listened to their enthusiastic compliments with absolute indifference. she had asked for an ice and norina had offered it to her on his knees, remaining in that position to pour out a string of high-flown compliments. zinka, unaccustomed to this southern effusiveness, was remonstrating with some annoyance but without the slightest effect, when sempaly came in and exclaimed in the abrupt tone he commonly used to younger men: "get up, norina, do you not see that your devotion is not appreciated." the prince rose with a scowl, sempaly drew a seat to zinka's side and in five minutes had, as usual, entirely monopolized her. "my cousin the countess owes everything to you," he said in his most musical tones; "you saved the whole thing. i detest all amateur performances, but that tableau of lady jane grey was really beautiful." "i liked the french play very much. madame de gandry's acting was full of spirit." "bah! i have had more than enough of such spirit." "indeed!" laughed she, "it seems to me that you are suffering from general weariness of life. you are blasé." "what do you understand by being blasé?" he asked. "why, that exhaustion of heart and soul which comes of the fatigue produced by a life of perpetual enjoyment; it is i believe an essential element in the character of a man of fashion." "something between a malady and an affectation," remarked sempaly. "just so; in short, to be blasé is the heartsickness of a fop." sempaly glanced at her keenly. "your definition is admirable," he said, "i will make a note of it; but the cap does not fit me. i am not blasé, i am not indifferent to anything. shams, hypocrisy, and meretriciousness irritate me, but when i meet with anything really good or lovely or genuine i can recognize it and admire it--more perhaps than most men." meanwhile the winner of the musical prize from the villa medici had sat down to the piano and plunged straightway out of a maundering improvisation into a waltz by strauss. the countess had no objection if they liked to dance, and several couples were soon spinning under the flaring candles. sempaly rose: "may i have the honor?" he said to zinka, and they went together into the dancing-room. zinka had the pretty peculiarity of turning pale rather than red as she danced; her movements were not sprightly, but gliding and dreamy; in fact she waltzed with uncommon grace. sempaly had long since lost the subaltern's delight in a dance; he only asked ladies who had some special interest or charm for him, and every one knew it. "hm!" said siegburg, shaking his head as he went up to general von klinger who was watching the graceful couple from a recess, "my little game has come to nothing it seems to me." "have you retired then?" asked the general. "by no means--quite the contrary; but my chances are small enough at present i fancy; what do you say?" he looked straight into the old man's eyes; he understood and said nothing. "she dances beautifully, i never saw a girl dance better. how well she holds her head," he murmured. suddenly a flash of amusement lighted up his eyes. "look at fritzi's face!" he exclaimed: "what a horrified expression! a perfect niobe." chapter vi. sempaly's intimacy with the sterzls grew daily; he did the honors of rome to zinka, and dined with them as a fourth two or three times a week. after the tableaux at the ilsenberghs' zinka was asked everywhere; all the men were at her feet, and all the ladies wanted to learn her songs. the men she treated with the utmost indifference and to the ladies she was always obliging, particularly to those whom no one else would take the pains to be civil to, all of which greatly added to her popularity. truyn's little girl--a spoilt, shy thing, who quarrelled with her maid three times a week regularly and insisted on learning everything from latin to water-color drawing, though she would submit to no teacher but her father, perfectly worshipped zinka and to her was as docile as a lamb. princess vulpini was delighted at her influence on her little niece and declared that zinka was a real treasure; and lady julia ellis, who had made the young girl's acquaintance two years since at meran, was proud to take her out. whenever the baroness could not go the english lady was always ready to chaperon zinka, and when lady julia was 'at home' zinka had to help her to receive her guests and to make tea. countess schalingen, a canoness devoted to painting, full of sentimentality and romance, whose ideas had not yet got beyond winterhalter, called zinka 'quite delicious,' took her on excursions, dragged her to all the curiosity-dealers, and finally painted her portrait on a handscreen for princess vulpini--her head and shoulders in gauzy drapery coming out of a lily. before the end of a fortnight a rich american had enquired about her rank and extraction, and the handsome crespigny had learnt all about her fortune. norina paid his court to her when his tyrant's back was turned and mrs. ferguson did her the honor of being madly jealous. but all this did not turn her head, it did not seem even to astonish her; she had always been spoilt and wherever she had gone she had found friends and admirers. when people were kind to her she was delighted, but she would have been much more astonished if they had not been kind. sempaly had called her "_a botticelli_," but the word was only applicable to her mind; in appearance she had none of the ascetic grace of the pre-raphaelites. she was more like the crayon figures of latour, or that typical beauty of the eighteenth century, la lamballe. she had not the bloom of pink and white, but was pale, even in her youthful freshness with soft shadows under her eyes; and her hair, which was thick and waved naturally had reddish lights in the brown. a tender down softened its outline on her temples without shading her forehead, and gave her face a look of peculiar innocence. she was slight but not angular, her arms were long and thin, her hands small and sometimes red. her moods varied between dreamy thoughtfulness and saucy high spirits, her gait was usually free and light but occasionally a little awkward, "like an angel with its wings clipped," sempaly said. she had a low veiled voice in speaking that reminded one of the vibrating tones of an amati violin. she was as wild as a boy, as graceful as a water nixie, and as innocent as a child--with the crude innocence of a girl who has been brought up chiefly by men--and all her ideas had the stamp of dreamy seclusion and fervid sentiment. she had had french and english governesses and had even been to school in a convent for a year; still, the ruling influence in her life had been that of her guardian. general sterzl--an eccentric being with an intense horror of sentimental school-friendships and of the conventional propriety that comes of too early familiarity with the world. it was to him that zinka owed the one good word which countess ilsenbergh spoke in her favor: "one thing must be admitted; she is not affected, she is as natural as one of our own girls." * * * "poor coralie!" the baroness would frequently exclaim, "what a pity that she is not here; what a treat it would be for her!" "yes," sterzl would answer in his dry way, "she was in too great a hurry." and the baroness would cast her eyes up to heaven. coralie was her eldest and favorite daughter. disappointed in her love of some hard-hearted gentleman she had renounced the vanities of the world some three years since, but--like her mother's worthy daughter--even in the depth of her disappointment and despair she had taken care to choose a convent where the recluses were divided into ladies and sisters, where the children who came to school there played hide and seek under a french name, and where being a boarder was called being _en pension_. "poor coralie!" the baroness would sigh; and then seating herself at her writing-table she would scribble endless letters about the delights of a residence at rome to all her friends in austria, and especially to her sister, the baroness wolnitzka. baroness sterzl was a typical specimen of a class of nobility peculiar to austria, and called there, heaven knows why, "the onion nobility" (zwiebelnoblesse). it is a circle that may be described as a branch concern of the best society; a half-blood relation; a mixture of the elements that have been sifted out of the upper aristocracy and of the parvenus from below, who find that they can be reciprocally useful; a circle in which almost every man is a baron, and every woman, without exception, is a baroness. its members are for the most part poor, but refined beyond expression. the mothers scold their children in bad french and talk to their friends in fashionable slang; they give parties, at which there is nothing to eat--but the family plate is displayed, and where the company always consists of the same old bachelors who dye their hair and know the _almanack de gotha_ by heart. everyone is well informed about the doings of the world--how many shifts minnie n. had in her trousseau, why the engagement between fritz o. and lori p. was broken off, and much more to the same effect. of late years the 'onion-nobility,' with various other offshoots of the higher culture, has been swamped by the advance of the liberals, that is to say, by the progress of the financial classes. only a year since the baroness herself had stood on the stairs of the opera-house to watch the occupants of the grand tier--at that time appropriated to the cream of the aristocracy--to take note of aristocratic dresses, and to hear aristocratic nothings from aristocratic lips. now, in rome, she was living in the whirl of society. her satisfaction knew no bounds, and she made daily progress in exclusiveness; the countess ilsenbergh, as compared to her, was a mere bungler. but she was never so amusing to watch as when she met some fellow-countrymen of untitled rank. it happened that this winter there was in rome a certain herr brauer, an old simpleton with a very handsome wife who laid herself open for the admiration of all the young men of any pretensions. being furnished with a few letters of introduction he and his fascinating partner disported themselves very contentedly in the outer circle--the suburbs, so to speak--of good society without having a suspicion how far they were from the centre. baroness sterzl could never cease wondering "how those people could be tolerated." she was always well dressed, she gave capital little dinners, she had the neatest coupé and the most comfortable landau, and her coachman had the cleanest shaved imperial face and the smartest livery in rome. her manners were somewhat changeable, since she was constantly endeavoring to appropriate the airs and graces of the most fashionable women she met. she was extremely unpopular and consequently bored to death wherever she went; she was never quite easy as to her footing in society and lived in the discomfort of a person who is always trying to walk on tiptoe. her sole unqualified pleasure during this period--which, however, she always spoke of as the happiest of her life--was the writing of the above-mentioned letters home, and especially as has been said, to her sister the baroness wolnitzka in bohemia. she craved a public to witness her success and, like all mean natures, she knew no greater joy than that of exciting envy; she would often read these epistles to zinka, for she was very proud of her wordy style. zinka was somewhat disturbed by these flowery compositions which always ended with these words: "what a pity it is that you should not be here. it would give us the greatest pleasure to have you with us." "take care, mamma," said the girl, "they will take you at your word and descend upon us." "what are you dreaming of?" said the baroness folding her letter with the utmost philosophy; "they have no money." chapter vii. hovels deep sunk in the ground, moss-grown thatched roofs, here and there an old lime-tree or a tall pear-tree with crabbed branches standing out black and bare against the wintry sky, slimy puddles, a pond full to the brim in which three forlorn-looking geese are sadly paddling, a swampy road along which a procession of ploughs are splashing their way at the heels of the muddy, unkempt teams--in short, a bohemian village, with a shabby manor-house beyond. over the tumble-down gate-way, with a pigsty on one side and a dog-kennel on the other, hangs a coat of arms. the mansion--a square house with a steep shingle roof--stands, according to the unromantic custom of the country, with one side looking on to the farm-yard; and the drawing-room windows open exactly over an enormous dung heap which a party of women are in the very act of turning with pitch-forks, under the superintendence of a short stout man in a weather-beaten hunting-hat and shooting-coat with padded silk sleeves out of which the wadding is peeping at a hundred holes. he is smoking a pipe with a china bowl decorated with a mincing odalisque. his face is broad and red, his ears purple, and his aspect is anything rather than aristocratic as he stands giggling and jesting with the damsels of the steaming midden. this is baron wolnitzky, a man who, like a good many others, got himself a good deal talked about in and then vanished from the scene without leaving a trace behind. often when we see some dry and barren tree shedding its sere and mouldy leaves in the autumn we find it hard to believe that it bore blossoms in the spring; and the baron was like such a tree. in the spring-tide of --an over-teeming spring throughout europe--his soul too had blossomed. he had had patriotic visions and had uttered them in rhyme, and his country had hailed him as a prophet--perhaps because it needed an idol, or perhaps because in those agitated times it could not tell black from white. in those days he had displayed himself in a magnificent national costume with sleeves of the most elaborate cut, had married a patriotic wife who always dressed in the slav colors: blue, white, and red, and who got two young men, also dressed in slav costume, to mount guard at the door of her house. he was descended from a polish family that had immigrated many generations since and his connections were as far as possible from being aristocratic, while he owed his little fortune entirely to his father who had put no 'baron' before his name, and who had earned it honestly as a master baker. in feudal times it would hardly have occurred to him to furbish up this very doubtful patent of nobility; but in the era of liberty it might pass muster and prove useful. a very shy pedigree serves to shed glory on a democratic martyr. during the insurrection of june he fled with his wife in picturesque disguise; at first to dresden, and then to switzerland where he lived for some time in a boarding-house at geneva, receiving homage as a political refugee, and horrifying the mistress by his enormous appetite. at length he returned to bohemia where the events of forty-eight and its picturesquely aparelled leaders had fallen into oblivion. he retired to his little estate and turned philosopher--philosophy, ever since the days of diogenes, has been the acknowledged refuge of shipwrecked hopes and pretensions. there he went out walking in his shirt sleeves, played cards with the peasants and grew more vulgar, fatter, and hungrier every day; and if he ever had an idea it was unintentionally, in a bad dream after eating too much of some national delicacy. his wife, a robust and worthy soul, though full of absurdities, bore a strong resemblance to the mother of the regent orleans in as much as she had a sound understanding combined with a very sentimental nature, was utterly devoid of tact, bitter to the verge of cynicism, thoroughly indiscreet and a great chatterbox. she resigned herself without demur to the new order of things and brought a new tribe of children into the world, most of whom died young. three survived; two sons, who so far broke through the traditions of the family as to become infantry officers, and one daughter, in whom patriotic romance once more flickered into fanaticism. this girl had been christened bohuslawa, a name which was commonly shortened into slawa, which in the more important dialects of the slav tongue means fame. she, like her mother, was of stalwart build, but her features were regular though statuesque and heavy--she was said to be like the apollo belvedere. she had already had four suitors but neither of them had met her views and now at twenty--having been born in forty-eight--she was spending the winter, unmarried and sorely discontented, in the country, where she occupied herself with serious studies and accepted the attentions of a needy young pole who was devoted to her and in whom she condescended to take some slight interest. but baron wolnitzky is still standing by the midden; the great black dog, which till this moment has never ceased barking at the door of his kennel, now, to introduce some variety into the programme, jumps on to its roof, from which advantageous standpoint he still barks without pause. everything is dripping from the recently-thawed snow, and the air is full of the splash and gurgle of dropping and trickling water; the grey february twilight sinks upon the world and everything looks dingy and soaked. a sound of creaking wheels is heard approaching, and a dung-cart appears in the gate-way. "well, what is going on in the town?" says the baron to the man who comes up to him, wrapped in an evil-smelling sheepskin and with the ears of his fur cap tied under his chin, to kiss his master's elbow. "have you brought the newspapers?" "yes, your grace, my lord baron," says the man, "and a letter too." and he draws a packet tied up in a red and white handkerchief out of a pocket in his sheepskin. the baron looks at the documents. "another letter from rome already," he mutters, grinning; "i must take it in at once that the women may have something to talk about." the women, that is to say his wife and daughter, were sitting in the dining-room at a long table covered with a flowered cloth, on which stood the tea things, a paraffine lamp, and a breadbasket of dull silver filagree work. the lamp was smoking and the table looked as uncomfortable and dingy as the village outside, half-buried in manure. the baroness, in a tan-colored loose gown, in which she looked squarer than ever, without a cap, her thin grey hair cut short, was hunting for the tenth time to-day, on and under every article of furniture, for the key of the storeroom. bohuslawa, meanwhile sat still, with a volume of mickiewicz in her hand, out of which she was reading aloud in rather stumbling polish, with a harsh voice. a young man with a sharp-cut sallow face and long black hair, in a polish braided coat, wide collar and olive-coloured satin cravat, corrected her pronunciation now and then. he was her polish adorer. he was one of that familiar species, the teacher of languages with a romance in the background; he lived in the neighouring town and came every saturday to the village, four railway stations off, to instruct bohuslawa in polish and spend sunday with the family. when the union of these two patriots--which had already been secretly discussed--was to take place, depended on a mysterious law-suit that the young pole was carrying on against the russian government. his name was vladimir de matuschowsky, his grandmother had been a potocka, and when he was not giving lessons, he was meditating conspiracies. "is there nothing else for tea?" asked the baron, casting a doubtful eye on the stale-looking rolls in the bread-basket. "no, the dogs have eaten up the cakes," replied the baroness coolly. she was at the moment on all-fours under the piano, hunting for the key behind the pedal. "you will get an apoplexy," said bohuslawa crossly but without anxiety, and without making the smallest attempt to assist the old lady. but at this instant a housemaid came in with the sought-for key on a bent and copper-colored britannia-metal waiter. "oh, thank heaven!" cried the baroness, "where was the wretched thing?" "in the dog kennel,--your grace, my lady baroness, the puppy had dragged it there." in her love for dogs again the baroness resembled the duchess of orleans; she always had a litter of half a dozen puppies to bring up, and the kennel was a well-known hiding place for everything that could not be found in its right place. "the little rascals!" she exclaimed, with an admiring laugh at the ingenious perversity of her mischievous pets. "bring the sugar then, clara." "i have a surprise for you," growled her husband, "a letter from rome," and he produced the document, with its mixed odors of patchouli and damp sheepskin, and pushed it across to his wife, while he took up the rum bottle to flavor his tea. "from rome!" exclaimed the baroness, "that is delightful. where, oh where are my spectacles?" and she felt and patted herself all over till the superfluous substance shook like a jelly. "ah, here they are--i am sitting on them--now then, children," and she began to read the letter aloud. "dear lotti, you must not take it ill that i so seldom write to you"--the baroness looked up over her spectacles--"so seldom!... she never in her life wrote to me so often as from rome"--"but you cannot imagine the turmoil in which we live. a dinner-party every day, two evening parties and a ball. we are spending the carnival with the _crême de la crême_ of roman society. to-morrow we dine with princess vulpini--she was a truyn and is the sister of truyn of r. the next day we have theatricals, etc., etc. zinka is an immense success. nicki sempaly among others--the brother of prince sempaly, the great landed proprietor--is very attentive to her...." here she was interrupted by her husband. "well, i never thought the old goose was quite such a simpleton!" he exclaimed, drumming his fingers angrily on the red and white flowered cloth. "i cannot imagine how clotilde allows it!" cried the baroness--"and still less do i understand cecil." "take my advice, lotti, go to rome," observed the baron ironically; "go and set their heads straight on their shoulders." "with the greatest pleasure," replied his wife, taking his irony quite seriously, "but unfortunately we have not the money." then she read the letter to the end; like all clotilde's epistles it ended with the words; "what a pity it is that you should not be here too; it would give us the greatest pleasure to have you with us." tea was done; the maid servant cleared the table with a great clatter of cups and spoons, the baron retired to play _bulka_ with his neighbors in the village inn-parlor; the three who were left sat in meditative mood. "i must confess that i should like to go to rome," said the baroness, as she swept the crumbs off her lap on to the floor, "and it would be pleasant, too, to have relations there--for their grand acquaintance i own i do not care a straw." "i do not see why we should avoid all society if we were there," exclaimed slawa hotly. "well, you could do as you liked about it, of course," said the baroness, who held her daughter in the deepest respect, "i could stay at home; you see, my dear vladimir," she added almost condescendingly to her son-in-law _in spe_, "i am uncomfortable in any company where i cannot get into my slippers in the evening...." "mamma!" cried her daughter beside herself, "you really are!..." the baroness sat abashed and silent--no one spoke. there was not a sound in the room but the crackling of the fire in the huge tiled stove and the snoring of the big hunting-dog that lay sleeping on the tail of his mistress's skirt. "if we only could sell the bernini!" murmured the baroness presently, resuming the thread of their conversation. the bernini was a bust of apollo that the baroness had inherited from her mother's family--said to be an adaptation by bernini from the head of the apollo belvedere. whenever the wolnitzkys were in any financial straits the bernini was packed off to some dealer in objects of _vertu_, from which excursions it invariably returned unsold. not many days previously the travelled apollo--he had seen new york, london, and st. petersburg--had come home from a visit to meyer of berlin. "by the bye, vladimir, you have not seen it yet," said slawa, "i must show you the bust." "is it the head that is said to be so strikingly like you?--that will interest me greatly," said the young pole, casting an adoring eye on slawa. "bring the lamp, the bust is in the drawing-room." vladimir, carrying the lamp, led the way into the drawing-room, a large, scantily-furnished room which was never dusted more than once a month. there, on a marble plinth in a corner, stood the radiant god--a copy from the belvedere apollo no doubt--but by bernini...? "the likeness is extraordinary!" cried vladimir ecstatically, and gazing alternately at the bust and at slawa. "oh, it is a gem, a masterpiece! you ought never to part with it." "well, but i must say i should very much like to go to rome," sighed the baroness; but slawa only bit her lips. chapter viii. "and what shall we do to-morrow?" sempaly would ask zinka almost every evening when he met her, fresh and smiling, at some party; he had made it his task to help her to find her lost rome and devoted himself to it with praiseworthy diligence. the disappointment that she had experienced in her expedition under the guidance of the _botta_ driver to the ruins of the capital of the caesars is a common enough phenomenon; it comes over almost everyone who sets out with his fancy crammed with the mystical cobwebs that recent literature has spun round the name of rome, to see for the first time that dense mass of splendor and rubbish among the bare modern houses. and the disappointment is greatest in those who come from a long stay in venice or verona. rome has none of the seductive charm of those north italian cities. its architecture is sombre and heavy, and the prevailing hues in winter are a sober grey and a dull bluish-green, more suggestive of a subtly toned tempera picture than of a glowing oil painting. it is vain to look for the sheen of the shimmering lagoons or the fantastic outline of the campaniles against the sky of venice; for the half-ruined frescoes, or amber sunshine of verona. "after the cities of north italy rome has the effect of a severe choral by handel after a nocturne by chopin. the first impression is crushing," said sempaly to zinka; "but one wearies of the nocturne, and never of the choral." to which zinka replied: "but the choral is so drowned by trivial hurdy-gurdy tunes that i find it very difficult to follow." to which he laughed and said: "we will speak of that again in a fortnight." by the end of the fortnight zinka had thrown two _soldi_ into the fountain of trevi to make sure that she should some day see rome again, and in fanaticism for rome she outdid even the fanatical general von klinger. sempaly had contributed mainly to her conversion. nothing could be more amusing or more interesting than to explore every nook of the city of ruins under his escort. he was constantly remembering this or that wonderful thing that he must positively show to zinka. an artistic bas-relief that had been built to some queer orange-colored house above a tobacconist's, or a heathen divinity which had had wings attached to its shoulders to qualify it for admission as an angel into a christian church. he rode out with her into the campagna, and pointed out all the most picturesque parts of the trastevere, and he could find a ridiculous suggestion even in the most reverend things. the halls of the vatican in which the liberal minded vicars of christ have granted a refuge to the pensioners of antiquity, he called the poor-house of the gods; and always spoke of st. peter's, which is commonly known as _la parocchia dei forestieri_, as the papal grand hotel. there was not a fountain, a fragment of sculpture, or a picturesque heap of ruins of which he could not relate some history, comic or pathetic, or he invented one; but he never produced the impression that he was giving a lecture. he had in fact a particularly unpretending way of telling an appropriate and not too lengthy anecdote; he never handed it round on a waiter, as it were, for examination, but let it drop quietly out of his pocket. his knowledge of art was but shallow, but his feeling for it, like all his instincts, was amazingly keen. his information on all subjects was miscellaneous and slender, not an article of his intellectual wardrobe--as charles lamb has it--was whole; but he draped himself in the rags with audacious grace and made no attempt to hide the holes. truyn and his little daughter often joined them in these expeditions, and sometimes cecil, but only when his mother did not choose to go out, and his demeanor on these occasions--'peripatetic æsthetics' he called their walks--was highly characteristic. he would walk by the side of his sister and sempaly, or a few steps behind them, sunk in silence but always sharply observant. from time to time he would correct their cicerone in his dates, which sempaly took with sublime indifference and for which--taking off his hat--he invariably thanked him with princely courtesy. sterzl only sympathized with the classical style of the renaissance; the real antiques which zinka raved about he smiled at as caricatures; guido on the other hand--for whom sempaly had a weakness, as a chopin among painters--sterzl detested. he declared that the beatrice cenci had a cold wet bandage on her head, and that the picture was nothing more than a study apparently made from an idiot in a mad-house. when zinka talked of her favorite antiques or other works in the mystical and sentimental slang of the clique, he laughed at her, but quite good-naturedly. he scorned all extravagance and raptures as cant and affectation. still he was merciful to his sister, and when she turned from a francia with tears in her eyes, or turned pale as she quoted shelley, or spoke of leonardo's medusa in florence, he did no more than shrug his shoulders and say: "zinka, you are crazy," or gently pull her by the ear. everything in zinka was right, even her want of sound common sense. the baroness had at last found a lodging, almost to her mind: a small palazzo in a side street, off the corso, "furnished in atrocious taste, but otherwise very nice." the palazetto was in fact a gem in its way, with a simple and elegant stone front and a court surrounded by a colonnade with red camellia shrubs and a fountain in the midst. there were several much injured antique statues too, one of which was a famous and very beautiful amazon at whose feet a rose-bush bloomed profusely. this amazon struck zinka as remarkably picturesque and she sketched her from every point of view without ever reading the warning in her sad face. alas! zinka had gazed at the sun and it had blinded her. but how could cecil allow this daily-growing intimacy between sempaly and his sister? sempaly's elder brother, prince sempaly, had been married ten years and was childless, so the attaché, as heir presumptive, was in duty bound to make a brilliant marriage. did not sterzl know this? yes, he knew it, but he did not trouble his head about it. he was under no illusion as to the singularity, not to say the improbability of sempaly marrying a girl of inferior birth; he had no desire that it should be otherwise. he was no democrat; on the contrary, his was a particularly conservative and old world nature, equally remote from cringing or from envy. that sempaly should marry any other girl not his equal in rank would have struck him as altogether wrong, but zinka--zinka was different. he worshipped her as only a strong elder brother call worship a much younger weaker sister and there was no social elevation of which he deemed her unworthy. and when he saw sempaly smile down so tenderly and at the same time so respectfully on his 'butterfly,' as he called her, he was rejoiced at her good fortune and never for an instant doubted it zinka was not sentimental. for a long time there was no tinge of any feeling stronger than good fellowship in her intercourse with sempaly; her talk was all fun, her glance saucy and wilful. by degrees, however, a change came over her; her whole manner softened, there was a gentle dreaminess even in her caprice and when she smiled it was often with tears in her eyes. sempaly was not regular in his visits to the palazetto; sometimes for two or three days he failed to appear, then he would call very early--at noon perhaps, join the family unceremoniously at their breakfast, go out driving with the ladies, accept an invitation to stay to dinner, and if zinka was looking pale or out of spirits, he would pay her fifty kind little attentions to conjure a smile to her lips. occasionally he would fall into the melancholy vein and talk of his loveless youth, and let her pity him for it. he would tell her about his elder brother, praising his many noble qualities, and then add with a shrug: "yes, he is a splendid fellow, but ... he has ideas!" when zinka asked what sort of ideas, sempaly sighed: "i hope you may some day know him and then you can judge for yourself." but this was in a low tone and he seemed to regret having said it. then he would frequently allude to this or that picture in his brother's house at vienna, or to some curious family relic, and say how much he should like some day to show it to zinka. his favorite theme, however, was erzburg, the old castle which for numberless generations had been the family summer-retreat of the sempalys and of which he was passionately fond. excepting as regards this estate he was singularly free from all false or family pride; he declared that his brother's vienna palace was an unhealthy barrack, scouted at the sempaly breed of horses, laughed at the sempaly nose, and praised the traditional sempaly tokay more in irony than in good faith--but then he came round to erzburg again and simply raved about it not about the oriental luxury with which part of the castle was fitted up--not in the best taste--of that he never spoke; indeed, he said more about its deficiencies than its perfections, but in a tone of such loving excuse! he talked of the large bare rooms where, for years, he had watched for the apparition of the white lady, half longing, half dreading to see her; of the doleful groaning of the weather-cock of the _rococo_ statues in the grounds, and of the gloomy pools with their low sad murmur, and their carpet of white waterlilies. the statues were bad, the pools unhealthy he admitted, and yet, as he said it, his usually mocking glance was soft and almost devout once, when zinka had grown quite dismal over his reminiscences, he took her hand and pressed it tenderly to his lips: "you must see erzburg some day," he murmured. his behavior to her was that of a man who is perfectly clear as to his own intentions but who for some reason is not immediately free to sue for the hand of a girl whom in his heart of hearts he already regards as his own. what did he mean by all this? what was he thinking of? i believe absolutely nothing. he went with the tide. there are many men like him, selfish, luxurious natures who swim with the stream of life and never attempt to steer; they have for the most part happy tempers, they are content with any harbor so long as they reach it without effort or damage, and if in their passive course they run down any one else they exclaim with their usual amiable politeness: "oh! i beg your pardon!" and are quite satisfied that the mishap was due to fate and not to any fault of theirs. chapter ix. it was in the end of february, shortly before the close of the carnival. truyn, going to the sterzls' with his little girl to take a walk with zinka, saw at the door of the palazetto a hackney carriage with a small portmanteau on the top. sterzl's man-servant, an elegant person with close-cut hair, shaved all but a short beard, and wearing an impressive watch-chain, was condescending to exchange a few words with the driver blinking in the sunshine. the drawing-room into which truyn and his daughter were admitted unannounced was in the full blaze of light. the motes danced their aimless rainbow-colored dance; in the middle of the room stood zinka with both hands on a table over which she was bending to gaze at a magnificent basket of flowers. there was something in her attitude, quaint but graceful, in the elegant line of her bust, the pathetic joy of her radiant face, the soft flow of her plain long dress, which stamped the picture once and for ever on truyn's memory. a sunbeam wantoned in her hair turning it to gold and her whole figure was the embodiment of sweet and happy spring delight the basket of flowers, too, was a masterpiece of its kind--a _capriccio_ of lilies of the valley, gardenias, snow-flakes, and pale-tinted roses, that looked as though the wayward west-wind had blown them into company. sterzl was standing by, with a pleased smile, and the baroness, in an attitude of affected astonishment, stood a little apart with a visiting-card in her hand. neither cecil nor his sister--she absorbed in the flowers and he in gazing at her--had heard truyn arrive. when he knocked at the door the baroness said "come in," and gave him the tips of her fingers; then, with a wave of her hand towards the basket, she lisped out: "did you ever see such extravagance!" zinka looked up and welcomed him and so did sterzl. "it is perfect folly ... quite reckless...." sighed the baroness, "such a basket of flowers costs a fortune. why, only one gardenia...." zinka's underlip pouted impatiently and sterzl said in his dry way: "my dear mother, do not destroy zinka's illusions; the basket fell from heaven expressly for her and she does not want to believe that it was bought, just like any other, in the via condotti or babuino. what do you say, count? sempaly sent it to her to console her for the departure of her brother. the reason is too absurd, do not you think? i do not believe you would miss me particularly for a few days, child?" and he put his hand affectionately under her chin. "where are you off to so suddenly?" asked truyn very seriously. "to naples. franz arnsperg has telegraphed to me to ask me to meet him there; he is on his way to paris from constantinople, and he is a great friend of mine and has come by way of naples on purpose that we may meet." "the arnsperg-meiringens; you know their property adjoins ours," the baroness explained. sterzl, who knew very well that truyn was far better informed as to the arnsperg-meiringens than his mother, was annoyed and uncomfortable. however, he kissed her hand and then turned to his sister: "god shield you, my darling butterfly--write me a few lines, or is that too much to ask?" then he kissed her and whispered: "mind you have not lost those bright eyes by the time i return." truyn accompanied him to the carriage with a very long face; he and general von klinger had watched sempaly's conduct with much disquietude, they knew him to be susceptible but not impressionable, alive to every new emotion; and truyn would ere this have spoken to sempaly on the subject if he had not been sure that it would merely provoke and irritate him without producing any good effect; the general, on the other hand, could not make up his mind to open sterzl's eyes to the state of affairs because, like baron stockmar, he had an invincible dislike to interfering in matters that did not concern him. like that famous man, not for worlds would he have committed an indiscretion to save a friend for whom he would have sacrificed his life; and this terror of being indiscreet is a form of cowardice which is considered meritorious in the fashionable world. chapter x. it is shrove tuesday. the sorriest jade of the wretchedest _botta_ has a paper rose stuck behind his ear, though during the hours sacred to the carnival they are pariahs and outcasts from the corso. two-horse carriages are dressed in garlands and the horses have plumes on their heads. the piazza di spagna is alive with pedlars and hawkers, selling flowers and little tapers (_moccoli_), and with buyers of every nation doing their best to cheapen them. baskets full of violets, roses, anemones, snowflakes--baskets full of indescribable bunches of greenery--the ammunition of the mob which have already done duty for two or three days and are like nothing on earth but the wisps of rushes with which the boards are rubbed in some parts of austria. the sellers of coral and tortoise-shell cry out to you to buy--"_e carnevale_...." and in the side streets--for misery dares not show its head in the main thoroughfares to-day--the beggars crowd more closely than ever round the pedestrian with their perpetual cry: "_muojo di fame_." the houses on the corso wear their gay carnival trappings to-day for the last time. a smart dress flutters on every balcony, several stands have been erected and all the window-sills are covered, some with colored chintz and some with gold brocade. all thursday, saturday, and monday zinka and gabrielle had driven unweariedly up and down the corso with count truyn, flinging flowers at all their acquaintances and at a good many strangers. to-day, however, they had agreed to look on from the windows of the palazzo vulpini, for the close of the carnival is apt to be somewhat riotous. every one who lives on the corso seizes the opportunity of paying long owing debts of civility and offers a place in a window to as many friends as can possibly be squeezed in. there was a large party at the vulpinis', for the most part italians and relations of the prince's. madame de gandry and mrs. ferguson had invited themselves, and zinka, with gabrielle truyn, was to see the turmoil in the corso from the balcony of the palazzo. the baroness had "tic douloureux" which kept her at home,--and which no one regretted. at six o'clock, before the beginning of the _moccoli_, all the company were to go to the '_falcone_,' a well-known and especially roman restaurant where they would dine more comfortably and easily than at home. from thence they were to adjourn to the _teatro costanzi_. prince vulpini had drawn up this thoroughly carnival programme for the special benefit of the countess schalingen who had a passion for "local color," and who was enchanted. the princess was resigned; local color had no interest for her and she was somewhat prejudiced against italian native dishes and masked festivities of all kinds. it was three o'clock. baskets of flowers and whole heaps of sweet little sugar-plum boxes were ready piled in the windows for ammunition. the little vulpinis, who entirely filled the large centre window, and their shy english governess in her black gown, had just come into the room, skipping about and pulling each other's hair for sheer impatience and excitement; and when their governess reproved them for behaving so roughly "_ma è carnevale_" is thought sufficient excuse; the company laughed and the english girl said no more. all the party had assembled. madame de gandry and mrs. ferguson were both looking pretty and picturesque; the former had stuck on a fez, and the other a quaintly-folded handkerchief of oriental stuff, in honor of the carnival, when eccentricity of costume is admissible and conventional head-gear are contemned. from the windows down to the carriages, from the carriages up to the windows the war was eagerly waged; bunches of flowers, and bonbonnières from spillman's and nazzari's fly in all directions and scraps of colored paper fall like snow through the air. then the blare and pipe of a military band came up from the piazza di venezia and the maskers crowded in among the carriages. one of the liveliest groups along the corso was certainly that where the vulpini children were grouped, with zinka in their midst, she having undertaken the charge of them at their own earnest entreaty. she and gabrielle were both laughing with glee, but at the height of their fun they remembered to pay all sorts of little civilities to the half-scared english governess and had stuck a splendid bunch of lilies of the valley in front of her camphor-scented black silk dress. what especially interested the children was watching for norina's carriage, for they not only recognized the prince who was driving, but knew all his party: truyn, siegburg, sempaly, and as it passed with its four bays the little vulpinis jumped with delight and chirped and piped like a tree full of birds; the gentlemen waved their hands, smiled, and gallantly aimed bouquets without end at the windows of the palazzo. but all the finest flowers that day were, beyond a doubt, aimed at zinka. the floor all round her was heaped with snowflakes, and violets, and roses. in her hand she had caught a huge bunch of roses flung up to her by sempaly. "oh, oh!" cried madame de gandry, retiring from the window to rest for a few minutes and refresh herself with a sip of wine. "ah, mademoiselle!" glancing enviously at the mass of blossoms strewn round zinka, "you have as many bouquets as a prima donna!" zinka nodded; then, contemplating her hat, which she had thrown off in her excitement, with a whimsical air of regret and pulling the feather straight she said with a mockery of repentance: "my poor hat will be glad to rest on ash wednesday." "it is perfect, marie, really perfect, this roman carnival--a thing never to be forgotten!" exclaimed the countess schalingen, coming in from the window. she was a genuine austrian, always ready to go into ecstasies of enthusiasm. "it is horrid," answered the princess impatiently. "under the new government it is nothing but an amusement for the strangers and street boys." the _barberi_ have rushed past, and the procession has once more begun to move on but its interest and excitement are over; the crowd in the road begins to thin, and sempaly, truyn, norina, siegburg, and the general have come in, as agreed, to escort the ladies to the 'falcone,' the children have all been kissed and sent off to their dinner at home; gabrielle somewhat ill-pleased at not being allowed to go with the elder party and truyn himself not liking to part with his little companion. zinka wishes to comfort gabrielle by remaining with the little ones, but this was not to be heard of. "only too many of us would wish to follow your example," whispers princess vulpini, to whom this dinner at a roman restaurant is detestable. they are to go on foot, but they are so long getting ready after this little delay that the one peaceful half-hour before the _moccoli_ is lost; by the time they sally into the street the crowd, which had dispersed, is getting denser every minute. the darkness comes on rapidly, like a grey curtain let down suddenly from the skies; the gaudy hangings are being taken in from the windows lest they should catch fire; the carnival is putting on its ball-dress. now the first twinkling tapers are seen here and there, like glow-worms in the dusk, and are instantly pelted with _mazetti_ and bunches of greenery, mostly picked up from the pavement "_fuori! fuori!_" is the monotonous cry on every side, and presently: "_senza moccolo, vergogna!_"--the death cries of the carnival. the austrian gentlemen find their position anything rather than pleasant, for it is impossible to protect the ladies effectually against being jostled and pushed, still less against hearing much rough jesting. at last they are out of the corso and have divided in the narrow streets; some having turned into the via maddalena, while others have crossed the piazza capranica to the piazza della rotunda; but at last they are all met after various small adventures at the '_falcone_.' the ladies' toilets have suffered a little and princess vulpini looks very unhappy. the '_falcone_' is a very unpretending restaurant where the waiters wear white jackets; the tariff is moderate and the _risotto_ celebrated. vulpini orders a thoroughly italian dinner in an upper room. suddenly truyn exclaims in dismay: "what has become of zinka and sempaly?" "they have lingered talking on the way," says madame de gandry with pinched lips as she leans back in her chair and pulls off her gloves. "people always walk slowly when they have so much to say to each other." truyn frowned. "i am afraid they have got entangled in the crowd and have not been able to make their way out. i have hated this expedition from the first. i cannot imagine, marie, what could have put such a plan into your head...." "mine!" says his sister in an undertone and with a meaning glance. but she says no more. he knows perfectly well that she is as innocent of the scheme as the angels in heaven. "why, what on earth is the matter?" asks vulpini pouring huge quantities of grated cheese into his soup, while mrs. ferguson complains that she is dying of hunger, which is singular, considering the enormous number of bonbons she has eaten in the course of the day. madame de gandry asks for a series of french dishes which the '_falcone_' has never heard of countess schalingen is loud in her praises of the italian cookery and is only sorry that she has no appetite. truyn and the general sat gazing at the door in growing anxiety; zinka and sempaly do not make their appearance--truyn can hardly conceal his alarm. "i certainly cannot understand what you are so uneasy about," says madame de gandry with a perfidious smile; "if fräulein zinka has been mobbed and hindered sempaly is in the same predicament and will take good care of her. if she were with any one less trustworthy, less competent, with whom she was less intimate ... then i could understand...." truyn passes his hand over his grey hair in extreme perplexity and mutters in his mother tongue: "this woman will be the death of me!" and then he again blames his sister. yet another quarter of an hour; though the waiters are not nimble they have got to the dessert and still no signs of sempaly and zinka. "i am beginning to feel very anxious," says marie. "i only hope the child has not fainted in the crowd." madame de gandry makes a meaning grimace. "it is perhaps the cleverest thing she could have done," she says. truyn hears and bites his lip. the door just now opens and zinka and sempaly come in; she calm and sweet, he dark and scowling. "thank god!" cries truyn. "what in the world has happened?" asks the princess, while truyn draws a chair to the table for zinka, next to himself. "what has happened?" repeated sempaly. "the most obvious thing in the world. we got into the thick of the mob and could not get through." "i cannot understand how that should have occurred," says madame de gandry. "we all came through." "you may perhaps recollect that we were the last of the party, countess; we had hardly gone twenty yards when the crowd had become a compact mass, we pressed on, determined to get through at any cost--alone i could have managed it--but with a lady--suddenly we were in the thick of a furious squabble--curses, blows, and knives. i cannot tell you how miserable i was at finding myself out in the street with a lady--a young girl...." "fräulein sterzl seems to take it all much more coolly than you do. count sempaly," interposes madame de gandry spitefully; "she does not appear to have been at all terrified by the adventure." "fräulein zinka was very brave," replied sempaly. "goodness me! what was there to be afraid of;" says zinka with the simplicity of childish innocence. "the responsibility was count sempaly's not mine." the french woman laughs sharply. "we must be moving now," she says, "if we mean to go to costanzi's," and there is a clatter of chairs and a little scene of confusion in which no one can find the right shawl or wrap for each lady. but princess vulpini makes no attempt to move: "i am going nowhere else this evening," she says with unwonted determination. "i will not take zinka to constanzi's. i will wait till she has eaten her beef-steak and then i will take her home. i hope you will all enjoy yourselves." zinka eats her beef-steak with the greatest calmness and an unmistakably good appetite; she is perfectly sweet and docile and natural; she has no suspicion that her name will to-morrow morning be in every mouth. truyn is as pale as death; he has heard madame de gandry's whisper to her friend: "after this he must make her an offer." part ii. lent. chapter i. "i am glad to have found you," cried truyn next morning as he entered sempaly's room in the palazzo di venezia, and discovered him sipping his coffee after his late breakfast, with a book in his hand. "i am delighted that you should for once have taken the trouble to climb up to me. i must show you my francia--the dealer who sold it to me declares it is a francia. but you look worried. what has brought you here?" "i only wanted to know--to ask you whether you will drive out to frascati with us to-day?" "to frascati!--this afternoon? what an idea!" exclaimed sempaly; "and in any case i cannot join you for i am going to the palatine at three o'clock with the sterzls." "yes?" said truyn looking uncommonly grave. "may i offer you a cup of coffee?" asked sempaly coolly. "no thank you," replied truyn shortly. he was evidently uneasy, and began examining the odds and ends at the table to give himself countenance; by accident he took up the book that sempaly had been reading when he came in. it was charles lamb's essays, and on the first page was written in a large, firm hand: "in friendly remembrance of a terrible quarrel, zinka sterzl." "the child lost a bet with me not long since," sempaly explained. "another bet is still unsettled and is to be decided to-day at the palatine." truyn shut the book sharply and threw it down; then, setting his elbows on the table at which they were sitting, and fixing his eyes keenly on sempaly's face he said: "do you intend to marry zinka sterzl?" sempaly started, "what do you mean?" he exclaimed; "what are you dreaming of?" but as truyn said no more, simply gazing fixedly at him, he took up an attitude of defiance. he looked truyn straight in the face with an angry glare and retorted: "and suppose i do?" "then i can only hope you will have enough resolution to carry out your intentions," said truyn, "for to stop half-way in such a case is a crime." he drew a deep breath and looked at the ground. but sempaly's face, instead of clearing, grew darker; he was prepared for vehement opposition and his cousin's calm consent, not to say encouragement, put him in the position of a man who, after straining every muscle to lift a heavy weight suddenly discovers that it is a piece of painted pasteboard. it completely threw him off his balance. "well, i must say!" he began in a tone of extreme annoyance, "you speak of it as if it were a no more serious question than the dancing of a cotillon. in plain terms the thing is impossible. what are we to live on? i have long since run through all my fortune, if i took what my brother would regard as so monstrous a step he would cut off all supplies, and zinka is not of age. i might to be sure take to selling dripping to maintain my wife, which would have the additional advantage that my mother-in-law would cut me in consequence. or perhaps you would advise me to let dame clotilde sterzl keep us till zinka comes into her money?" "well," says truyn calmly, "if you can take such a reasonable view of the impossibility of your marriage with zinka sterzl, your behavior to her is perfectly inexplicable." truyn was still sitting by the little table on which the pretty coffee service was set out, while sempaly, his hands in his pockets, was walking up and down the room, kicking and shoving the furniture with all the irritation of a man who knows himself to be in the wrong. "upon my soul i cannot make out what you would be at!" he suddenly exclaimed, standing still and facing his cousin. "sterzl has never found any fault with my behavior and it is much more his affair than yours." truyn changed color a little, but did not lose his presence of mind. "sterzl, with all his dryness of manner, is an idealist," he said, "who would fetch the stars from heaven for his sister if he could. he has never for an instant doubted that your intentions with regard to her were quite serious." "that is impossible!" cried sempaly. "but it is so," truyn asserted. "he is too blind to think his sister beneath any one's notice." "and he is right!" exclaimed sempaly, "perfectly right--but the pressure of circumstances--of position--the duties i have inherited...." he had seated himself on the deep inner ledge of one of the windows, with his elbows on his knees and his chin between his hands, and was staring thoughtfully at the floor. "allow me to ask you," he said, "what induced you to mix yourself up in the affair?" "it has weighed on my mind for a long time," said truyn, "but what especially moved me to speak of it to-day is the circumstance that last evening, before you came into the '_falcone_,' mesdames de gandry and ferguson allowed themselves to speak in a way which convinced me that your constant intimacy with zinka is beginning to do her no good." "oh! of course, if you listen to the gossip of every washerwoman," sempaly interrupted angrily. and he muttered a long speech in which the words: 'sacred responsibility--due regard for the duties imposed by providence,' were freely thrown in. truyn's handsome face flushed with contempt and at length he broke into his cousin's harangue, to which for a few minutes he had listened in silence: "no swagger nor bluster.... the matter is quiet simple: do you love zinka?" the attaché frowned: "yes," he said fiercely. "then it is only that you have not the courage to face the annoyances that a marriage with her would involve you in?" sempaly was dumb, "then, my dear fellow, there is no choice; you must break off the intimacy, as gently but as immediately as possible." "that i neither can nor will attempt," cried sempaly, stamping his foot. "if within three days you have not taken the necessary steps to secure your removal from rome, i shall feel myself compelled to give sterzl a hint--or your brother--whichever you prefer." truyn spoke quite firmly. "and now good-bye." "good-bye," said sempaly without moving, and truyn went to the door; there he paused and said hesitatingly: "do not take it amiss, nicki--i could do no less. remember that though the right is a bitter morsel, it has a good after-taste." "poor child, poor sweet little girl!" truyn murmured to himself as he descended the grey stone stairs of the palazzo de venezia. "is this a time to be talking of inherited responsibilities and the duties of position--now! good heavens!" he lighted a cigar and then flung it angrily away. "good heavens! to have met a girl like zinka--to have won her love--and to be free!..." he hurried out into the street, leaving the gate-porter astonished that the count, who was usually so courteous, should have taken no notice of his respectful bow; such a thing had never happened before. he was a strange man, this grey-haired young count truyn; he had grown up as one of a very happy family and when still quite young he had been hurried, much against his will, into a marriage with the handsome gabrielle zinsenburg. he had never been able to reconcile himself to the empty wordliness of his life in her society; she was a heartless, superficial woman, some few years older than himself, who had staked everything on her hope of achieving a marriage with him. within a few years they had separated, quite amiably, by mutual consent; he had given her his name and she gave him his child. his life was spoilt. he had a noble and a loving heart but he might not bestow it on any woman; he must carry it about in his breast where it grew heavy to bear. his love for his little girl, devoted as he was to her, was not enough to live by, and a bitter sense of craving lurked in his spirit. for many years he had lived a great deal abroad; his mind had expanded and he had shed several of his purely austrian prejudices. at home he was still regarded as a staunch conservative because he always passively voted on that side; but he was only indifferent, absolutely indifferent, to all political strife, and smiled alike at the recklessness of the 'left' and the excitability of the 'right,' while in his inmost soul he regarded the perfecting of government as mere labor lost; for he was no optimist, and thought that to heal the woes of humanity nothing would avail but its thorough regeneration, and that men have no mind for such regeneration; all they ask is to be allowed to cry out when they are hurt, and shift their sins on to each other's shoulders. it afforded him no satisfaction to cry out. his weary soul found no rest but in unbounded benevolence, and sempaly's nature--experimental, groping his way through life--had seemed to him to-day more odious than ever. "how can a man be at once so tender and such a coward?" he asked himself, "he is the most completely selfish being i ever met with--a thorough epicurean in sentiment, and has only just heart enough for his own pleasure and enjoyment." * * * the bet outstanding between zinka and sempaly was not decided that afternoon. sempaly did not go to the palatine, but excused himself at the last moment in a little note to zinka. truyn's words, though he would not have admitted it to himself, had made a very deep impression, and though he fought against it he could no longer avoid looking the situation in the face. to get himself transferred to some other capital, to give up all his pleasant idle habits here--the idea was intolerable! he felt exactly like a man who has been suddenly roused from a slumber bright with pleasant dreams. he did not want to wake, or to rub his eyes clear of the vision. was everything at an end then? truyn had, to be sure, suggested an alternative: if he could but call up sufficient energy it rested only with himself to turn the sweet dream into a still sweeter and lovelier reality, and his whole being thrilled with ecstasy as this delightful possibility flattered his fancy. he was long past the age at which a man commits some matrimonial folly believing that he can reclaim the morals of some disrespectable second-rate actress, or that his highest happiness is to devote his life to his sister's governess who is a dozen years older than himself; when he contemplated the possibility of his marrying zinka sterzl after all, it was with the certainty that his feeling for her was not a mere transient madness, but that it had its roots in the depths of his nature. every form and kind of enjoyment had been at his command and he had hated them all. things in which other men of his age and position could find excitement and interest roused his fastidious nature to disgust. life had long since become to him a vain and empty show, when he had met zinka.... then all the sweetest spirits of spring had descended fluttering into his vacant heart; a magical touch had made it a garden of flowers and filled it with fair, mad dreams of love. all the "sweet sorrow" of life was revealed to him in a new form ... and now was he to tread the blossoms into dust? "give up seeing her--get myself sent away--never! i cannot and i will not do it," he muttered to himself indignantly as he thought it all over. "what business is it of truyn's? what right has he to issue his orders to me?" but when he had resolved simply to go on with zinka as he had begun, to sun himself as heretofore in her smile, her gentleness, and her beauty, he was still uncomfortable. he felt that it would not be the same. till now his heart had simply been content, now it could speak and ask for more; to try to satisfy it with this shadow of delight was like attempting to slake a raging thirst with the dew off a rosebud. he loved her now--suddenly and madly. interesting women had hitherto utterly failed to interest him; they were like brooklets filled by the rain: the muddiness of the water prevented their shallowness being immediately perceptible; the storms of life had spoilt their clearness and purity; zinka, on the contrary, was like a mountain lake whose waters are so transparent that near the shore every pebble is visible; and though, in the middle, the bottom is no longer seen, it is because they are deep and not because they are turbid, till their crystalline opacity reflects the sky overhead. and in the depths of that lake, he thought, lay a treasure which one alone, guided and blest by god, might hope to find. how he longed to sound it. she was made for him; never for an instant had he been dull in her society; she satisfied both his head and his heart; all the bewitching inconsistency and contradictions of her nature captivated him; he had said of her that "she was like a little handbook to the study of women," she was made up of such a variety of characteristics. in the midst of her childlike moods she had such unexpected depth of thought, such flashes of wisdom; her wildest vagaries were so original and often ended so suddenly in wistful reverie; her little selfish caprices were the converse of such devoted self-sacrifice; her grace was so spontaneous, her voice so soft and appealing ... well, but should he?... no, it must not be. truyn had said it--he must quit rome--the sooner the better. he took his hat and went out to call on the ambassador and discuss the matter with him. his excellency was not at home and sempaly betook himself to the club, where he lost several games at ecarté--he was greatly annoyed. then he went home and sat looking constantly at the clock as though he were expecting some one; his irritation increased every minute. chapter ii. "bright may--the sweetest month of spring; the trees and fields with flowers are strown-- dear heart, to thee life's may i bring; take it and keep it for thine own-- nay--draw the knife!--i will not start, pierce if thou wilt, my willing breast. there thou shalt find my faithful heart whose truth in death shall stand confessed." these words, sung in the roman dialect to a very simple air, came quavering out of the open window of the drawing-room of the sterzls' palazetto as sempaly passed by it that evening; he had gone out to pay some visits, to divert his mind, and though his way did not take him along the side street in which the palazetto stood, he had not been able to resist the temptation to make a detour. it was a mild evening and the tones floated down like an invitation; he recognized zinka's voice as she sang one of the melancholy _stornelli_ in which the peasants of the campagna give utterance to their loves. it ceased, and he was just moving away, when another even sweeter and more piercing lament broke the warm silence. "or shall i die?--poison itself could have no terrors if i took it from thy hand. thy heart should be my death-bed and my grave." the passionate words were sung with subdued vehemence to a rather monotonous tune--like a faded wreath of spring flowers borne along by some murmuring stream. he turned back, and listened with suspended breath. the song ended on a long, full note; he felt that he would give god knows how much to hear the last line once more: '_la sepoltura mia sara il tuo seno!_....' now zinka was speaking--it vexed him beyond measure that he could not hear what she was saying. it was maddening ... good heavens! what a fool he was to stand fretting outside! * * * when he went into the drawing-room to his great surprise he was met by sterzl. "back so soon?" he exclaimed as he shook hands with him. "yes, arnstein had only two days to spare in naples," replied sterzl; "i was delighted to see him again, but--well, i must be growing very old, i was so glad to find myself at home again," and he drew his sister to him and lightly stroked her pretty brown hair. his brotherly caress added to sempaly's excitement "no wonder that you like your home!" he was saying, when the baroness appeared with an evening wrap on her shoulders, a fan and scent-bottle in her hand, and, as usual, dying of refinement and airs. "not ready yet, zenaïde? ah, my dear sempaly, how very sweet of you!" and she gave him the tips of her fingers.--"we were quite anxious about you when you so suddenly excused yourself from joining us. zinka was afraid you had taken the roman fever," she said sentimentally. "zinka has an imagination that feeds on horrors," said sterzl smiling. "i did think that you must have some very urgent reason," said zinka hastily and in some confusion. sempaly looked into her eyes: "i was doing ash-wednesday penance, that was all," he said in a low voice. "well, to complete the mortification come now to lady dalrymple's," the baroness suggested. "oh, be merciful! grant me a dispensation. i should so much enjoy a quiet evening," cried sempaly. "and i too," added zinka. "i am utterly sick of soirées and routs. these performances give me the impression of a full-dress review, at which such and such fashionable regiments are paraded." "give us a holiday, mother; remember, it is ash-wednesday, and we are good catholics," said her son. "i had some scruples myself, but the duchess of otranto is going," lisped the baroness. however, when sempaly had assured her that the duchess of otranto was by no means a standard authority in roman society she yielded to the common desire that they should remain at home, and withdrew to her room to write some letters before tea. most men have senses and nerves only in their brain while women, as is well known, have them all over the body; in this respect sempaly was like a woman. he had senses even in his finger tips--as a frenchman had once said, of him: "il avait les sens poète!" (a poet's nerves). the most trifling external conditions gave him disproportionate pleasure or pain. the smallest detail of ugliness was enough to spoil his appreciation of the noblest and grandest work of art; he would not have felt the beauty of faust if he had first read it in a shabby or dirty copy. now, when the baroness had left the room, there was no detail that could disturb his enjoyment in being with zinka. sterzl had taken up his newspaper; zinka, at sempaly's request, had seated herself at the piano. she always accompanied herself by heart and sat with her head bowed a little over the keys and half-shut dreamy eyes. the sober tone of the room, with its tapestried walls and happy medley of knick-knacks, broad-leaved plants, japanese screens, and comfortable furniture, formed a harmonious background to her slight, white figure. the light of the one lamp was moderated by its rose-colored shade; a subdued _mezza-voce_ tone of color prevailed in the room which was full of the scent of roses and violets, and the heavy perfume seemed in sympathy with the gloomy sentiment of the popular love songs. sempaly's whole nature thrilled with rapturous suspense, such as few men would perhaps quite understand. at his desire zinka sang one after another of the _stornelli_ ... her voice grew fuller and deeper ... "do not sing too long, zini, it will tire you," said her brother. "only one more--the one i heard from outside," begged sempaly, and she sang: "_la sepoltura mia sara il tuo seno_...." the words trembled on her lips; her hands slipped off the last notes into her lap. sempaly took the warm, soft little hands in his own; a sort of delightful giddiness mounted to his brain as he touched them. "zinka," he said, "tell me, do you feel a little of what your voice expresses?" her eyes met his--and she blinked, as we blink at a strong, bright light; she shrank back a little, as we shrink from too great and sudden joy. her answer was fluttering on her lips when the door opened--the italian servant pronounced some perfectly unintelligible gibberish by way of a name, and in marched--followed by her daughter and their polish swain--the baroness wolnitzka. "oh, thank goodness, i have found you at home!" she exclaimed. "we counted on finding you at home on ash-wednesday. god bless you, zinka!" zinka was petrified. mamma sterzl rushed in from an adjoining room at the sound of those rough tones. "charlotte!" was all she could stammer out, "char--lotte ... you ... here!" "quite a surprise, is it not, clotilde? yes, the most unhoped-for things sometimes happen. we arrived to-day at three o'clock and called here this afternoon but you were out; so then we decided to try in the evening. it is rather late, to be sure, and i, for my part, should have been here long ago, but slawa insisted on dressing--for such near relations! quite absurd ... but i do not like to contradict her, she is so easily put out--so i waited to dress too." and the baroness, after embracing her sister and her niece, plumped down uninvited on a very low chair. she had dressed with a vengeance: a black lace cap was perched on the top of her short, grey hair, with lappets that hung down over her ears. her massive person was squeezed into a violet satin gown, which she had evidently out-grown, and a lace scarf picturesquely thrown over her shoulders was intended to conceal its defects; her lavender-colored gloves were very short and much too tight, and burst at all the button-holes. slawa had a general effect of tricolor, and she wore some old jewelry that she had bought of a dealer in antiquities at verona. she had curled and piled up her hair after the antique and kept her head constantly turned over her left shoulder, to be as much like the apollo as possible, at the same time making a grimace as if she were being photographed and wished to look bewitching. vladimir matuschowsky's tall, slouching figure was buttoned into a braided coat; he held a low-crowned hat with tassels in his hand, and glared at the plain dress-coats of the other two men as though they were a personal insult. "monsieur vladimir de matuschowsky," said the baroness introducing him, "a ... a ... friend of the family." but she said it in french: when the baroness wolnitzka was at all at a loss she commonly spoke french. her sister, who by this time had got over her astonishment, now began to wish to dazzle the new-comers. "count sempaly," she said, presenting the attaché; "a friend of our family ... my sister, the baroness wolnitzka. you have no doubt heard of the famous slav leader baron wolnitzky, who was so conspicuous a figure in forty-eight." sempaly bowed without speaking; baroness wolnitzka rose and politely offered him her hand: "i am delighted to make your acquaintance," she said. "i have heard a great deal about you; my sister has mentioned you in all her letters and i am quite _au courant_." again sempaly bowed in silence and then, retiring into the background while the mistress of the house turned to address slawa, he said to sterzl: "i will take an opportunity of slipping away--a stranger is always an intruder at a family meeting," his manner was suddenly cold and stiff and his tone intolerably arrogant. sterzl nodded: "go by all means," he replied. but baroness sterzl perceiving his purpose exclaimed: "no, no, my dear sempaly, you really must not run away--you are not in the least _de trop_--and a stranger you certainly can never be." "it would look as though we had frightened you away, and that i will not imagine," added her sister archly. so sempaly stayed; only, perhaps, from the impulse that so often prompts us to drink a bitter cup to the dregs. "pray command yourself a little, zini," whispered cecil to his sister. "the interruption is unpleasant; but you should not show your annoyance so plainly." tea was now brought in; sterzl devoted himself in an exemplary manner to his cousin slawa, so as to give his spoilt little sister as much liberty as possible. slawa treated him with the greatest condescension and kept glancing over her huge japanese fan at sempaly, who was sitting by zinka on a small sofa, taciturn and ill-pleased, while he helped her to pour out the tea. baroness wolnitzka gulped down one cup after another, eat up almost all the tea-cake, and never ceased an endless medley of chatter. the young pole sat brooding gloomily, ostentatiously refused all food and spoke not a word; his arms crossed on his breast he sat the image of the dignity of man on the defensive. "i am desperately hungry," madame wolnitzka confessed. "we are at a very good hotel--hotel della stella, in via della pace; we were told of it by a priest with whom we met on our journey. it is not absolutely first-class--still, only people of the highest rank frequent it; two polish counts dined at the table d'hôte and a french marquise;--in her case i must own i thought i could smell a rat--i suspect she is running away with her lover from her husband, or from her creditors." out of deference to the "highest rank" the baroness had put her hand up to her mouth on the side nearest to the young people as she made this edifying communication. "the dinner was very good," she went on, "capital, and we pay six francs a day for our board." "seven," corrected slawa. "six, slawa." "seven, mamma." and a discussion of the deepest interest to the rest of the party ensued between the mother and daughter as to this important point. slawa remained master of the field; "and with wax-lights and service it comes to eight," she added triumphantly. "i let her talk," whispered her mother, again directing her words with her hand, "she is very peculiar in that way; everything cheap she thinks must be bad. however, what i was going to say was that, to tell the truth, i did not get enough to eat at dinner--there were flowers on the table,"--and she reached herself a slice of plum-cake. at this moment the door opened to admit count siegburg. "good evening," he began--"seeing you so brightly lighted up i could not resist the temptation to come in and see how you were spending your ash-wednesday." he glanced around at the three strangers and instantly grasped the situation; but, far from taking the tragical view of it, he at once determined to get as much fun out of it as possible. after being introduced he placed himself in a position from which he could command the whole party, sempaly included, and converse both with madame wolnitzka and her daughter. he addressed himself first to the latter. "the name of wolnitzky is known to fame," he said. "yes, my father played a distinguished part in forty-eight," replied slawa. "siegburg--siegburg?..." madame wolnitzka was meanwhile murmuring to herself. "which of the siegburgs? the siegburgs of budow, or of waldau, or ...?" "the waldau branch," said baroness sterzl. "his mother was a princess hag," and she leaned back on her cushions. "ah! the waldau siegburgs! quite the best siegburgs!" remarked her sister in a tone of astonishment. "of course," replied baroness sterzl with great coolness, as though she had never in her life spoken to anyone less than "the best siegburgs." madame wolnitzka arranged her broad face in the most affable wrinkles she could command, and sat smiling at the young count, watching for an opportunity of putting in a word. for the present, however, this did not offer, for her sister addressed her, asking, in a bitter-sweet voice: "and what made you decide on coming to rome?" "can you ask? i have wished for years to see rome, and you wrote so kindly and so constantly, clotilde--so at length ..." and here followed the history of the bernini. "you remember our bernini, clotilde?" her sister nodded. "well, i had the apollo, the head only, a copy by bernini. it is a work of art that has been in our family for generations," she continued, turning to siegburg as she saw that he was listening to her narrative. "for centuries," added madame sterzl. "i must confess that i could hardly bear to part with it," her sister went on. "however, i made up my mind to do so when tulpe, the great antiquary from vienna, came one day and bid for it." sterzl, to whom the god's wanderings were known, made some allusion to them in his dry way; on which the baroness wolnitzka shuffled herself a little nearer to siegburg and addressed herself to him. "you see, count, it was something like what often happens with a girl: you drag her about to balls for years, take her from one watering-place to another, and never get her off your hands; then you settle down quietly at home and suddenly, when you least expect it, a suitor turns up. i could hardly bear to see the last of the bust i assure you." "it must indeed have been a harrowing parting," said siegburg with much feeling. "terrible!" said the baroness, "and doubly painful because"--and here she leaned over to whisper in siegburg's ear--"slawa is so amazingly like the bernini. does not her likeness to the apollo strike you?" "i saw it at once--as soon as i came in," siegburg declared without hesitation. "every one says so--well then, you can understand what a sacrifice it was ... it cuts me to the heart only to think of it. oh! these great emotions! excuse me if i take off my cap ..." and she hastily snatched off the black lace structure and passing her fingers through her thin grey hair with the vehemence of a genius she exclaimed: "merciful god! how we poor women are ill-used! crushed, fettered ..." "yes, a woman's lot is not a happy one;" said siegburg sympathetically. "you are quite an original!" exclaimed her sister, giggling rather uncomfortably--for in good society it is quite understood that when we are suffering under relations devoid of manners, and whom, if we dared, we should shut up at once in a mad-house, we may do what we can to render them harmless by ticketing them with this title--"quite an original. are you still always ready to break a lance for the emancipation of our sex?" "no," replied madame wolnitzka, "no, my dear clotilde, i have given that up. since i learnt by experience that every woman is ready to set aside the idea of emancipation as soon as she has a chance of marrying i have lost my sympathy with the cause." "the emancipation of women of course can only be interesting to those who cannot marry," observed sterzl, who had not long since read an article on this much ventilated question. "and as there are undoubtedly more women than men in the world, legalized polygamy is the only solution of the difficulty," his aunt asserted. "mamma! you really are!..." said slawa with an angry flare. "your views are necessarily petty and narrow," retorted her mother. "if i were speaking of the subject in a light and frivolous tone i could understand your indignation; but i am looking at the matter from a philosophical point of view--you understand me, i am sure, count siegburg." "perfectly, my dear madam," siegburg assured her with grave dignity. "you look at the question from the point of national and political economy and from that point of view improprieties have no existence." sempaly sat twirling his moustache; zinka first blushed and then turned pale, while the mistress of the house patted her sister on the shoulder, saying with a sharp, awkward laugh: "quite an original--quite an original." but sterzl, seeing that siegburg was excessively entertained by the old woman's absurdities, and was on the point of amusing himself still further at her expense by laying some fresh trap for her folly, happily bethought him that the only way to procure silence would be to ask slawa to sing. so he begged his cousin to give them some national air. siegburg joined in the request, but slawa tried to excuse herself on a variety of pretexts: the piano was too low, the room was bad to sing in, and so forth and so forth ... at last, however, she was persuaded to sing some patriotic songs in which matuschowsky accompanied her. her tall, walkure-like figure swayed and trembled with romantic emotion, and faithful to the traditions of the "_art frémissant_"--the thrilling school--she held a piece of music fast in both hands for the sake of effect, though it had not the remotest connection with the song she was singing. her mother sat in breathless silence; tears of admiration ran down her cheeks; like many other mothers, she only recognized those of slawa's defects which came into conflict with her own idiosyncracy and admired everything else. when slawa had shouted the last verse of the latest revolutionary ditty, which would have been prohibited in forty-eight, and sterzl was still asking himself whether it was worse to listen to the mother's tongue or the daughter's singing, matuschowsky, whose chagrin at the small approval bestowed on his and slawa's musical efforts had reached an unendurable pitch, observed that it was growing late and that the ladies must be needing rest after all their exertions and fatigues. madame wolnitzka hastened to devour the last slice of tea-cake, brushed the crumbs away from her purple satin lap on to the carpet, rose slowly, and made her way with many bows and courtesies towards the door, taking at least half an hour before she was fairly gone. when his relatives had at length disappeared sterzl accompanied the two gentlemen, who had also bid the ladies good-night, into the hall, and said good-humoredly to siegburg: "you, i fancy, are the only one of the party who has really enjoyed the evening." siegburg colored; then looking up frankly at his friend he said: "you are not offended?" "well--perhaps, just a little," replied sterzl, with a smile, "but i must admit that the temptation was a strong one." "and really and truly i am very sorry for you," siegburg went on, with that ingenuous want of tact that never lost him a friend. "there is nothing in the world so odious as to have a posse of disagreeable relations who suddenly appear and cling on to your coat-tails. i know it by experience. last spring, at vienna, half a dozen old aunts of my mother's came down upon us from bukowina like a snow-storm...." sempaly meanwhile had buttoned himself into his fur-lined coat and said nothing. chapter iii. the three days have gone by in which truyn had desired his cousin to make up his mind--three days since the sudden descent of baroness wolnitzka scared away the sweet vision that till then had dwelt in sempaly's soul and checked the declaration actually on his lips--but he has not yet requested to be removed from rome. truyn's eye has been upon him all through these three days, has constantly met his own with grave questioning, as though to say: "have you decided?" no, he had not decided. to a man like sempaly there is nothing in the world so difficult as a decision; fate decides for him--he for himself! never. his encounter with the preposterous baroness might silence the avowal he was on the verge of uttering, but it was not so powerful as to banish zinka's image once and for all from his mind. the silly old woman's chatter he had by this time forgotten; the _stornelli_ that zinka had been singing still rang in his ears. for two days he had had the resolution to avoid the palazetto, but he had seen zinka for a moment, by accident, yesterday on the corso. she was in the carriage with marie vulpini--she had on a grey velvet dress and a broad-brimmed mousquetaire hat that threw a shadow on her forehead and her golden-brown hair; she held a large bouquet of flowers and was chatting merrily with the little vulpinis and gabrielle truyn; what pretty merry ways she had with children! his blood fired in his veins as their eyes met, and she blushed as she returned his bow. it was the first time she had blushed at seeing him. all that night he dreamed the wildest dreams,--and now he was taking a solitary early walk in the spring sunshine, on the pincio, lost in thought, but snapping the twigs as he passed along to vent his irritation. more and more he felt that marriage with zinka was a _sine qua non_ of his existence. he had never in his life denied himself a pleasure, and now.... * * * the brilliant march sun flooded the piazza di spagna, the waters of the baracaccia sparkled and danced, reflecting the radiant blue sky, against which the towers of the trinita dei monti stood out sharp and clear. all over the shallow steps of the church models were lounging in the regulation peasant costumes, and blind beggars incessantly muttering their prayers. in front of the hotel de l'europe the cab-drivers were sweetly slumbering under the huge patched umbrellas stuck up behind their coach-boxes for protection against the sun or rain. flower-sellers were squatted on every door-step, and here and there sat a brown-eyed, snub-nosed white pomeranian dog. the piazza was swarming with tourists, and beatrice di cenci gazed with the saddest eyes in the world out of a photographer's shop at the motley crowd and bustle. siegburg, in happy unconsciousness of coming evil, had just come out of law's, the money changer's, and was inhaling with peculiar satisfaction the delicious pervading scent of hyacinths, when his eye was accidentally attracted by the fine figure of a young english woman who passed him in a closely fitting jersey. he was still watching her when a harsh voice close to him exclaimed: "good morning, count,--what luck!" he turned round and recognized, under a vast shady hat, the broad, dark face of the baroness wolnitzka. though the day was splendidly fine she had on that most undressed of garments, originally meant as a protection against rain but subsequently adopted to conceal every conceivable defect of costume, and long since known to the mocking youth of paris as a "_cache-misère_,' or--to render it freely--a slut-cover; and, though the pavement was perfectly dry, under this waterproof she held up the gown it hid, so high that her wide feet, in their untidy boots with elastic sides, were plainly displayed. "ah, baroness!" he said lifting his hat, "i really did not ..." "no, you did not recognize me," she said calmly, "that was why i spoke to you. what luck! but you are in the embassy too?" "certainly." "that is the very thing--i have a request to make then. my daughter is most anxious to have an audience of his holiness. slawa, you must know, is a fervent catholic, though, between you and me, it is a mere matter of fashion. now i, for my part, take a philosophical view of religious matters. at the same time i should be very much interested in seeing the pope...." "but the pope is unfortunately more inaccessible than ever," said siegburg, "besides, as i do not belong to the papal embassy i cannot, i regret to say, give you the smallest assistance." "that is what my nephew says--it is disastrous, positively disastrous," at this moment slawa joined them, emerging from piale's library, in an eccentric _directoire_ costume, with a peaked hat and feather, and a pair of gloves, no longer clean, drawn far up over her elbows. "ah, good morning," said she, offering the count her finger tips while matuschowsky, who was in attendance, sulkily bowed. by this time siegburg, hemmed in on all sides, began to think the situation unpleasant. "it is so delightful to meet with a fellow-countryman in a foreign land...." slawa began. "quite delightful," replied siegburg, thinking to himself: "how am i to get out of this?" when suddenly the absurdity of the thing came upon him afresh, for he heard the baroness once more: "good morning, count, what luck!" and at the same moment she bore down on no less a man than sempaly, who had just come down the sunlit steps, and was crossing the piazza lost in sullen meditation. "i beg your pardon," he muttered somewhat startled, "i really did not recognize you," and he gazed helplessly into the distance as though he looked for a rescue. but the baroness went on: "i am so delighted to have met you--i have a particular request to make: could you not procure me admission to the farnesina? the duke di ripalda is said to be all powerful...." "i am sorry to say it is quite im----" but at this instant a party of foreigners caught sempaly's eye--two young ladies with a maid. the two girls, tall and straight as pine-trees, both remarkably handsome and dressed in neatly-fitting english linen dresses, were eagerly bargaining with an italian who had embroidered cambric trimmings for sale, and they seemed to think it a delightful adventure to buy something in the street. "two charming girls! surely i know them," cried madame wolnitzka. "are they not the jatinskys?" one of the young ladies, looking up, called out: "nicki, nicki!" half across the piazza, with the frank audacity of people who have grown up in the belief that the world was created expressly for their use. "excuse me," said sempaly with a bow to the baroness, "my cousins ..." and without more ado he made his escape. "how long have you been here? where are you staying?" "we arrived this morning--hotel de londres--mamma wrote to you at once to the embassy ... ah, here is another austrian!" for siegburg had contrived to join them. "rome is but a suburb of vienna after all! but tell me, who on earth were that old fortune-teller and her extraordinary daughter to whom you were both devoting yourselves so attentively?" the wolnitzky trio had in the meantime moved away. the baroness very gracious, slawa very haughty, as became the living representative of the apollo belvedere--past the two handsome girls and down the via condotti. suddenly baroness wolnitzka stopped: "i quite forgot to ask count sempaly to get me an invitation to the international artists' festival!" she exclaimed, striking her forehead, and she promptly turned about, evidently intending to repair the omission; only matuschowsky's decided interference preserved sempaly from her return to the charge. * * * the scene is now the pincio--between five and six in the afternoon, the hour when the band plays every day on the great terrace, while the crowd collects to watch the sun set behind st. peter's. the reflection of the glow gilds the gravel, glints from the lace on the uniforms and the brass instruments, and throws golden sparks on the water in the wide basin behind the bandstand. the black shadows rapidly lengthen on the grass, and the palmettos, yuccas, and evergreen oaks stand out in rich, deep tones against the sky that fades from crimson to salmon and grey. a special set of visitors haunt the shady side of the pincio; not the fashionable world: governesses and nurses with their charges, and priests--priests of every degree: the illustrious monsignori with their finely chiselled features, their upright bearing and their elegant hands; monks, with their bearded faces comfortably framed in their cowls, and whole regiments of priestlings from the seminaries in their uniforms of every hue; lank, lean figures, with sallow, unformed features. separated from these only by a leafy screen the beauty and fashion of rome drive up and down--the residents in handsome private carriages, the foreigners in hired vehicles of varying degrees of respectability, or even in the humble, one-horse, hackney cab. the crowd grows denser every minute as the stream of roman rank and wealth swells along the via borghese, across the piazza del popolo, and up the hill. on the top of the pincio the carriages come to a stand-still; gentlemen on foot gather round them, bowing and smiling, the ladies talk across from one victoria to another--all sorts of trivial small-talk, unintelligible to the uninitiated. up from the gardens which line the road from the via margutta, comes a fragrance of budding and growing spring; down below lies rome, and lording it grandly over the labyrinthine mass of houses and ruins, solemn and severe, its crown touched by the last rays of the vanished sun, stands st peter's. countess ilsenbergh's carriage was drawn up side by side with that of princess vulpini; the newly-arrived party of the jatinskys was divided between them; the countess mother reclining indolently with a gracious smile on her lips by the side of countess ilsenbergh, while the princess had undertaken to chaperon the young ladies. on the front seat, by his cousin eugénie--nini they called her--sat sempaly. siegburg was leaning over the carriage door, talking all sorts of nonsense, and relating all the gossip of rome that was fit for maiden ears to the two new-comers; they, infinitely amused, laughed till their simple merriment infected even sempaly, who had taken the seat coveted of all the golden youth of rome--the seat next his beautiful cousin--in a very gloomy and taciturn humor. presently there was an evident sensation among the public; every one was looking in the same direction. "what is happening?" asked polyxena, the elder of the two jatinska girls. "it must be the dorias' new drag, or the king," said princess vulpini, screwing up her short-sighted eyes. "no," said siegburg, looking back, "neither. it is baroness wolnitzka!" and in fact, madame sterzl's pretty landau, which she had placed at the disposal of her sister for the afternoon, was coming up the road, in it the wolnitzkas, mother and daughter, both in their finest array. slawa was leaning back, elegantly languid, while her mother stood up in the carriage and surveyed the world of rome through an opera-glass. from time to time, either to rest, or because she suddenly lost her balance, she sat down; and then she filled up her time by examining every detail of the trimming and lining of the landau. it was this singular demeanor, combined with her very conspicuous person, that attracted so much attention to the sterzls' vehicle--an attention which both mother and daughter, of course ascribed to slawa's extraordinary resemblance to the belvedere apollo. "baroness wolnitzka! the wonderful old woman we saw with you yesterday in the piazza di spagna?" cried polyxena. "yes." "only think, nicki," she went on to sempaly, "mamma knows her?" "who is it that i know?" asked her mother from the other carriage. "baroness wolnitzka, mamma; do you see her--out there?" "heaven preserve me!" exclaimed the countess fervently. "i do not feel secure of my life when i am near her. she fell upon me to-day in the villa wolkonsky." "how on earth do you happen to know the old woman, aunt?" asked sempaly irritably. "oh! my husband had some political connection with hers," the countess explained. "she is not to be borne, she stuck to me like a leech for half an hour." "your conversation must have been very interesting," said siegburg. "it did not interest me," replied the countess rather sharply. "she told me how much her journey had cost her, what she pays a day for carriage-hire, and that when she was young she had singing-lessons of cicimara. and she chattered endlessly about her sister sterzl who is living here 'in the first style and knows absolutely none but the crême de la crême'--you laugh!..." "well, mamma, you must confess that the association of such a name as sterzl with the cream of society is irresistibly funny," cried polyxena. "it was anything rather than funny to me," said the countess ruefully. "by the way, though, she did tell me one thing--that her niece zenaïde sterzl ... well, what is there to laugh at now?" "zenaïde sterzl! the name is a poem in itself," cried polyxena; "it is as though an english woman were named belinda brown, or a french girl called roxalane dubois." "well, it seems from what the old woman told me that the fair zenaïde is about to relinquish the graceless name of sterzl for one of the noblest names in austria--that is the old idiot's story. it has not yet been made public, so she could not tell me the bridegroom's name, but zenaïde is as good as betrothed to a young count--an attaché to the austrian embassy. who on earth can it be?--you ought to know!" "ah, ah! is it you?" said polyxena turning to siegburg. but siegburg shook his head, stroking his yellow moustache to conceal a malicious smile as he watched sempaly's conspicuous annoyance. "or is it you, nicki?" the young countess went on--"i congratulate you on marrying into such a delightful family!" but such a marked effect of embarrassment was produced by her speech that she was suddenly silent. "i know nothing of it," said sempaly with a gloomy scowl. "that old chatterbox's imagination is positively stupendous." the play of light on the gold lace of the uniforms and the brass instruments is fast fading away and the sheen of the glossy-leaved evergreens is almost extinct. "_gran dio morir si giovane!_" is the tune the band is playing. the sun is down, the day is dead, night shrouds the scene; the only color left is a dull glow behind st. peter's like a dying fire. "at the ellis' this evening," siegburg calls out to the ladies as he lifts his hat and turns away. the carriages make their way down the hill, past the villa medici, back into rome, and their steady roar is like that of a torrent rushing to join the sea. chapter iv. mr. and lady julia ellis--she was an earl's daughter--english people of enormous wealth and amazing condescension, had for many years spent the winters in rome. in former times the lady's eccentricities had given rise to much discussion; now she was an old lady with white hair, fine regular features and much too fat arms. like all english women of her day she appeared in a low gown on all occasions of full dress, and was fond of decking her head with a pink feather. her husband was younger than she was and had a handsome, thoroughly english face, with a short beard and very picturesque curly white hair. his profile was rather like that of mendelssohn, a fact of which he was exceedingly proud. besides this he was proud of two other things: of his wife, who had been admired in her youth by king george iv. and of a very old umbrella, because felix mendelssohn had once borrowed it. he had a weakness for performing on the concertina and had musical evenings once a week. it happened that on the occasion when the jatinskys first went to one of these parties tulpin the russian genius whose great work had served as the introduction to the ilsenbergh tableaux, was elaborating a new opera to a french libretto on a national russian story. he was, of course, one of those russians who combine a passionate devotion to the national slav cause with a fervent wish to be mistaken for born parisians wherever they appear. the piano groaned under his hands, while sundry favorite phrases from _orphée aux enfers_ and other well-known works were heard above the rolling sea of tremolos. from time to time the performer threw in a word to elucidate the situation: "the czar speaks...." "the bojar speaks...." "the peasant speaks...." "the sighing of the wind in the caucasus...." "the foaming of the torrent...." while mr. ellis, who believed implicitly in the opera, was heard murmuring: "splendid! ... magnificent! the opera must be worked out--it must not remain unperformed!" "worked out!" sighed tulpin with melancholy irony. "that is no concern of mine. we--we have the ideas, the working out we leave to--to--to others, in short. you must remember that i cannot read a note of music--literally, not a note," he repeated with intense and visible satisfaction, and he flung off a few stumbling arpeggios, while mr. ellis cried: "astonishing!" and compared him with mendelssohn, which tulpin, who believed only in the music of the future, took very much amiss. a _grand prix de musique_, from the french academy of arts at the villa medici, who had been waiting more than an hour to perform his "arab symphony," muttered to himself: "good heavens! leave music to us, and let us be thankful that we are not great folks!" at last lady julia took pity on her guests and invited them to go to take tea; every one was only too glad to accept, and in a few minutes the music room was almost empty. madame tulpin, out of devotion, the grand prix out of spite, and mr. ellis out of duty were all that remained within hearing. in the adjoining room every one had burst into conversation over their tea; still, a certain gloom prevailed. melancholy seemed to have fallen upon the party like an epidemic, and the subject that was most eagerly discussed was the easiest mode of suicide. tulpin rattled and thumped on; suddenly he stopped--the jatinskys had come in, and their advent was such a godsend that even the genius abandoned the piano in their honor. they all three were smiling in the most friendly--it might almost be said the most reassuring manner; for countess ilsenbergh had not failed to impress upon them the very mixed character of roman society, and, feeling their own superiority, they were able to cover their self-consciousness with the most engaging amiability. the two younger ladies were surrounded--besieged--and the strange thing was that the women paid them even greater homage than the men. everything about them was admired: their small feet, their finely-cut profiles, their incredibly slender waists, the color of their hair, the artistic simplicity of their dresses--and bets were laid as to whether these were the production of fanet or of worth. but now there was the little commotion in the next room that is caused by the arrival of some very popular person. zinka, without her mother, under her brother's escort only, came in and gave her slim hand with an affectionate greeting to the lady of the house. "you are an incorrigible truant, you always come too late;" said lady julia in loving reproach. "like repentance and the police," said zinka merrily; and then lady julia introduced her to countess jatinska. "but you must help me with the tea; you know i always reckon on you for that," lady julia went on. "give your charming countrywomen some, will you?" polyxena and nini were sitting a yard or two off, surrounded by all the young men of rome; zinka was going towards them with her winning grace of manner when sempaly happened to come up, and found himself so unexpectedly face to face with her that he had no alternative but to shake hands, and he could not avoid saying a few words. of course--like any other man in his place--he made precisely the most unlucky speech he could possibly have hit upon: "we have not met for some time." she looked him in the face but of half-shut eyes, with her head slightly thrown back, and replied, with very becoming defiance: "you have carried out the penance you began on ash-wednesday!" "perhaps," and he could not help smiling. she shrugged her shoulders: "i had intended to break off our friendship," she went on, "but now that i see the cause of your faithlessness,"--and she glanced at the handsome young countesses--"i quite understand it. will you at any rate do me the favor of introducing me to the ladies?" "fräulein sterzl--" said sempaly; but hardly had he uttered the words when a scarcely suppressed smile curled polyxena's lip. zinka saw the smile, and she saw too that sempaly's manner instantly changed; he put on an artificial expression of intolerable condescension. zinka turned very pale, her eyes flashed indignantly as she hastily returned the young austrians' bow and at once went back to her post. sterzl, who was talking to truyn in a recess and saw the little scene from a distance, frowned darkly. sempaly meanwhile seated himself on a stool by his cousins and with his back to the tea-table where zinka was busying herself. "so this is the far-famed zinka sterzl!" exclaimed polyxena: "she does credit to your taste, nicki. but she allows herself to speak to you in a very extraordinary manner; it is really rather too much!" sempaly made no reply. "she treats you already as if you were her own property." "but xena," said nini, trying to moderate her sister's irony, "at least do not speak so loud." in a few minutes mr. ellis came to announce that monsieur b. was about to play his 'arab symphony,' and the company moved back into the drawing-room. the evening had other treats in store; when monsieur b. had done his place was taken by a young belgian count who devoted all his spare time to the composition of funeral marches, who could also play songs and ballads, such as are usually confined to the streets of florence or the _cafés chantants_ of paris, arranged for the piano, and who gave a duet between a cock and hen with so much feeling and effect that all the audience applauded heartily, especially the jatinskys to whom this style of thing was quite a novelty. then mrs. ferguson sang her french couplets, mr. ellis played an adagio by beethoven on the concertina, and then zinka was asked to sing. "what am i to sing? you know the extent of my collection," she said with rather forced brightness to mr. ellis. "oh! a stornello. we beg for a stornello," said siegburg following her to the piano--"_vieni maggio, vieni primavera_," and lady julia seconded the request. zinka laid her hands on the keys and began. her voice sounded through the room a little husky at first, but very sweet, like the note of a forest bird. never before had she sat down to sing without bringing _him_ to her side, even from the remotest corner of the room, at the very first notes; and now, involuntarily, she looked up to meet his gaze--but he was sitting by polyxena, on a small sofa, in a very familiar attitude, leaning back, holding one foot on the other knee, and laughing at something that she was whispering to him. zinka lost her self-command and was suddenly paralyzed with self-consciousness. she could not sing that song before him. her voice broke; she forgot the accompaniment; felt about the notes, struck two or three wrong chords and at length rose with an awkward laugh: "i cannot remember anything this evening!" she stammered. polyxena had some spiteful comment to make, of course, and sempaly grew angry; he was on the point of rising to go to zinka and console her for her failure, but before he could quite make up his mind to move, nini had risen. in spite of her shyness she made her way straight across the room to zinka and said something kind to her. sempaly stayed where he was; but as they were leaving, he put on nini's cloak for her, and said in a low tone: "nini, you are a good fellow!" and he kissed her hand. * * * sempaly's attentions had made zinka the fashion; his sudden discontinuance, not merely of attentions, but of any but the barest civilities, of course, made her the laughing-stock of all their circle. the capital caricature that sempaly had drawn of sterzl and his sister that evening at the vulpinis' was remembered once more; madame de gandry, to whom sempaly had been very civil till he had neglected her for zinka, showed the sketch to all her acquaintance, with a plentiful seasoning of spiteful insinuations. every one was ready to laugh at the "little adventuress" who had come to rome to bid for a prince's coronet and who had been obliged to submit to such condign humiliation. the leaders of foreign society vied with each other in doing honor to the jatinskys. madame de gandry set the example by giving a party at which ristori was engaged to recite; sterzl was of course, invited; his mother and sister were left out. it was the first time since zinka's appearance at the ilsenberghs' that she had been omitted from any entertainment, however select. many ladies of the international circle followed madame de gandry's lead, wishing like her to make a parade before the austrians of their own exclusiveness, and at the same time to be revenged on zinka for many a saucy speech she had ventured to make when she was still one of the initiated--of the sacred inner circle. the italian society of rome did not of course trouble itself about all these trumpery subtleties, and behaved to zinka with the same superficial politeness as before. she, for her part, took no more note of their amenities than she did of the pin-pricks from the other side. if her feelings had not been so deeply engaged by sempaly she would no doubt have taken all these petty social humiliations very hardly; but her anguish of soul had dulled her shallower feelings. there is a form of suffering which deadens the senses and which mockery cannot touch. it was all the same to her whether she was invited or not--she could not bear to go anywhere. the idea of meeting sempaly with his cousins was as terrible as death itself. she was an altered creature. a shy, scared smile was always on her lips, like the ghost of departed joys, her movements had lost all their elasticity, and her gait was more than ever like that of an angel whose wings have been clipped. baroness sterzl, of course, still drove out regularly on the corso, and made the most praiseworthy attempts to keep up a bowing acquaintance with her former friends, and as often as she could she went out in the evening--alone. there was some consolation too in the proud consciousness of having quarrelled with madame de gandry and being on visiting terms with all the roman duchesses. the only thing that caused her any serious discomfort was her sister wolnitzka's persistent and indiscreet catechism as to the state of affairs between zinka and sempaly. she herself, out of mere idle bragging, had told charlotte the first day of her arrival in rome that zinka's engagement was not yet made public. her aunt's coarse remarks and hints were fast driving zinka crazy when siegburg fortunately--perhaps intentionally, out of compassion for her--so frightened the mother and daughter, one evening when he met them at the palazetto, by his account of the roman fever that they were panic-stricken, and fled the very next morning to naples. the member of the family who was most keenly alive to the change in their social relations, oddly enough, was cecil. he had been wont to feel himself superior to these silly class-jealousies, and at the same time had a reasonable and manly dignity of his own that had preserved him from that morbid petulance which sometimes stands in arms against all friendly advances from men who, after all, cannot help the fact of their superior birth. democratic touchiness is a disease to which, in the old-world countries where hereditary rank is still a living fact, every man who is not a toady is liable--from werther downwards--when fate brings him into contact with aristocratic circles. sterzl had moved in them so long that he was acclimatized; or rather, it had attacked him late in life, and, as is always the case when grown-up men take infantine complaints, with aggravated severity. he attributed all his sister's misery, not to his own want of caution and sempaly's weakness of character, but to the tyranny of social prejudice; and he turned against society with vindictive contempt, making himself perfectly intolerable wherever he went. being a well-bred man, accustomed all his life to the graces of politeness, he could not become absolutely ill-mannered--but as ill-mannered as he could be he certainly was: assertive, irritable, always on the defensive, he was constantly involved in some argument or dispute. even at home he was not the same; his pride was deeply nettled by zinka's total inability to hide her suffering, while he felt it humiliating to be able to do nothing to comfort her. at first, in the hope of diverting her thoughts, he would bring her tickets for concerts or the theatre, and give her a thousand costly trinkets, old treasures of porcelain, carved ivory, and curiosities of art, such as she had once loved. she used to rejoice over these pretty trifles--now she smiled as a sick man smiles at some dainty he no longer has any appetite for. he could see how sincerely she tried to be delighted, but the tears were in her eyes all the while. this drove sterzl to desperation. at first he religiously avoided mentioning sempaly in her presence, but as days and weeks passed and she brought no change in her crushed melancholy, he waxed impatient. he took it into his head that it would be well to open zinka's eyes with regard to sempaly. sterzl himself was energetic, always looking to the future; he had it out with his disappointments and got rid of them, however hard he might have been hit. he had always let things roll if they would not stand, and then set to work to begin again. his great point in life was to see things as they were. truth was his divinity, and he could not understand that to a creature constituted like zinka, illusion was indispensable; that she still laid no blame on sempaly, but only on the alteration in his circumstances--on her own unworthiness--on anything and everything but himself; that it was a necessity of her nature to be able still to love him, even though she knew that he was lost to her forever. his austere nature could not enter into zinka's soft and impressible susceptibility. so when he took to speaking slightingly or contemptuously of sempaly on every possible opportunity she never answered him, but listened in silence, looking at him with frightened, astonished eyes and a pale face, like a martyr to whom her tormentors try to prove that there is no god. the result of cecil's well-meant but injudicious proceedings was a temporary coolness between himself and his sister--a coolness which, on his part, lay only on the surface, but which froze her spirit to its depths, and all this naturally tended to add fuel to sterzl's detestation of sempaly. the two men were in daily intercourse, and now in a state of constant friction. sterzl would make biting remarks over the smallest negligence or oversight of which sempaly might be guilty, and was bitterly sarcastic as to the incompetence of a young connection of the sempalys who had not long since been attached to the embassy. "to be sure," he ended by declaring, "in austria it is a matter of far greater importance that an attaché should be a man of family than that he should know how to spell." to such depths of clumsy rudeness could he descend. sempaly, without losing his supercilious good humor, would only smile, or answer in his most piping tones: "you are very right; the view we take of privilege is quite extraordinary. we should form ourselves on the model of the french corps diplomatique; do not you think so?" for, a few days previously, the figaro had published a satirical article on the presentation of a plebeian representative of the republic at some foreign court. well, sempaly might have retorted in a much haughtier key--but the lighter his irony the more it exasperated sterzl. chapter v. countess jatinska spent almost the whole of her stay in rome on her sofa. when she was asked what she thought of rome she replied that she found it very fatiguing; when the same question was put to her daughters they, on the contrary, declared themselves enchanted. sempaly knew full well that in all rome there was nothing they liked better than their ne'er-do-weel cousin. he displayed for their benefit all his most amiable graces; criticised or admired their dresses, touched up their coiffure with his own light hand, faithfully reported to them all their conquests, and made them presents of cigarettes and of trinkets from castellani's. when there was nothing else to be done he was ready to attend them--of course, under the charge of some older lady--to see galleries and churches, polyxena had a way, that was highly characteristic, of rushing past the greatest works with her nose in the air and laughing as she repeated some imbecile remark that she had overheard, or pointed out some eccentricity of tourist costume. nini took art more seriously, looked carefully at everything by the catalogue, and even kept a diary. xena was commonly thought the handsomer and the more brilliant of the sisters, and sempaly apparently devoted himself chiefly to her, but he decidedly liked nini best. the hours that he did not spend with his cousins he passed at the club, where he gambled away large sums. meanwhile, he was looking very ill and complained of a return of old roman fever. and what did the world say to his behavior? the phlegmatic italians did not trouble themselves about the matter; madame de gandry and mrs. ferguson laughed over it; siegburg pronounced it disgraceful, and ilsenbergh called it bad taste to say the least. that he ought to have arranged to leave rome everybody agreed. princess vulpini held long and lamentable conferences with general von klinger--reproaching herself bitterly for not having seen the position of affairs long ago--but she had never attached any importance to sempaly's marked attentions, having had no eyes for anything but siegburg's devotion to zinka, and she had taken a quite motherly interest in what she regarded as a good match for both. truyn was perfectly furious with sempaly. all that he was to zinka during these weeks can only be divined by those who have passed through such a time of grief and humiliation, with the consciousness of having a high-souled and tender friend in the back-ground. he was the only person who never aggravated her wound. he had the gentle touch, the delicate skill, which the best man or woman can only acquire through the ordeal of an aching heart. he came every afternoon with his little girl to take zinka for a walk, for he knew that the regular drive on the corso could only bring her added pain; and while the baroness, with outspread skirts, drove in the wake of fashion up to the villa borghese and the pincio, these three--with the general, not unfrequently, for a fourth--would wander through silent and deserted cloisters or take long walks across the campagna. not once did truyn bring a secret tear to her eye; if some accidental remark or association brought the hot color to her thin cheek he could always turn the subject so as to spare her. one sultry afternoon, late in spring, truyn and his two daughters--as he was wont to call zinka and gabrielle--with the soldier-artist were sauntering home, after a long walk, through the sombre and picturesque streets that surround the pantheon. the neighborhood is humble and wretched, but over a garden wall rose a mulberry tree in whose green branches a blackbird was singing, and a few red geraniums blazed behind rusty window-bars, bright specks in the monotonous brown; above the roofs bent the deep blue sky; the air was heavy and hot, and full of obscure smells of gutters and stale vegetables. somewhere, in an upstairs room, a woman sang a love-song of melancholy longing. suddenly the blackbird and the woman ceased singing at the same time; a dismal howl and groan echoed through the street, and a mass of black shadows darkened the scene. zinka, who had lately become excessively nervous, started and shuddered. "it is nothing--only a funeral," truyn explained, taking off his hat. that was all--a roman funeral, grim but picturesque--a long procession of mysteriously-shrouded figures, only able to see through two slits in the sack-like cowls that covered their heads, ropes round their waists, and torches or mystical banners in their hands--banners with the emblems of death. these were followed by a troop of barefooted friars, and last came the bier covered with a bright yellow pall, carried by four more of the shrouded figures, who bent under its weight as they shuffled along. the ruddy flare and the black smoke wreaths, the groan-like chant, the uncanny glitter of the men's eyes out of the formless hoods--ghastly, ghostly, and exhaling a savor of mouldiness and incense, like the resurrection of a fragment of the middle ages--the procession defiled through the narrow street. zinka, half-fainting, clung to truyn; gabrielle, whose childish nerves were less shocked, watched them with intense curiosity and began to question a woman who stood near her in the crowd that had collected, in her fluent, bungling italian: "who is it they are burying?" she asked at length. "a woman," was the answer. "was she young?" "_si_." "and what did she die of? of fever?" "no," said the roman shrugging her shoulders; and then she added, in the slow musical drawl of the roman peasant: "_di passione_." the procession had passed, the chanting had died away; the blackbird was singing lustily once more; they went on their way--truyn first, with zinka hanging wearily on to his arm, behind them gabrielle and the general. "_passione!_ is that a roman illness?" she asked with her insatiable inquisitiveness. "no, it occurs in most parts of the world," said the general drily. "but only among poor people, i suppose?" said the child. "no, it is known to the better classes too, but it is not called by the same name," said the old man with some bitterness, more to himself than to gabrielle. "then it is wrong--a shameful thing to die of?" she asked with wide, astonished eyes. suddenly the general perceived that zinka was listening; her head drooped as she heard the child's heedless catechism. he, under the circumstances, would have felt paralyzed--he would not have known what to say to the poor crushed soul; but not so truyn. he turned to his companion and said something in a low tone. what, the general could not hear, but it must have been something kind and helpful--something which, without any direct reference to the past, conveyed his unalterable respect and regard, for she answered him almost brightly. then he went on talking of trifles, remembering little incidents of his boyhood, characteristic anecdotes of his parents, and such small matters as may divert a sick and weary spirit, till, when they parted at the door of the palazetto, zinka was smiling. "that he has the brains of a genius i will not say, but he has genius of heart, i dare swear!" thought the soldier. truyn had gone out riding with her two or three times across the campagna, and she had enjoyed it; but one day they met sempaly, galloping with his two handsome cousins over the anemone-strewn sward. from that day she made excuses for avoiding the campagna--as though she thus avoided the chance, almost the certainty, of meeting him and them. why then did she remain in rome at all? sterzl would not hear of her quitting it, because he thought that the world of rome would regard it as a flight after defeat. his mother too, on different grounds, set her face against any such abridgment of their stay in rome. had she not taken the palazetto till the fifteenth of may? and did zinka, in fact, wish to go? she often spoke of longing to be at home again, but whenever their departure was seriously discussed it gave her a shock. she dreaded meeting him--and longed for it all the same. and in the evening when a few old friends dropped in to call--truyn every evening and siegburg very frequently--truyn noticed that every time there was a ring she sat with her eyes fixed in eager expectation on the door. she still cherished a sort of hope--a broken, moribund hope that was in fact no more than unrest--the vitality of suffering. part iii. easter. chapter i. passion-week in rome, and in all the glory and glow of an italian spring. the glinting radiance brightens even the mystical gloom of st. peter's, sparkles for an instant on the holy-water in the basins, wanders from the heads of the gigantic cherubs and the colossal statues down to the inlaid pavement, with the cold sheen of sunlight on polished marble. the hours glide on--the long solemn hours of holy-thursday in rome; the last gleam of daylight has faded away, the vast cathedral is filled with almost palpable twilight and its magnificence seems shrouded in a transparent veil of crape. the stone walls look dim and distant, the fane seems built of shadows, and sacred mystery falls as it were from heaven, deeper and more solemn as the minutes slip by, to sanctify the spot. in the papal chapel zinka is kneeling with truyn and gabrielle, her eyes fixed on her hands which are convulsively clasped, and praying with the passion of a youthful nature whose yearning has found no foothold on earth and seeks a home in heaven. on both sides sit the prelates and dignitaries of the church in their carved stalls, inquisitive and prayerless foreigners crowd at their feet. the tragedy of the passion is being recited in a monotonous, inconclusive chant that dies away in the dim corners of the chapel. the last of the twelve tapers on the altar is extinguished.... "_miserere mei_" the choristers cry with terrible emphasis; and then, awful but most sweet, beginning as a mere breath and rising to a mighty wail of grief, comes a voice like the utterance of the anguish of the god of love over the misery from which he can never release mankind. and before the majesty of that divine and selfless sorrow human sorrow bows in silence. zinka bends her head.--it is ended, the last sound has died away in a sob, the crowd rises to follow the procession which, with a cardinal at the head, wends its way through the church. truyn and the two girls quit the chapel; behind them the steps of the priests and choristers, drowned in their own echoes, sound like the rustling of angelic wings; the brooding, melancholy peacefulness has lulled zinka's heart to rest; for the first time for many weeks she has forgotten.... "most interesting, but the bass was hoarse!" it was polyxena jatinsky who pronounced this summary criticism of the solemn ceremonial, close to zinka. zinka looked round; sempaly with his aunt and cousins were at her side. they had attended the service in reserved places in the choir. involuntarily yielding to an impulse of pain zinka pressed forward, but gabrielle had flown to join them; then she was obliged to stay and talk. the jatinskys were perfectly friendly, polyxena giving her her hand--sempaly alone held aloof. on going out the air struck' chill, almost cold, on zinka's face and she shivered. a well-known voice close behind her said rather brusquely: "you are too lightly dressed and there is fever in the air. put this round you," and sempaly threw over her shoulders a scarf that he was carrying for one of the ladies. "thank you, i am not cold; these ladies will want the scarf," said zinka hastily and repellently. polyxena said nothing; perhaps she may have thought it strange that in his anxiety for this little stranger, her cousin should forget to consider that one of them might take cold. but nini exclaimed: "no, no, fräulein sterzl: we are well wrapped up." at this juncture truyn's servant, who had been seeking them among the crowd, told them where the carriage was waiting. while zinka, wrapped in nini's china-crape shawl, is borne along between the splashing fountains, across the bridge of st. angelo, and through the empty, ill-lighted streets to the palazetto, all her pulses are dancing and throbbing--and the stars in the sky overhead seem unnaturally bright. it is the resurrection of her pain and with it of the lovely mocking vision of the joys she has lost. good god! how vividly she remembers them all--how keenly!--the long dreamy afternoons on the palatine, the delicious hours in the corsini garden--under the plane-trees by the fountain, where he talked about erzburg while the perfume of violets and lilies fanned her with their intoxicating breath; the sound of his voice--the touch of his light, thin hand, his smile--his way of saying particular words, of looking at her in particular moments.... she is walking with him once more in the vatican, in rapt enjoyment of the beauty of the statues; the belvedere fountain trickled and splashed in dreamy monotony; golden sunbeams fleck the pavement like footmarks left by the gods before they mounted their pedestals; there is a mysterious rustle and whisper in the lofty corridors as of far, far distant ghostly voices,--and then, suddenly, she is in front of sant' onofrio's; the air is thick with a pale mist. at her feet, veiled in the thin haze, indistinct and mirage-like, the very ghost of departed splendor, lies rome--the vast reliquary of the world; rome, on whose monuments and ruins every conceivable crime and every imaginable virtue have set their stamp; where the tragedies of antiquity cry out to the sacrifice on calvary. they had stood together a long time looking down on it; then she had lost a little bunch of violets which she had been wearing and as she turned round to seek them she had perceived that he had picked them up and was holding them to his lips. their eyes had met.... yes! he had loved her! he loved her still--he must--she knew it. she told herself that, impulsive and excitable as he was, the merest trifle would suffice to bring him back to her; but whether it was worth while to long so desperately for a man who could be turned by the slightest breath--that she did not ask herself. and through all the torturing whirl of these memories, above the clatter of the horses' hoofs and the rattle of the wheels over the wretched pavement, she heard the cry "_miserere mei_." but her thoughts turned no more to the god sacrificed for man--the strongest angels' wings cannot bear us quite to heaven so long as our heart dwells on earth. "good-night," she said, kissing gabrielle as the carriage drew up at the door of the palazetto. "will you let me have nini's scarf for gabrielle?" said truyn. "i am afraid my little companion may catch cold." "oh! of course," cried zinka, and she wrapped the child carefully in the shawl and kissed her again; "when shall i learn to think of anyone but myself?" she added vexed with herself. * * * easter-monday. all the bells in the churches of rome are once more wagging their brazen tongues after their week of dumb mourning, and images of the resurrection in every conceivable form--sugar, wax, soap--decorate all the shop windows. baroness wolnitzka had returned fresher, gayer and more enterprising than ever from her visit to naples, where she not only had had herself photographed in a lyric attitude leaning on a pillar in the ruins of pompeii, but, in spite of her huge size which was very much against her taking such excursions, she had with the help of two guides and a remarkably vigorous mule, reached the top of vesuvius. thanks, too, to a cardinal's nephew with whom she had scraped acquaintance on her journey, with a view to making him useful, she had succeeded in obtaining--not indeed a private audience of the pope--but leave to attend a private mass--and receive the communion, in company with three hundred other orthodox souls, from his sacred hand. this morning she had been to the palazetto to take leave of her sister--to ask once more after sempaly--to give a full and particular account of the service at the vatican--and to deliver a discourse on the philosophical value of the mass. slawa, whose orthodoxy had been fanned to bigotry, and who on easter eve had duly climbed the _santa scala_ on her knees, had supplemented her mother's narrative with a variety of interesting details: "it was most exclusive, quite our own set, and few families of the polish colony--i wore my black satin dress beaded with jet and i heard a gentleman behind me say: 'that is the only woman whose veil is put on with any taste.'" sterzl had kept out of the way during their visit; zinka had smiled amiably but had not attended: baroness clotilde had plied her sister with questions. then the wolnitzkas had left to go to the consecration of a bishop--also by invitation from the cardinal's nephew--the ladies were to be admitted to the sacristy and be presented with flowers and refreshments. it was about six o'clock in the evening when general von klinger was shown into the drawing-room of the palazetto. the room was not so pretty as it used to be; the furniture was all set out squarely against the walls by the symmetrical taste of the servants, and the flower vases that were always so gracefully arranged now never held anything but bunches of magnolias or violets; zinka no longer cared to arrange them. "i am so glad you happen to have come to-day," she cried as he came in. the brilliancy of her eyes and the redness of her lips showed that she was already suffering from that terrible spring fever which makes havoc with young creatures in the warm days of april and may. she was sitting by her brother on a low red sofa, as she had so often sat with sempaly; the baroness was lounging in an arm-chair fanning herself; there was a sort of triumphant solemnity in her manner. even cecil, too, was evidently in some excitement though his air was just as frank and natural as ever. "good evening, general, what hot, trying weather!" drawled the baroness. "it is an extraordinary event to find us all at home together at this hour but we all have a sacred horror of the mob in the streets on a holiday afternoon." "oh, mamma!" interrupted zinka, "it is not only the crowd--we wanted to enjoy our good fortune together; did not we, cecil?" he nodded and stroked her hair. "yes, little zini." "only think. uncle klinger--you knew, of course, that cecil's book on persia had attracted a great deal of attention--but that is not all. he has been appointed _chargé d'affaires_ at constantinople." the general offered his congratulations and shook hands warmly with the young man. "i could wish for nothing more exactly to my mind," said cecil. "there is always something to do there; a man always has a chance of making his mark and getting on." he was sincerely and frankly satisfied and affected no indifference to the distinction he had earned. "in five years we shall see you ambassador," exclaimed the general, with the happy exaggeration that is irresistible on such occasions. "we do not go quite so fast as that," laughed sterzl. "however, i hope to rise in due time. will not you be proud of me, butterfly, when i am 'your excellency!'" "i am proud of you already," said zinka, "and you know how vain i am, and how much i value such things!" it was the first time for some weeks that the general had seen the two so happy together and it rejoiced his heart. "and the climate is good," sterzl went on, "one of the best in europe; the foreign colony is friendly and pleasant. you will enjoy studying oriental manners from a bird's-eye view, zini; and the change of air will do you good?" "you will take me too?" she said turning pale. "why, of course. the bay of constantinople is lovely and we can often sail out on it; then, in the autumn, if i have time, we will make an excursion in greece. you will be quite a travelled person." he put his finger under her chin and looked with tender anxiety into her thin face; every trace of color had suddenly faded from it, and the light that her brother's success had kindled in her eyes had died out. "it will be very nice--" she said wearily; "delightful--thank you, cecil--you are always so kind ... when are we to start?" "you might get off in about a week; the sea-voyage will not over-tire you, and you can stop to rest at athens. in the hot season we can go up to the hills--" then suddenly he glanced sharply in her face and his whole expression changed; he added roughly, with a scowl: "but you need not come unless you like--stay here if you choose--i do not want to force you." at this instant the maid appeared to announce the arrival of a case from the railway. "the new ball-dresses!" cried the baroness in great excitement. "i am thankful they have come in time. i was quite in despair for fear i should not have my new gown in time for the ball at the brancaleone's. it would have seemed so uncourteous to the princess.... now let us see what fanet has hit upon that is new...." and she rustled out of the room. zinka sat still, with a frozen smile, looking like a criminal to whom the day of execution had just been announced, and uneasily twisting her fingers. "of course, i like it, cecil ... how can you think ... and on wednesday week we can start--wednesday will be best ... now i must go and see what my new dress is like ... do not laugh at me uncle; i must make myself look as nice as i can for my last appearance." and she hurried off; but on her way she stumbled against a table and a book fell to the ground. she stopped, picked the book up, turned over the leaves and laid it down; then, as if she wished to make up to her brother for some unkindness, she went back to cecil and put her hand on his shoulder. "i do really thank you very much," she said, "and i am glad--really and truly glad, and very proud of you...." he looked up in her face and their eyes met--his lips quivered with rage--the rage of a lofty, generous, and masterful nature at finding itself incapable of making a woman dear to it happy. zinka shrank into herself "my ball-dress!" she faintly exclaimed, and she slipped out of the room. for a few minutes the two men were silent. presently the general spoke: "zinka is going to the brancaleones' to-morrow?" "yes," replied sterzl; "at least, she has promised to go. whether she will change her mind at the last moment and stay at home, of course i cannot foresee." "but she really seems to care about it this time," said the general. "at least she took an interest in her dress." "her dress!... she did not even know what she was talking about. she fled that we might not see her tears...." sterzl broke out, losing all his self-control. then he looked sternly at his friend as though he thought he had betrayed a secret but the old man's sad face reassured him. "it is of no use to try to act before you," he went on; "you are not blind--you must see how wretched she is--it is all over, general, she is utterly broken...." he started to his feet and after pacing the room two or three times stood still and with a helpless wave of the hands and a desperate shrug, he exclaimed: "there is nothing to be done--nothing!" then he sat down again and buried his face in his hands. von klinger cleared his throat, paused for a word and could find nothing better to say than: "in time--things will mend; you must have patience." "patience!" echoed sterzl with an indescribable accent. "patience!--yes, if i could only hope that things would mend. at first it provoked me that she should let everybody see ... know ... i thought she might have more spirit and self-command. but now.--good heavens! she does all she can and it is killing her ... that is not her fault. if only she were resentful--but she never complains; she is always content with everything, she never even contradicts my mother now. and then, what is worst of all, i hear her at night--her room is over mine--walking up and down, very softly as if she were afraid of waking anyone--up and down for hours; and often i hear her sobbing--she never sheds a tear by day!..." he sighed. "and then--if it were for a man who was worth it all!" he went on. "but that blue-eyed, boneless, good-for-nothing simpleton!... i ought never to have allowed her to step out of her own sphere--i ought never to have allowed them to become intimate! i knew he was not worthy of her, even when, as i believed--but you will laugh at my simplicity perhaps--he condescended to be in earnest.--you cannot imagine what it is now to have to meet him every day,--to hear him ask every day: 'how are you all at home?'--i feel ready to choke ... i could crush him under foot like a worm!... and i am bound to be civil. i may not even tell him that he has insulted me." the baroness here came back. "lovely!" she exclaimed, with her affected giggle, "quite perfect! zinka has never had a dress that suited her so well." "that is well!" said sterzl vaguely, "where is she?" "she is gone to lie down; she has a bad headache," minced the baroness. "the young girls of the present day have no stamina. why, at her age i...." the general was not in the mood to listen to her sentimental reminiscences and he took his leave. in the hall he once more wrung cecil's hand: "fortune has favored you," he said; "you have a splendid career before you, and in her new and pleasant home zinka will forget.--i congratulate you on your new start in life." aye--his new start in life! chapter ii. the brancaleone palace, on the slope of the quirinal, is one of the finest in rome, and particularly famous for its gardens, laid out in terraces down the side of the hill, with the lower rooms of the palazzo opening on to the uppermost level. the dancing was in a large, almost square, room adjoining a long vaulted corridor full of old pictures relieved here and there by the cold severity of an antique marble statue. it was lighted by marvellous chandeliers of venetian glass that hung from the ceiling. at the end of the corridor two steps led down into an anteroom, dividing it from a smaller sanctuary where the gems of the brancaleone collection were displayed--mixed up, unfortunately, with several modern monstrosities--and from this room a door opened into the garden. zinka arrived late. a transient and feverish expectancy lent her pinched features the brilliancy they had lost while her timid reserve gave her even more charm than her former innocent self-confidence, and her dress was certainly wonderfully becoming. nor had she lost all her old popularity, for she was soon surrounded by a little crowd of roman 'swells;' one or two even of the jatinskas' admirers deserted to zinka. truyn was not present; the cold his little girl had caught at st. peter's had developed into a serious illness, and he could not leave her. zinka, with her gliding grace, her small head held a little high, and her softened glance, was still pretty to watch as she danced, and attracted general attention. the music, the splendor of the entertainment, the consciousness of looking well put her into unwonted spirits. she sent a searching glance round the room--no, he was not there. sterzl stood talking with the general, delighted with her little triumph and charming appearance; then he was congratulated by several men of distinction on his recent promotion. he thanked them with characteristic simplicity and sincerity--the evening was a success for him too. not long after midnight he left to attend to pressing business--matters were in a very unsettled state--and went to the embassy. within a short time sempaly came in. he had spent the previous night, as was very generally known, at cards--this was a new form of dissipation for him--he had lost a great deal of money, and he looked worn and out of spirits. he did not care for dancing and came so late to ask his handsome cousins for the cotillon that they were both engaged--a result to which he was so manifestly indifferent that nini actually wiped away a secret tear. he was now standing with his fingers in his waistcoat pockets and his glass in his eye, exchanging impertinent comments with a number of other young men, on the figure of this woman or that girl, and trying to imagine himself in the position of the fabulous savage who found himself for the first time in a civilized ball-room. suddenly he was silent--something had arrested his attention. the band was playing a waltz at that time very popular: "_stringi mi_," by tosti. the room was very hot; it was the moment when the curls of the young ladies begin to straighten, and their movements--at first a little prim--begin to gain in freedom; when there is an electrical tension in the air suggestive of possible storms and the most indifferent looker-on is aware of an obscure excitement. crespigny and zinka spun past him--zinka pale and cool in the midst of the emotional stir around her. she was not living in the present--she was in a dream. suddenly crespigny, who was not a good dancer, stumbled against another couple, caught his foot in a lady's train and fell with his partner. sempaly pushed his way through the dancers with blind force and was the first to help zinka to her feet. without thinking for a moment of the hundred eyes that were fixed upon him he leaned over the young girl--her power over him had risen from the dead. she, bewildered by her fall, did not perhaps at first see who it was that had helped her to rise; she clung to his arm with half-shut eyes; then, as he whispered a few sympathizing words, she looked up, started, colored, and shrank from him. "a very unpleasant accident," said some of the ladies. sempaly had taken possession of zinka's slender hand and drew it with gentle insistence through his arm; then he led her out of the heated ball-room into the adjoining gallery. * * * the accident for which she had besieged heaven with prayers had happened--the accident which threw him once more in her way. his old passion was awake again; she saw it--she could read it in his eyes. she summoned up all her self-command to conceal her happiness--not so much out of deliberate calculation as from genuine timidity and womanly pride. he talked--saying all sorts of eager, sympathetic things--she asked only the coldest and simplest questions. he had fetched her a wrap and with the white shawl thrown around her he led her from one room to another among the fan-palms and creamy yellow statues. now and then she spoke to some acquaintance whom they met wandering like themselves, but these were fewer and fewer. the supper-room was thrown open and every one was gone to the buffet. zinka's coldness, for which he was not at all prepared, provoked sempaly greatly. he felt with sudden conviction that there could be no joy on earth to compare with that of once holding her in his arms and kissing her--devouring her with kisses. this image took entire possession of him and beyond the possible fulfilment of that dream he did not look. that joy must be his at any cost, if the whole world were to crumble at his feet. "zinka," he said in a low tone, "zinka--lent is over--easter is come." "yes? what do you mean?" she said coldly, almost sternly. "i mean," he said, and he looked her straight in the face, "that i have fasted and that now i will feast, and be happy." they were in a small room--a sort of raised recess divided from the ball-room by a row of pillars; they were alone. a joy so acute as to be almost pain came over zinka. it blinded and stunned her; she did not speak, she did not smile, she did not even look up at him; she could not have stirred even if she had wished it--she was paralyzed. he thought she would not hear him. "zinka," he urged, "can you not forgive me for having jingled the fool's cap for six weeks till i could not hear the music of the spheres? can you not forgive me--for the sake of the misery i have endured? i can bear it no longer--i confess and yield unconditionally--i cannot live without you...." zinka was not strong enough to bear such emotion; the terrible tension to which for the last quarter of an hour her pride had compelled her gave way; she tottered, put out her hands, and was falling. he put his arm round her and with the other hand pushed open a glass door that led into the garden. "come out, the air will do you good," he said scarcely audibly, and they went out on to the deserted terrace. his arm clasped her more closely and drew her to him. involuntarily he waited till she should make some effort to free herself from his hold; but she was quite passive; she only raised a tear-bedewed face with a blissful gaze into his eyes, and whispered: "i ought not to forgive you so easily...." and then, with no more distrust or fear than a child clinging to its mother, she let her head fall on his shoulder and sobbed for happiness. a strange reverence came over him; the sound of some church bell came up from the city. he kissed her with solemn tenderness on the forehead and only said: "my darling, my sacred treasure!" she was safe. when the general came out of the card-room to look once more at the dancers before he withdrew, the cotillon, with its fanciful figures and lavish distribution of ribbons and flowers, was nearly over. "what a cruel idea!" he heard in a lamentable voice from one of a row of chaperons, "to give a ball in such heat as this!" it was the baroness, who was searching all round the room with her eye-glass and a very sour and puckered expression of face. siegburg, who, as the general knew, was to have danced the cotillon with zinka, was sitting out; when von klinger asked him the reason he answered very calmly, that "he believed zinka had felt tired and had gone home," but the way in which he said it roused the old man's suspicions that he put forward this hypothesis to prevent any further search being made for zinka. he had seen her last in the corridor with sempaly, and he hurried off to find her. he sought in vain in all the nooks hidden by the plants; in vain in the recesses behind the pillars--but the door to the garden was open. this filled him with apprehension--he went out, sure that he must be following them. the air was oppressively sultry and damp; it crushed him with a sense of hopeless anxiety. the scirocco had cast its baleful spell over rome. northerners who have never been in rome have no idea of the nature of the scirocco; they suppose it to be a storm of hot wind. no.... it is when the air is still and damp, when it distils but does not waft a heavy perfume that the scirocco diffuses its poison: a subtle influence compounded of the scent of flowers that it forces into life only to destroy them--of the mists from the tiber whose yellow flood--like mud mixed with gold, which rolls over the corpses and treasure that lie buried in its depths--of the exhalations from the graves, and the perennial incense from all the churches of rome. the scirocco cheats the soul with delusive fancies and fills the heart with gloom and oppression; it inspires the imagination with dreams of splendid achievement and stretches the limbs on a couch in languor and exhaustion. it penetrates even the cool seclusion of the cloister and breathes on the pale cheek of the young nun who is struggling for devout aspiration, reminding her of long forgotten dreams. all that is melancholy, all that is cruel and wicked in rome--much, too, that is beautiful--is engendered by the scirocco. it is creative of glorious conceptions and of hideous deeds. one feels inclined to fancy that on the day when caesar fell under the dagger of brutus scirocco and tramontane fought their last fight for the mastery of rome--and scirocco won the day. a dense grey cloud hung over the city and veiled the sinking moon. a cascade that tumbled from basin to basin, down the terraced slope of the quirinal, plashed weirdly in the deep twilight of the earliest dawn, which was just beginning shyly to vie with the dying moon. light and shade had ceased to exist; the whole scene presented the dim, smudged effect of a rubbed charcoal drawing. the general sent a peering glance through the laurel-hedged alleys that led down the hill. above the clipped evergreens, rose huge ilexes, wreathed to the very top with ivy and climbing roses. here and there something white gleamed dimly in the grey--he rushed to meet it--it was a statue or a white blossomed shrub. roses and magnolias opened their blossoms to the solitude, and the scent of orange-flowers filled the heavy air, stronger than all the other perfumes of the morning. now and then, like a faint sigh, a shiver ran through the leaves--the fall of a dying flower. the old man held his breath to listen; he called: "zinka--sempaly!" no answer. suddenly he heard low voices in a path known as the alley of the sarcophagus and thither he bent his steps. the sullen light fell through a gap in the leafy wall on sempaly and zinka, seated on a bench, hand in hand, and talking familiarly, forgetful of all the world besides. zinka was the first to see him; she was not in the least disconcerted. "oh! uncle klinger!" she exclaimed. "mamma is waiting for me, i dare say!--but do not scold me, i entreat you--." thank god for those happy innocent eyes that looked so frankly into his!--on purity like hers scirocco could have no power! no--he could not be angry with her.--but _he_! "sempaly!" cried the old man indignantly: "what possesses you?" "i have at length made up my mind to be happy," said sempaly with feeling, and he raised zinka's hand to his lips. "that is all." "and i ought not to have forgiven him so easily--ought i?" murmured zinka, quailing at the general's stern frown, and her head drooped. "zinka has been missed, you know how spiteful people are!" exclaimed von klinger angrily, ignoring the sentimentality of the situation. sempaly interrupted him with vehement irritation. "what i should like to do," he said half to himself, "is to go straight back to the ball-room, and tell my most intimate friends at once of our engagement!" but even as he spoke he reconsidered the matter; "but i cannot," he went on, "unfortunately i cannot. i must even entreat you, zinka, to keep it a secret even from your own household." "come, at once, with me," said the general drily, "my carriage is waiting in the piazza. if i am not mistaken there is a little gate here which leads on to it... yes, here it is. i will tell your mother, so that others shall hear it, that you felt ill and left before the cotillon began and that lady julia took you home." when zinka was safely on her way to the palazetto in charge of the general's trusty old coachman, the two men looked each other in the face. "outrageous!" growled the general furiously. sempaly turned upon him quickly: "think what you will of me," he said, "but do not let the shadow of a suspicion rest on zinka. you know that if you hold up a cross to the devil himself, his power is quelled." without answering a word the general hurried past sempaly and straight into the ball-room; but he found time to lock behind him the alcove door leading into the garden. in the ball-room he was met by the baroness who anxiously asked him: "where is zinka? have you seen zinka?" "zinka felt shaken and upset by her fall--she went away a long time since, with lady julia who took her home." he spoke very distinctly and in french, so that several persons who were standing near might hear him. "she might have let me know," exclaimed the baroness peevishly. "we looked for you, but could nowhere find you," said the general. never in his life before had he told a lie. * * * at some unearthly hour next morning he called on lady julia to confide to her the mystery of the night's adventure, that she might not contradict his story; as he had actually put zinka into her carriage there seemed to be no other danger. though she disliked the falsehood as much as he did, she was quite ready to confirm the fiction; at the same time she could not help saying again and again: "poor little thing! i hope it may all come right!" chapter iii. "dearest zinka, my own sweet little love, "my brother arrived in rome last night; he is on his way to australia and i am thankful to say stays only a few days. so long as he is here i must make every sacrifice and hardly see you at all, for he must know nothing of our engagement. now, shall i tell you the real sordid reason why i cannot speak to him of my happiness?--during these last few miserable weeks, simply and solely to kill the time, i have gambled and have always been unlucky, and i have got deeply into debt. my brother will pay, as he always has done, so long as the conditions remain unchanged. but ... however, it is not a matter to write about. believe this much only: that his narrow views can never affect my feelings towards you; though i may seem to yield, for i think it useless to provoke his antagonism. as soon as he has sailed there will be nothing in the way of our engagement and we will be married immediately. to an accomplished fact he must surrender. if i possibly can, i will see you this evening at the palazetto--just to have one kiss and a loving word. till then i can only implore you to keep this absolutely secret. "your perfectly devoted "n.s." this was the note that zinka received the morning after the ball, as she was breakfasting alone in her own room, rather later than usual, but with a convalescent appetite. the color mounted to her cheeks, and her eyes flashed indignantly. coldness and neglect she had borne--but the meanness and weakness--the moral cowardice--that this note betrayed, degraded him in her eyes till she almost scorned him. she felt as though a sudden glare had shown her the real sempaly--as though the man she loved was not he, but some one else. the man she had loved was a lofty young god who had chosen to descend from his high estate to break the heart of an insignificant girl who ought to have thought herself happy only to have gazed upon him; but this was a boneless, nerveless mortal, who could stoop to petty subterfuge for fear of having to face the wrath of his brother. she was furious; all the pride that had been crushed into silence by her dejection was roused to arms. she went to her desk and wrote as follows: "i am prepared to marry you in defiance of your brother's will, but i could never think of becoming your wife behind his back. i am ready to defy him, but i do not choose to cheat him. it is of no use to come to the house this evening unless you are quite clear on this point. i could not think of marrying you unless i were perfectly sure that i was more indispensable to your happiness than your brother's good will. you must therefore consider yourself released from every tie, and regard the words you spoke yesterday in a moment of excitement as effaced from my memory. ever yours, "zinka sterzl." zinka enclosed this peremptory note in an envelope, addressed it, rang for her maid and desired her to have it sent immediately to the palazzo di venezia. "and shall i say there is an answer?" asked the girl. "no," said zinka shortly. no sooner had the maid gone on her errand than the hapless zinka felt utterly wretched and almost repented of having written so indignantly... she might have said all that was in the note without expressing herself so bitterly. she thought the words over, knit her brows, shook her head--and at that moment her eye fell on another letter which had been brought to her with sempaly's, and which she had forgotten to open. she saw that the writing was truyn's. she hastily read the note which was a short one. "dear zinka:--my poor little girl has been much worse and the doctor gives me very little hope. she constantly asks for you, both when she is conscious and in her delirium. come to her if you can. your old friend, "truyn." "p. s. it is nothing catching--inflammation of the lungs." zinka started up--she forgot everything--her happiness, her grief, sempaly himself--remembering only truyn's indefatigable kindness and the sorrow that threatened him. "nothing catching...." she repeated to herself: "poor man! he thinks of others even now--it is just like him. while i ... i?" she colored deeply, for she recollected how that evening the child had sat shivering by her side and she had not noticed it. "i had my head turned by a kind word from him...." she thought vexed with her own folly. in a very few minutes she was hurrying across the corso towards the piazza di spagna. her maid had some difficulty in keeping up with her. zinka almost flew, heeding nothing and looking at no one, till, in the piazza di spagna, she came upon a group of persons coming out of the hotel de londres and felt a light hand on her arm. looking round she saw nini. "good-morning. where are you off to in such a hurry?" asked the young countess pleasantly. "good-morning," said zinka hastily, "i am in a great hurry--i am going to the hotel de l'europe; gabrielle truyn is very ill--she wants to see me." but at this moment zinka perceived a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a very handsome face and haughty expression, standing close to nini. he was gazing at her with perfectly well-bred admiration, and nini introduced him as prince sempaly. then she saw that nicklas sempaly was just behind, with polyxena. his eyes met hers with a passionate flash, but he only bowed with distant formality. zinka had no time to think about his manner, she was hardly conscious of his presence--all she felt was that she was being detained. "you must excuse me," she said, smiling an apology to nini and shaking hands warmly with her without stopping to think of the formalities of caste. "poor count truyn is expecting me." and she hurried on again. "who is that sweet-looking girl, nini?" asked the prince, "for, of course, you omitted to mention her name." "fräulein sterzl," replied nini, "the sister of one of the secretaries to the embassy." "sterzl," repeated the prince somewhat flatly. "zenaïde sterzl!" said polyxena over her shoulder. but the ironical accent emphasis she laid on the odd mixture of the romantic and the commonplace was thrown away upon prince sempaly, who was much too fine a gentleman to laugh at his inferiors; all he said was: "sterzl? i seem to know the name. sterzl--i served for a time under a colonel sterzl of the uhlans. he was a very superior man." zinka meanwhile was flying on to the hotel de l'europe. in the sun-flooded court-yard stood two rose-trees, a white and a red--two brown curly-headed little boys were fighting a duel with walking-sticks in a shady corner--two english families were packing themselves into roomy landaus for an excursion and sending the servants in and out to fetch things that they had forgotten. the air was full of the scent of roses, and sunshine, and laughter; but one of the englishwomen hushed her companion who had laughed rather loudly and pointing up to one of the windows said: "remember the sick child." a cold chill fell on zinka's heart--she ran up the familiar stairs. in truyn's drawing-room sat gabrielle's english governess--anxious but helpless. "may i go in?" asked zinka. "no, wait a minute--the doctor is there." at this moment truyn came out of the child's room with dr. e---- the german physician, and conducted him down-stairs. truyn had the fixed, calm, white face of a man who is accustomed to bear his sorrows alone. when he returned he went up to zinka and took her hand: "she asks for you constantly," he said, "but do you think you can prevent her seeing that you are unhappy and alarmed?" "yes--indeed you may trust me," said zinka bravely, wiping away her tears; and she went into the child's room "as silent and bright as a sunbeam." chapter iv. some one must have seen zinka and sempaly in the course of their moonlight walk or else have found out something about it in spite of the general's precautions; this was made evident by an article which came out on the friday after the ball in a french 'society paper' published weekly in rome. the title of the article was "a moonlight cotillon;" it began with an exact description of zinka, of whom it spoke as fräulein z---- a s--l, the sister of a secretary in the austrian embassy; referred to the sensation produced by her appearance as lady jane grey, spoke of her as an elegant adventuress--"a professional beauty"--and hinted at her various unsuccessful schemes for winning a princely coronet; schemes which had culminated in a moonlight walk, a few nights since, during a ball at the house of a distinguished member of roman society, and which had outdone in audacity all that had ever been known to the _chronique scandaleuse_ of rome. "will she earn her reward in the form of a coronet and will the pages of 'high life' ere long announce a fashionable marriage in which this young lady will fill a part?--that is the question," so the article ended. "high life,"--this was the name of the paper graced by this effusion--was scouted, abused and condemned by everybody, covertly maintained by several, and read by most--with disgust and indignation it is true, but still read. on this fateful friday every copy of "high life" was sold in no time, and before the sun had set zinka's name was in every mouth. what said the world of rome? lady julia cried, had some tea, and went to bed; mr. ellis said "shocking!" assured his wife that he was convinced of zinka's innocence, and that it would certainly triumph over calumny; after which he quietly went about his business and spent two whole hours in practising a difficult passage on the concertina. it was the brauers--the sterzls' old neighbors before mentioned--who contributed chiefly to the diffusion of the article, supplementing it with their own comments. they had some acquaintance among the "cream" of rome, though they had not been invited to the ball at the brancaleone palace. frau brauer assumed a tone of perfidious compassion: it was a terrible affair for a young girl's reputation, though, for her part, she could see nothing extraordinary in a moonlight wandering with an intimate friend. her husband, to whom the sterzl family had paid very little attention--the baroness out of conceit, and cecil and zinka because he was in fact intolerably affected, pompous and patronizing--said with a sneering smile that he had never seen anything to admire in that little adventuress, with her free and easy innocence--pushing herself into society she was not born to. he had always thought it most unbecoming; and it must be a pleasant thing indeed for the duchess of brancaleone to have such a scandalous business take place in her house--she would be more careful for the future whom she invited! madame de gandry and mrs. ferguson thought the article very amusingly written--not that they would ever have said a word about such a piece of imprudence--for really no one was safe! to be sure any evil that might be written against them would be a lie--a pure invention--which in zinka's case was quite unnecessary ... so they sent the paper round to all their friends as a warning against rushing into acquaintance with strangers: "one cannot be too careful." zinka had seemed to them suspicious from the first, for after all she was not "the real thing." all these spiteful and cruel insinuations they even ventured to utter in the presence of princess vulpini, in the general's atelier, the spot where all that circle concentrated whenever anything had occurred to excite or startle it, and they made the princess furious. "i am an austrian myself," she said, "and was brought up with ideas of exclusiveness which are as much above suspicion as they are beyond your comprehension. i am strictly conservative in all my views. but zinka is elect by nature--an exceptional creature before whom all such laws give way. i should have regarded it as pure folly to sacrifice the pleasure of her acquaintance for the sake of a social dogma." "exceptions always fare badly," murmured the general. countess ilsenbergh, who was as strict on points of honor as she was on matters of etiquette, was deeply aggrieved by the article; she expressed herself briefly but strongly on the subject of the freedom of the press, and confessed that, whether zinka were innocent or guilty, things looked very ugly for sempaly. the count rushed into eloquence giving an exhaustive discourse on the whole social question. "princess vulpini is quite right," he said. "fräulein sterzl is a bewitching creature, quite an exception--and if any departure from traditional law is ever permissible it would be so in her case. but the general too is right; exceptions must always fare badly in the world, and we cannot endanger the very essence and being of social stability in order to improve the position of any single individual. above all, we must never create a precedent." and he proceeded to enlarge on the horrible consequences which must result from such a mixture of classes, referred to the example of france, and proposed the introduction of the hindoo system of caste, in its strictest application, as a further bulwark for the protection of society in europe and the coercion of ambitious spirits. his wife, at this juncture, objected that european society had not yet reached such a summit of absolute exclusiveness as he would assume, and that, consequently what was immediately needed was not any such far-reaching scheme for its protection, but some plan for dealing with the disagreeable circumstances in which its imperfection had at this time placed them. he replied that the matter lay in a nutshell; either the story in 'high life' was a lie, in which case sempaly had nothing to do but to deny it categorically, to prove an alibi at the hour mentioned and to horsewhip the editor--or, the facts stated were true, and then--under the circumstances--there was nothing for it--but ... "the lady's previous character was quite above suspicion--there was nothing for it--but...." and he shrugged his shoulders. "but to make fräulein sterzl countess sempaly!" cried madame de gandry. "well, i must say i do think it rather too much to give an adventurous little chit a coronet as a reward for sheer impudence. but i beg your pardon, general,--i had forgotten that you are a friend of the family." "and i," exclaimed the general beside himself, and quite pale with rage, "i, madame, was within an ace of forgetting that i was listening to a lady!" princess vulpini interposed: "you yourself said, madame, that you had always avoided any acquaintance with zinka; now i have known her intimately, and seen her almost every day; i have observed her demeanor with men--with young men--and heard her conversation with other girls, and i can assure you that the word impudence is no more applicable to her conduct than to that of my little girl of three.--and if she did, in fact, go into the garden with my cousin the night of the ball, it is a proof simply of romantic thoughtlessness, of such perfect, unsuspicious innocence that it ought of itself avail to protect her against slander. i spent last night with zinka, by the bedside of my little niece who is ill, and no girl with a stain on her conscience could look so sweetly pure or smile with such childlike sincerity. i would put my hand in the fire for her spotless innocence!" the princess spoke with such dignity and warmth, and while she spoke she fixed such a scathing eye on madame de gandry, that the frenchwoman, abashed in spite of herself, could only mutter some incoherent answer and withdraw with mrs. ferguson in her wake. the four austrians were alone. "the person who puzzles me in this business," said the princess, "is nicki sempaly. as soon as this wretched paper came into my hands i sent it to his rooms. there i heard that he had just gone out with the jatinskys. i went to the hotel de l'europe to talk it over with my brother, but he had gone to lie down and i had not the heart to wake him. besides, he could have done no good, and i could not bear to disturb his happiness over his child's amendment.--so i came to unburden my heart to you, general." "sempaly cannot have seen it yet," suggested ilsenbergh. the princess shrugged her shoulders. countess ilsenbergh once more expressed her opinion that "it was a very unpleasant affair and that she had foreseen it all from the first," after which, finding that it would be difficult to prevent her husband from delivering another lecture, she rose to go. at this instant prince vulpini came into the studio with a beaming countenance. "ah! here you are! i saw the carriage at the door as i was passing.--have you heard the latest news?" "sempaly is engaged to zinka?" cried his wife. "no!" cried the prince; "the wind last night tore down the national flag on the quirinal. hurrah for the tramontana!" * * * a few minutes later the general was alone; after a moment's hesitation he took up his hat and hurried off to the palazetto to see how matters stood there. he was one of those who had been the latest to hear of the slanderous article and at the same time to be the most deeply wounded by it. but perhaps by this time sempaly had engaged himself to zinka, he said to himself, and he hastened his pace. it was the baroness's day at home. the silly woman was sitting dressed and displayed--a grey glove on one hand, while with the other she pretended to arrange a dish of bonbons. "how kind of you!--" she exclaimed as the general entered the room. the stereotyped formula came piping out of her thin lips without the smallest variation to every fresh visitor, as chilling and as colorless as snow. he had hardly greeted the baroness when he looked round for zinka--at first without seeing her; it was not till a bright voice exclaimed: "here i am, uncle, come and give me a kiss," that he discovered her, in the darkest corner of the room, leaning back in a deep arm-chair and looking rather tired and sleepy but wonderfully pretty and unwontedly happy. "i am so tired, so tired!--you cannot think how tired i am," she said, laying his hand coaxingly against her cheek, "and mamma is so cruel as to insist on my staying in the drawing-room because it is her day at home, and i was sound asleep when you came in, for thank heaven! we have had no visitors yet. i sat with gabrielle all last night and the night before without closing my eyes; but then i was so glad to think that the little pet would not take her medicine from anyone but me; and last night, at length, in the middle of one of my stories, she fell asleep on my shoulder. but then in order not to disturb her i sat quite still for six hours. i felt as if i had been nailed to a cross--and to-day i am so stiff i can hardly move." and she stretched her arms and curled herself into her chair again with a pretty caressing action of her shoulders. "you ought to have stayed in bed," said the general paternally. "oh dear no! why i slept on till quite late in the morning. besides, my being tired is of no real importance; the great point is that gabrielle is out of danger: oh, if anything had happened to her!..." and she shuddered; "i cannot bear to think of it. count truyn is firmly convinced that i have contributed in some mysterious way to the child's amendment, and when i came away this morning he kissed my hands in gratitude as if i had been the holy _bambino_ himself. i laughed and cried both at once, and now i am so happy--my heart feels as light as one of those air balls the children carry tied by a string, that they may not fly off up to the clouds. but why do you look so grave? are you not as glad as i am, uncle that...." the baroness who had been looking at her watch here expressed her surprise that not a living soul had come near them to-day. "you are evidently not a living soul, uncle--nothing but my dear grumpy old friend," said zinka with her pathetic little laugh. there was something peculiarly caressing and touching about her to-day; the old man's eyes were moist and his heart bled for the sweet child. outside the door they heard a heavy swift step--the step of a man in pressing but crushing trouble; the door was torn open and sterzl, breathless, green rather than pale, foaming with rage, stormed in--a newspaper in his hand. "what is the matter--what has happened?" cried zinka dismayed. he came straight up to her and stared at her with dreadful eyes. "were you really in the garden with sempaly during the cotillon?" he said hoarsely. "yes," she said trembling. he gave a little start and shuddered--tottered--then he pulled himself up and flung the newspaper at her feet--at hers--his butterfly, his darling! "read that," he said. von klinger tried to seize the paper, but sterzl held him with a firm hand. "your leniency is out of place," he said dully; "_she_ may read anything." zinka read; suddenly she sprang up with a cry of horror and the paper fell out of her hand. even now she did not understand the matter,--exactly what she was accused of she did not know; only that it was something unwomanly and disgraceful. "cecil!" she began, looking into his face, "cecil...." and then she covered her face, which from white had turned crimson, with her hands. he meanwhile had felt the absolute innocence of the girl, and was repenting of his rash and cruel wrath. "zini," he cried, "forgive me--i was mad with rage--mad." and he tried to put his arm round her. but she held him off. "leave me, leave me," she said. "no, i cannot forgive you. oh cecil! if all the newspapers in the world had said you had cheated, for instance--do you think i should have believed them?" he bent his head before her with a certain reverence: "but this is different, zini," he said very gently; "i do not say it as an excuse for myself, but it is different. you do not see how different because you are a child--an angel--poor, sweet, little butterfly," and he drew her strongly to his breast and laid his lips on the golden head; she however would not surrender and insisted on freeing herself. "what on earth is going on?" the baroness asked again, for the twentieth time. getting, even now, no reply, she picked up the newspaper that was lying on the floor, caught sight of the article, read a few lines of it, and broke out into railing complaints of zinka--enumerating all the sins of which zinka had been guilty from her earliest years and particularly within her recent memory, and ending with the words: "and you will ruin cecil yet in his career." "be quiet, mother;" said cecil sternly. "my career is not the present question--we must think of our honor and of her happiness," and leaning over the fragile and trembling form of his sister, he said imploringly: "tell me, zini, exactly what happened." she had freed herself from his clasp and was standing before him with her arms folded across--rigid though tremulous--and her voice was cold and monotonous as she obeyed him and gave with naïve exactitude her short and simple report, blushing as she spoke. when she had ended cecil drew a deep breath. "and since that you have heard nothing of sempaly?" he asked. "the next morning he sent me a note." "zinka, do not be angry with me ... show me that note." she left the room and soon returned with the letter which she handed to sterzl. he read it through with great gravity and marked attention then knitting his brows he slowly folded it up and turned it over. "and you answered him?" he asked. "yes." "and what did you say?" "very little--that i was quite prepared to marry him without his brother's consent, but behind his brother's back?--no!" in the midst of his trouble a flash of pride lighted up sterzl's weary eyes. "bravo, zini!" he murmured, "and he took this answer in silence?" zinka paused to think: "yes...." she said; "but no.--he sent me a note to the hotel de l'europe." "and what does he say in that?" "i have not read it yet; it came just at the moment when gabrielle was at the worst and then i forgot it--but here it is...." and she drew it out of the pocket of her blue serge dress. sterzl shook his head and glanced with a puzzled air at his sister; then he opened the note. it was as follows: "my darling little treasure, my haughty indignant little sweetheart: "immediately on the receipt of your note i rushed to see you. the porter told me that you were not at home but with your poor little friend gabrielle. of course i cannot think of intruding on you there, though i would this day give a few years of my life for a sight of you--for one kiss. sooner than lose you i am ready to throw up everything. command and i obey ... but no, i must be wise for us both; i must wait till my affairs are somewhat in order. there is no help for it--i can only ask your forgiveness. i kiss your hands and the hem of your garment--i am utterly unworthy of you, but i love you beyond words. "sempaly." when sterzl had read this highly characteristic letter he slowly paced the room two or three times, and finally stood still in front of his sister. then, taking her hand and kissing it fondly, he said: "forgive me, zini--i am really proud of you. you have behaved like an angel ... but he--he is a contemptible sneak." but this she could not stand. "i do not defend him," she exclaimed vehemently, "but at any rate he loves me, and he understands me.--he, at any rate, would never have suspected me ... and ... and...." but it was in vain that she paused for a word--she could say nothing more in his favor; but she called up all her pride, and holding her head very high she left the room; as soon as she was outside they could hear her sob convulsively. the baroness rose to follow her, but cecil stood in her way. "where are you going?" he asked sternly. "to zinka; i really must make her see what mischief she has done. it is outrageous ... why, at thirteen i should have known better!" sterzl smiled bitterly: "very likely," he said, "but i must beg you to leave zinka to herself; she is miserable enough without that." "and are we to submit to her heedlessness without even reproving her for it?" said the baroness indignantly. "yes, mother," he said decidedly; "our business now is not to reprove her, but to protect and comfort her." at this juncture dinner was announced. sterzl begged the general to remain and dine with them, for he had, he said, several things to talk over with him. he evidently wished above everything to avoid being alone with his mother. before sitting down he went to zinka's room to see whether she would not eat at least a little soup; but he came back much distressed. "she would hardly speak to me," he said; "she is quite beside herself." and he himself sat in silence, eating nothing, drinking little, crumbling his bread and playing with his napkin. each time the door opened he looked anxiously round. the meal was short and uncomfortable; when they had returned to the drawing-room and were drinking their coffee the servant brought sterzl a letter. cecil took it hastily, looked at the address, and, not recognizing the writing, at last opened it. it contained only a half-sheet of note-paper, with a cleverly sketched caricature: sterzl himself as auctioneer, the hammer in one hand a doll in the other, and before him the coroneted heads of rome. sterzl at once recognized the likeness, though his lank figure was absurdly exaggerated, and his whole appearance made as grotesque as possible. he only shrugged his shoulders and said indifferently: "does any one really think that such a thing as this can hurt or vex me now? look, general--sempaly, no doubt, is the ingenious artist of this masterpiece." the general took the paper, and would have torn it across to prevent sterzl from examining it any further; but before he could do so cecil, looking over his shoulder, had snatched it out of his hand. "there is something written on it!" he said, deciphering the scribble in one corner, in sempaly's weak, illegible hand-writing: "mademoiselle sterzl, going--going--gone--!... ah! i understand!" his face grew purple and he breathed with difficulty. "to send you this is contemptible," cried the general; "sempaly drew this before he had ever seen zinka.... i know it, i was present at the time." "what difference does that make?" said sterzl; "if this is the view people took of me and my proceedings! well, and after all they were right--i should have liked to see my sister brilliantly married--i meant it well ... and i have made myself ridiculous and have been the ruin of the poor child." his rage and misery were beyond control; he walked up and down, then suddenly stood still, looking out of the open window; then again he paced the room. "sempaly is incomprehensible," he began, "quite incomprehensible! i had no very high opinion of his character--particularly lately; but i could not have supposed him capable of such baseness and cruelty. what do you gather from his not coming here to-day?" "he simply has not happened to see the paper," the general suggested. "he is gone on some expedition with his brother and his cousins." "well, but even supposing that he has not read this article," said sterzl, "it still is very strange that, as matters stand between him and zinka, he should have let two days go by without making any attempt to see her." the general was silent. "you know him better than i do," cecil began again presently, "and, as zinka tells me, you were present during some part of this romantic moonlight promenade. do you think he seriously intends to marry her?" "i know that he is madly in love with her, and even the ilsenberghs, who were discussing the matter at my house with the princess vulpini, saw no alternative for him--irrespective of his attachment to her--but to make her an offer." "we shall see," murmured sterzl. he looked at the clock: "half past nine!" he exclaimed. "this is becoming quite mysterious. i will try once more to see him at his rooms; his chasseur will perhaps know when he is expected to return home. would you mind remaining here?" he added in a low voice; "keep my mother from going to zinka; the poor child cannot bear it;" and he hurried off. in about half an hour he returned. "well?" asked the general. "he set out at one o'clock for frascati, with the prince, the jatinskys, and siegburg," said sterzl gloomily. "when i asked whether he was to be back this evening the man said certainly, for he was to set off to-morrow morning with his excellency the ambassador. he has been afraid to declare his engagement for fear of a scene with his brother--he is gone out of rome for fear of a scene with me--'high life' was lying open on his writing-table." they heard the light rustle of a dress. sterzl looked round--behind him stood zinka with tumbled hair and anxious, eager, tear-dimmed eyes. "zinka!" he cried, stepping forward to catch her; for her gaze was fixed, she staggered, put out her hands with a helpless gesture and fell into his arms. he laid her head tenderly on his shoulder and carried her away. chapter v. sempaly's nervous system was very sensitive and his ear remarkably delicate; he had in consequence a horror--a perfect mania of aversion--for any scene which might involve excitement and loud talking. besides this he had the peculiarity--common enough with the spoilt children of fortune--of always ignoring as far as possible the inevitable difficulties of life in the hope that some _deus ex machina_ would interfere to set matters straight for him. his passion for zinka was perfectly genuine, at once vehement and tender; far from diminishing, it had, if possible, increased during these last three days. though that hour of sentimental and guileless talk with zinka under the midnight moon had for the time satisfied her, it had only fevered him; and while his cowardly double-dealing had lowered him in her esteem, her straightforward pride had raised her infinitely in his. he was utterly miserable, but this did not prevent him from allowing his good-natured senior to pay his enormous debts, nor--in order to propitiate him--from paying specious attentions to his cousins. it must, however, be said in extenuation, that this flirtation was not so much deliberate as instinctive, for he was a man whose untutored and unbounded impulse to make himself agreeable led him irresistibly to do his utmost to produce a pleasant impression, even at the sacrifice of his honor. if, only once, during these three days, he had had an opportunity of speaking to zinka all might perhaps have turned out differently. he would probably have found it easy, with his wonderful fascination of person, to recover the ground he had lost; and her proud rectitude might possibly have influenced him to take a bolder course of action. but, in the first instance, he could not intrude on zinka while she was sitting by her little friend gabrielle, and the idea of rushing into an explanation with sterzl did not smile on his fancy. thus he let the hours slip by, till, on the friday morning, the luckless copy of 'high life' was brought into him addressed in a feigned hand. this made him furious, and he was on the point of rushing off to the palazetto when he remembered that he had promised to be ready to join the party to frascati at one o'clock. he had dipped his pen and prepared the paper to send an excuse to the hotel de londres when there was a knock, and prince sempaly, with his two cousins, walked in, half an hour before the appointed time. "what a surprise!... an unexpected honor!" he exclaimed somewhat disconcerted. "that is what we intended," said polyxena laughing. "hum! there is a rather pronounced perfume of latakia in your room--but the whole effect is pretty, very pretty," while nini looked timidly about her with her fawn-like eyes. a bachelor's quarters are, as is well known, one of the most interesting mysteries that ever exercise the curious imagination of a young lady. "the girls insisted on seeing your den," the prince explained, "so i had to bring them, whether or no, while siegburg amuses their mamma." "why, you yourself proposed it, oscar!" cried nini. sempaly bowed. "from this time henceforth this room is consecrated ground," he said gallantly--and "high life" was lying on his desk all the time and an iron fist seemed clenched upon his heart. if his brother had but come alone ... but with these two girls ... it was crucial. xena began to touch and examine all his odds and ends, to open his books, and at last to hover round his writing-table where, with graceful impertinence, she was about to take up the fatal sheet. "stop, stop!" cried nicki, "that is not for your eyes, xena." "look, but touch not," said the prince, with a good-natured laugh; "young maidens like you are not permitted to inspect the secrets of a bachelor's rooms too closely. you might seize a scorpion before we could interfere. besides, we must not keep your mother waiting any longer, children; make haste and get ready, nicki." for a moment sempaly tried to think of an excuse; then he reflected that it really was not worth while to spoil the pleasure of oscar's last day--all might be set right afterwards. so he only asked for time to write a note, and scribbled a few lines to sterzl in which he formally proposed for zinka. this note he confided to a porter desiring him to carry it at once to the secretary's office. after this he was for a time very much pleased with himself; but, as the afternoon wore on, the more uneasy he became, and it was to this unrest that most of the tender glances were due that the prince cast alternately on him and on nini. he felt more and more as if he were being driven into a trap; in the villa aldobrandini he found an issue from some of his difficulties. suddenly, as they were standing by the great fountain, nini and he found themselves _tête-à-tête_, a circumstance arising from the consentaneous willingness of the rest of the party to give them such an opportunity. he seized the propitious moment to disburden his soul. he addressed her as his sister, confessed his secret betrothal, and implored her kind interest for zinka. nini, who felt as though she had been stabbed to the heart, was brave as became her and for sheer dread of betraying her own feelings, she tried to take a pleasure she was far from feeling in the success of his love affair. he kissed her hand and kept near her for the rest of the day. his brother, who perceived that the young couple had come to an understanding, communicated his observations to countess jatinska with extreme satisfaction. he was himself a man of strong and lofty feeling, free from all duplicity, and he could not conceive that a young man could have anything to say to a very handsome girl in private but to make love to her. the day was at an end. with that want of precaution of which only foreigners in rome can be guilty, they set out homewards much too late and did not reach the hotel before ten. here nemesis overtook sempaly. at the end of supper, which the little party had served to them in the countess' private sitting-room, and at which the confidential footing on which sempaly stood with regard to his cousin was thrown into greater relief, the prince, with a frank smile of self-satisfaction at his powers of divination, raised his glass and said: "to the health of the happy couple." nini turned crimson; nicki turned pale. he was in the trap now. brought to bay he could do nothing but turn upon the foe whom he could not evade. he was possessed by a wild impulse to snatch the odious mask from his own face. "and who are the happy couple?" he asked. "you need not be so mysterious about it, nicki," cried his brother warmly. "of you and...." but a glance at nini reduced him to silence. "of me and fräulein zinka sterzl," said sempaly with vehement emphasis. the blood flew to the prince's head; rage and horror fairly deprived him of speech. countess jatinska laughed awkwardly, polyxena pursed her lips disdainfully while nini gave her cousin her hand and said loyally: "your bride shall always find a friend in me." but now the prince's wrath broke loose--he was furious; he swore that this insane marriage should never take place, and could not conceive how his brother--a man old enough to know better--could have allowed such a piece of madcap folly to enter his head. the ladies rose and withdrew; sempaly, who till within a few minutes had been so weak and vacillating, had suddenly become rigid in obstinacy and he desired the waiter to bring him the fateful number of 'high life'. the prince read it, but his first observation was: "well! and a pretty state the world would soon come to if every man who lets a charming adventuress entrap him into an indiscretion were to pay for it by marrying her!" at this insulting epithet applied to zinka, sempaly fired up. he did not attempt to screen himself, he defended zinka as against himself, with the most unsparing self-accusation. egotistical, sensitive, and morally effete as he was, he was still a gentleman, and he now set no limits to his self-indictment; it seemed as though he thought that by heaping invective on his own head he could expiate the baseness into which he had been betrayed during the last few days. he told the whole story: that he had loved zinka from the first time of seeing her: that he had been on the point of making her an offer when an accidental interruption had suddenly snatched him from the heaven of hope and bliss: that he had neglected and forsaken her: that his constant intimacy with his handsome cousins had raised a barrier between him and zinka; then, how he had met her that night at the brancaleones', and how, as he helped her to rise after her tumble, his passion had taken entire possession of him--all this he told, down to the moment when she had laid her head on his shoulder. "and before such guileless trust what man is there that would not bow in reverence!" he ended, "all rome can bear witness to her sweetness and goodness; ask whom you will--marie vulpini, truyn, even the ilsenberghs--or siegburg here." the prince turned to siegburg. "i can make neither head nor tail of the matter," he said. "is all he says of this girl true, or mere raving?" siegburg's answer was simple, eager, and plain; it is, at all times, a difficult thing for a young man to praise a girl without reflecting on her in any way, but siegburg's testimony in zinka's favor was a little masterpiece of genuine and respectful enthusiasm. prince sempaly's face grew darker as he spoke. "and the young lady in question is the girl we met the other day in the piazzi?" he said. "yes." "the sister of the secretary of legation whom the ambassador introduced to me yesterday, and the niece of my old colonel?" "yes." "and from what you tell me not only an absolutely blameless creature, but universally beloved?" "yes." for a minute the prince was silent. every fibre of his being had its root in the traditions of the caste into which he had been born, and a connection between zinka sterzl and a sempaly was to him simply monstrous. he had in the highest degree a respect for his past--"le respect des ruines"--but they must be grand ruins, of a noble past, or they did not touch him at all. with his head resting on his hand he sat silent by the supper-table, which was not yet cleared and where the lights sparkled in the half-empty champagne-glasses, and the flowers placed for the ladies still lay by their plates. suddenly he looked up, and pointing to the newspaper, he asked: "had you seen that article when we came to fetch you from your rooms this morning?" "yes." the prince sat bolt upright. "and you did not stay in rome to defend the girl?" his black eyes looked straight into his brother's blue ones. "you came with us? you left this young lady to be, for the whole day, the victim of the slander of all the evil tongues of rome, for fear of an unpleasant explanation--for fear of a few high words with me?--you have behaved in a base and unmanly way throughout this affair, both to this young lady and to the poor sweet creature in there...." and he pointed to the door behind which the two young countesses disappeared with their mother. "of course i shall not let you starve; your allowance shall be paid to you regularly as heretofore--but beyond that we have no further connection; we have nothing in common, you and i. go!" * * * the _deus ex machina_ had failed to appear. the dreaded scene with his brother had been postponed for a few hours, but it had come at last and sempaly had gained nothing by his procrastination and duplicity. he had provoked not merely his brother's anger but his scorn as well, while his marriage with zinka, when he had at last found himself compelled to announce it to his brother, had altogether lost its startling and interesting aspect as a chivalrous romance, and had come down to a mere act of reparation to satisfy his conscience. sempaly rose rather earlier than usual next morning, his nerves still conscious of the remembrance of this unsatisfactory scene and of the sleepless night that had been the consequence. vexed with himself; at once surprised and touched by his brother's lofty indignation; ashamed to think of the calumny to which his irresolution and his absence must have exposed zinka--he was in that state of sensitive irritability in which a man holds all the world in some degree responsible for his own shortcomings, and is ready to revenge himself on the first man he meets for the misery he is enduring. while he was waiting for his breakfast, walking up and down the sitting-room--half drawing-room, half smoking-room--the general came in. for the first time in his life sempaly greeted the old man as an intruder. "good-morning," he cried, "what procures me the honor of such an early visit?" "well," said von klinger hotly, "it can scarcely surprise you that i, as zinka's god-father and oldest friend, should come to ask you what you mean by your extraordinary conduct." "that, it seems to me, is her brother's business," said sempaly roughly. "it is on purpose to prevent a collision between you and sterzl that i have come so early," replied the general, who was cut out for an officer of dragoons rather than for a diplomatist. "sterzl is beside himself with fury, and i know that your intentions with regard to zinka are perfectly honorable, and so...." but at this moment the general's eye fell on a travelling-bag that the luxurious young attaché was wont to carry with him on short journeys, and which lay packed on the divan. "you are going away?" asked the old man surprised. "i had intended to accompany my brother as far as ostia to-day and return early to-morrow; but that is at an end--the prince and i have quarrelled--yes, i have quarrelled past all possibility of a reconciliation with my noble and generous brother. are you satisfied?" and he stamped with rage. "and is the want of judgment that has led to your parting any fault of mine pray?" exclaimed the general angrily. there was a hasty rap at the door; on sempaly's answering: "come in," sterzl walked in. he did not take sempaly's offered hand but drew a newspaper out of his pocket, held it out in front of sempaly, and asked abruptly: "have you read this article?" "yes," said sempaly from between his teeth. "yesterday--before you went out?" sterzl went on. this word-for-word repetition of the prince's question touched all sempaly's most painful and shameful recollections of the scene to the quick. his eyes flashed, but he said nothing. sterzl could contain himself no longer. all the bitter feelings of the last six weeks seethed in his blood, and the luckless travelling-bag caught his eye. this was too much... what happened next?... the general saw it all in a flash of time--unexpected, and inevitable. sterzl took one stride forward and struck sempaly in the face with the newspaper. at the same moment sempaly's servant came in with the breakfast tray. a few minutes later sterzl and the general went down the stairs of the embassy in silence, not even looking at each other. when they were outside the younger man stopped and drew a deep breath: "sempaly will send you his seconds in the course of the morning," he said; "i must ask you to act for me." the general nodded but did not speak. "i will send word to crespigny too, and then you can do whatever you think proper." still the general said nothing, and his silence irritated sterzl. "i could bear it no longer," he muttered as if in delirium; "what ... do you suppose ... too much...." by this time they were in the corso. towards them came siegburg, as bright and gay as ever, his hat pushed back on his head. "i am happy to be the first to congratulate you, sterzl," he cried. "on what pray?" said sterzl fiercely. "on your sister's engagement to sempaly--what! then you really did know nothing about it?" sterzl was bewildered: "what is it--what are you talking about?--i do not understand," he stammered. "what, have you not heard?" siegburg began; "the bomb fell last evening; nicki declared his engagement. oscar, to whom the whole business was news ... come into this café and i will tell you exactly all about it; it does not do to discuss such things in the street." "i--i have not time," muttered sterzl with a fixed vacant stare; and, as he spoke, he shot past siegburg; but his gait was unsteady and he ran up against a passer-by. "what on earth ails him?" said siegburg looking after him. "i thought he would be pleased and--well! the ways of man are past finding out. this marriage will create a sensation in vienna, eh, general? but i approve--i entirely approve. we are on the threshold of a new era, as schiller--or some one has said, bismarck very likely--and we shall live to tell our children how we stood by and looked on. but what is the matter with you both--you and sterzl? to be sure--you were coming from the palazzo di venezia--have nicki and sterzl quarrelled--a challenge!" the general nodded. "but it can be amicably arranged now," said siegburg consolingly. chapter vi. on his return home sterzl found sempaly's note of the day before. the porter had taken it, as he was ordered, to the secretary's office, but as sterzl had not gone there all day it had lain unopened; till, this morning, one of the messengers had thought it well to bring it to the palazetto. sterzl read it and hid his face in his hands. within a short time sempaly's seconds were announced--siegburg and a military attaché from the russian embassy. no, it could not be amicably arranged--under the circumstances there was but one way of satisfying the point of honor. this point of honor--what is it? a social dogma of the man of the world, and the whole creed of the southern aristocrat. sterzl was to start that night by the eleven o'clock train for vienna, on matters of business, before setting out for constantinople. the affair must therefore be settled at once. beyond fixing the hour sterzl left everything to his seconds. swords, at seven that evening, among the ruins opposite the tomb of the metellas was finally agreed on. soon after six, sterzl and his seconds set out. the carriage bore them swiftly along, through the gloomy, stuffy streets which lead to the forum, along the foot of the palatine, and past the colosseum, through the arch of constantine into the via appia, on and on, between grey moss-grown walls, over which they caught glimpses of ruins and tall dark cypresses. then the walls disappeared and bushy green hedge-rows, covered with creepers, bordered the road, and presently the campagna lay before them, an endless, rolling, green carpet, with its attractive melancholy, and the poisonous beauty of orchids and asphodels with which each returning spring decks its waste monotony, like a wilderness in a fevered dream. sterzl sat in silence on the back seat, facing his two friends. he did not even pretend to be cheerful. a brave man may sometimes face death with indifference, but hardly with a light heart. death is a great king to whom we must need do homage. his soul was heavy; but his two companions, who knew not only his staunch nature but all the circumstances of the duel, knew that it was not from anxiety as to his own fate. he could not forget that this catastrophe was, at last, due solely and entirely to his own violence and loss of self-command. he never once reflected that this engagement--brought about by a series of makeshifts and accidents--could hardly have resulted in a happy marriage; he had forgotten sempaly's sins and remembered one thing only: that his sister might have had the moon she had longed for, and that he alone had snatched it from her grasp. a powerful fragrance filled the air, coming up from the orchids, from the blossoming hedges, from the fresh greenery of the gardens, like the very soul of the spring, bringing a thousand memories to his brooding brain and aching heart. it reminded him of the great untended orchard at home, and of one morning in the last may he had spent there before going to school. the apple-trees were clothed with rosy blossom; butterflies were flitting through the air, and the first forget-me-nots peeped bluely among the trailing brambles on the brink of the brook that danced across the garden, murmuring sleepily to the shadowy, whispering alders. there was a fragrance of the soil, of the trees, of the flowers--just as there was now--and zinka, then a mere baby, had come tripping to meet him and had said with her little confidential and important air: "i do believe that god must have set the gates of heaven open for once, there is such a good smell." he could see her now, in her white pinafore and long golden hair, clinging to her big brother with her soft, weak little hands. and he had lifted her up and said: "yes, god left the door open and you slipped out my-little cherub." with what large, wondering eyes she had looked into his face. she had always been his particular pet; his father had given her into his special charge and now ... "poor, sweet butterfly!" he said to himself, half audibly. "do not be too strict in your fence," said a deep voice close to him. it was crespigny who thus startled him from his dream of the past:--"do not be too scientific. you have everything in your favor--practice, skill, and strength; but sempaly--i know his sword-play well--has one dangerous peculiarity: you never know what he will be at." sterzl looked over his shoulder. the tomb of cecilia metella was standing before them. * * * opposite the tomb of cecilia metella is a deserted and half-ruined early gothic structure, a singular mixed character of heathen grandeur and of mediæval strength, lonely and roofless under the blue sky. a weather-beaten cross, let into the crumbling stone-work above the door-way, betokens it a sanctuary of the primitive christian times; on entering we see a still uninjured apse where the altar table once stood. no ornament of any kind, not even a scrap of bas-relief, is to be seen; nothing but frail ferns--light plumes of maiden hair that deck the old walls with their emerald fronds. the floor is smooth and covered with fine turf, from which, in spring-time, white and red daisies smile up at the sky, and dead nettles grow from every chink and along the foot of the walls. the other party were already on the spot; sempaly was talking unconcernedly, but with no affectation of levity, to the russian, and bowed politely to the three men as they came in. his manner and conduct were admirable; in spite of his irritable nervousness, there were moments when he had--and in the highest degree--that unshaken steadfastness which is part of the discipline of a man of the world, to whom it is a matter of course that under certain circumstances he must fight, just as under certain others he must take off his hat. siegburg changed color a good deal; the others were quite cool. they made a careful survey lest some intruding listener should be within hearing, but all was still as death. the vineyard behind the little chapel was deserted. the formalities were soon got through; sempaly and sterzl took off their coats and waistcoats, and took the places assigned to them by their seconds. the signal was given.--the word of command was heard in the silence and, immediately after, the first click of the swords as they engaged. any one who has lived through the prolonged anticipation of a known peril or ordeal, knows that, when the decisive moment has arrived, the tension of the nerves suddenly relaxes; anxiety seems lifted from the soul, fear vanishes and all that remains is a sort of breathless curiosity. this was the case with the general and siegburg; they watched the sword-play attentively, but almost calmly. sempaly was the first to attack, and was extraordinarily nimble. sterzl stood strictly on the defensive. he fenced in the german fashion, giving force to his lunge with the whole weight of his body; and this, with his skill and care, gave him a marked advantage over his lighter adversary. the sense of superior strength seemed at first to hinder his freedom; in fact, the contest, from a mere technical point of view, was remarkably interesting. sempaly displayed a marvellous and--as crespigny had said--quite irresponsible suppleness, which had no effect against sterzl's imperturbable coolness. it was evident that he hoped to weary out his antagonist and then to end the duel by wounding him slightly. he had pricked sempaly just under the arm, but sempaly would not be satisfied; it was nothing he said, and after a short pause they began again. sempaly was beginning to look pale and exhausted, his feints were short, straight, and violent; sterzl, on the contrary, looked fresher. like every accomplished swordsman, in the course of a long fight he had warmed to his work and was fighting as he would have done with the foils, without duly calculating the strength of his play; things looked ill for sempaly. suddenly, through the silence, a song was heard in the distance, in a boy's thin piping soprano: "bright may--the sweetest month of spring; the trees and fields with flowers are strown--" it sent a thrill through sterzl's veins, reminding him of the evening when zinka had sung those words to sempaly. the romantic element that was so strong in him surged to his brain; he lost his head; fearing to wound sempaly mortally, he forgot to cover himself and for a second he suddenly stood as awkward and exposed as though he had never had a sword in his hand. the seconds rushed forward--too late. with the scarcely audible sound that the sharp steel makes as it pierces the flesh, sempaly's sword ran into his adversary's side. sterzl's flannel shirt was dyed with blood--his eyes glazed--he staggered forward a step or two--then he fell senseless. the duel was over. * * * a quarter of an hour later and the wound had been bound up as best it might, and in the closed landau, which they had made as comfortable as they could by arranging the cushions so as to form a couch--the general supporting the groaning man's head on his arm, and opposite to him the surgeon--they were driving homewards' slowly--slowly. dusk had fallen on the campagna, from time to time the general looked out anxiously to see how far they were still from rome. the road was emptier and more deserted every minute; a cart rattled past them full of peasants, shouting and singing at the top of their voices; then they met a few white-robed monks, wending their way with flaring torches to some church; and then the road was perfectly empty. the cypresses stood up tall and black against the dull-hued sky and the wide plain was one stretch of grey. at last the arch of constantine bends over them for a minute and the horses hoofs clatter on the stones--slowly--slowly.... the lamps of rome twinkle in the distance--they have reached the corso, at this hour almost empty of vehicles but crowded with idlers, and the cafés are brilliantly lighted up. the slowly-moving landau excites attention, the gapers crowd into knots, and stare and whisper. at last they reach the palazetto, turn into the court-yard and get out. the porter comes out of his den, his dog at his heels barking loudly. "hush, silence!" says the general--the servants come rushing down, the women begin to sob and cry, and again the general says: "hush, hush!" as if it were worth while to keep zinka in ignorance for a minute more or less. with some difficulty the heavy man is lifted out and carried up-stairs--the heavy shuffling steps sound loud in the silence. suddenly they hear zinka's voice loud in terror, then the baroness's in harsh reproof--a door is flung open and zinka rushes out to meet them--a half-smothered cry of anguish breaks from her very heart--the cry with which we wake from a hideous dream. they carried him into his room, and while they carefully settled him in bed the servant announced dr. e----, the famous german physician of whom mention has already been made. sempaly, who had driven back at full speed and had reached rome more than an hour sooner than the general with the wounded man, had sent him at once. dr. e---- examined the patient with the greatest care, adjusted the bandage with admirable skill, wrote a prescription, and ordered the application of ice. he gave a sympathetic hand to each of the ladies, who were standing anxiously at the door as he left the room, and reassured them with an encouraging smile; promising them, with that kindly hopefulness to which he owed half his fashionable practice, that the wounded man would pass a quiet night. but when he was face to face with the general, who escorted him down stairs, the smile vanished. "the wound is dangerous?" asked the old man with a trembling heart. the surgeon shook his head. "are you a relation?" he asked. "no, but a very old friend." "it is mortal," said dr. e---- "i maybe mistaken--of course, i may be wrong ... nature sometimes works miracles and the patient has a splendid physique. what fine limbs! i have rarely seen so powerful a man--but so far as human science can foresee ..." and he left the death-warrant unspoken. "it is always a comfort to the survivors to know that all that can be done has been done; i will come early to-morrow morning to enquire. send the prescription to the french chemist's--it is the best. good-night." and he got into the carriage that was waiting for him. the general gave the prescription to the porter, who, with the readiness and simplicity that are so characteristic of the italians, rushed off at once without his hat. as if there were really any hurry!... the old soldier, composing himself by an effort, returned to the bedroom. zinka was standing very humbly at the foot of the bed, pale and tearless, but trembling from head to foot. the baroness was pacing the room and sobbing violently, wringing her hands and pushing her hair back from her temples. of course she flew at the general with questions as to the surgeon's prognosis. his evasive answers were enough to fill her with unreasonable hope and to revive the worldly instincts which her terrors had for a moment cast into the background. "yes, yes, he will pass a quiet night," she whimpered; "he will get well again--it would have been too bad with such a brilliant career before him;--but this is an end to constantinople ..." zinka, on the contrary, had turned still paler at the general's report but she said nothing. that there had been a duel she and her mother had of course understood. what did she infer from that? what did she think--what did she feel? she herself never rightly knew; in her soul all was dark--in her heart all was cold. her whole being was concentrated in horror. after much and urgent persuasion the general succeeded in inducing the baroness to leave the room and to lie down for a time, "to spare herself for her son's sake." she had hardly closed the door when the servant came quietly in and said that count truyn had come. zinka looked up. "shall i let him come in?" asked the general. zinka nodded. siegburg had told him, and though it was now eleven truyn had hurried off to the palazetto. he came into the room without speaking and straight up to zinka. the simple feeling with which he took her hands in both his, the deep and tender sorrow at being unable to help or to reassure her that spoke in his eyes comforted and warmed her heart; the frozen horror that had held her in its clasp seemed to thaw; tears started to her eyes, a tremulous sob died on her lips; then, controlling herself with great difficulty, she murmured intelligibly: "there is no hope--no hope!" his mother's loud lamentations had not roused the wounded man but the first sound from zinka recalled him to consciousness; he began to move uneasily and opened his sunken eyes. the whites shone dimly, like polished silver, as he fixed them on his sister's face; from thence they wandered to a blood-stained handkerchief that had been forgotten, and then to the general. slowly and painfully he seemed to comprehend the situation. he struggled for breath, with an impatient movement of his hands and shoulders, and then shivered as with a spasm. he was conscious now, and sighed deeply. the first thing that occurred to him was his official duty: "have you sent word to the ambassador?" he asked the general almost angrily. "no, not yet." "then make haste, pray; they must telegraph to vienna." "yes, yes," said von klinger soothingly, "i will see to it at once. would you be good enough to stay till i return?" he added to truyn and he hurried away. for a few minutes not a word was spoken, then sterzl began: "do you know how it all happened, count?" truyn bowed. "and you, zini?" asked cecil, looking sadly at the girl's white face. "i know that you are suffering--that is all i want to know," she replied. "oh! zini...." sterzl struggled for breath and held out his hand to zinka, then he went on in a hoarse and hardly audible voice: "zini ... butterfly ... it was all my doing ... i have spoilt your life ... i did it...." she tried to stop him: "you must not excite yourself," she said, leaning over him tenderly; "forget all that till you are better--i know that you have always loved me and that you would have fetched the stars from heaven for me if you could have reached them." he shuddered convulsively: "no, zini, no ... you might have had the stars," he said in a panting staccato; "the finest stars. sempaly was not to blame ... only i ... the prince had agreed ... but i ... i forgot myself ... and i spoilt it all ... oh, a drink of water, zini, please!..." she gave him the water and he drank it greedily; but when she gently tried to stop his mouth with her hand he pushed it away, and went on eagerly, though with a fast failing voice: "no ... i must tell you ... it is a weight upon my soul. there, in my desk ... count ... in the little pocket on the left ... there is a letter for zinka.--give it her...." truyn did his bidding. the letter was sealed and addressed to zinka in cecil's fine firm hand. she opened it; it contained the note that sempaly had written before starting for frascati and sterzl had added a few words of explanation in case it should not fall into zinka's hands till after his death. she read it all while the dying man anxiously watched her face, but her expression did not alter by a shade. sempaly's words glided over her heart without touching it; even when she had read both notes she did not speak. two red flames burnt in her pale cheeks. "i got ... the note ... too late," said sterzl sadly, "the general ... can tell you how ... how it all happened ... i lost my head ... but he ... he is safe, so you must forgive me ... and do ... act ... as if i had never existed ... then ... i shall rest ... in peace ... and be happy in ... my grave ... if i know ... that you are ... happy." still she did not speak; her eyes were strangely overcast; but it was not with grief for her lost happiness. suddenly she tore the note across and dropped the pieces on the floor. "if he had written ten letters," she cried, "it would have made no difference now; do not let that worry you, cecil--it is all at an end. even if there were no gulf between us i could never be his wife! i have ceased to love him.--how mean he is in my eyes--compared with you!" and so the brother and sister were at one again; the discord was resolved. for more than four and twenty hours cecil wrestled with death and zinka never left his side. the certainty of their mutual and complete devotion was a melancholy consolation in the midst of this cruel parting. the pain he suffered was agonizing; particularly during the night and the early morning; but he bore it with superb fortitude and it was only by the nervous clenching of his hands and the involuntary distortion of his features that he betrayed his suffering. he hardly for a moment slept; he refused the opiate sent by the surgeon; he wished to "keep his head" as long as possible. when zinka--with a thousand tender circumlocutions--suggested to him that he should receive the last sacraments of the church he agreed. "if it will be any comfort to you, butterfly," he sighed; and he received the priest with reverent composure. in the afternoon he was easier--zinka began to hope. "you are better," she whispered imploringly, "you are better, are you not?" "i am in less pain," he said, and then she began making plans for the future--he smiled sadly. no man could die with a better grace, and yet it was hard to die. the catastrophe had roused universal sympathy. the terrible news had spread like wildfire through the city and a sort of panic fell on the rank and fashion of rome. no one, that day, who had ever spoken a spiteful or a flippant word against sterzl or his sister, failed to feel a prick of remorse. every one came or sent to the palazetto to enquire for them. now and again the baroness would come in triumphantly, in her hand a particularly distinguished visiting-card with its corner turned down, and rustle up to the bedside: "ilsenbergh came himself to the door to ask after you!" late in the day he fell into an uneasy sleep; zinka and the general did not quit the room. the window was open but the air that blew in through the venetian blinds was damp and sultry. the street was strewn with straw; the roll of the carriages in the corso came, dulled by distance, up to the chamber of death. then twilight fell and the rumbling echoes were still. presently, the slow irregular tramp of a crowd broke the silence, with the accompaniment of a solemn but dismal chant zinka sprang up to close the window; but she was not quick enough. the sleeper had opened his weary eyes and was listening--: "a funeral!" he muttered. after this he could not rest, and his sufferings began once more. he tossed on his pillow, talked of his will, begging the general to make a note of certain trifling alterations; and when zinka entreated him not to torment himself but to think of that by-and-bye, he shook his head, and murmured in a voice that was hoarse and tremulous with pain: "no, i am in a hurry ... time presses ... railway fever ... railway fever ..." when zinka, unable to control herself, was leaving the room to hide her tears, he desired her to remain: "only stop by me ... do not leave me, zini," he said. "cry if it is a relief to you ... but stay here ... poor little butterfly!... yes, you will miss me...." once only did he lose his self-command. it was late in the evening. he had begged them to send to the embassy for an english newspaper which would give some information as to a certain political matter in which he was particularly interested; the ambassador himself brought it to his bedside. "how are you?... how are you now?" he asked with sincere emotion ... "you were quite right, sterzl. ignatiev has done exactly as you said; you have a wonderful power of divination ... i shall miss you desperately when you go to constantinople...." and his excellency fairly broke down. there was a painful pause. "i am going further than constantinople...." sterzl murmured at length. "i should like to know who will get my place...." his voice failed him and he groaned as he hid his face in the pillow. the end came at midnight. dr. e---- had warned the general that it would be terrible; but it was in vain that they tried to persuade zinka to leave the room. the whole night through she knelt by the dying man's bed in her tumbled white dressing-gown--praying. at about five in the morning his moaning ceased. was all over? no, he spoke again; a strange, far-away look, peculiar to the dying, came into his eyes. "do not cry, little one--it will all come right...." and then he felt about with his hands as if he were seeking for something--for some idea that had escaped him. he gazed at his sister. "go to bed, zini--i am better ... sleepy ... constanti...." he turned his head to the wall and breathed deeply. he had started on his journey. the general closed his eyes and drew zinka away. outside in the corridor stood a crushed and miserable man--it was sempaly. pale, wretched, and restless, he had stolen into the palazetto, and as he stood aside his hands trembled, his eyes were haggard. she did not shrink from him as she went by--she did not see him! a glorious morning shone on the little garden-court. in a darkly-shady corner a swarm of blue butterflies were fluttering over the grass like atoms fallen from the sky. it was the corner in which the amazon stood. chapter vii. thanks to siegburg's always judicious indiscretion all rome knew ere long that prince sempaly had consented to zinka's marriage with his brother the evening before the duel, and at the same time it heard of sterzl's burst of anger and its fearful expiation. princess vulpini's unwavering friendship, which during these few days she took every opportunity of displaying, silenced evil tongues and saved zinka's good name. now, indeed, there was a general and powerful revulsion of feeling in sterzl's favor. it suddenly became absurd, petty, in the very worst taste, to doubt zinka--zinka and cecil had always been exceptional natures.... sterzl had expressed a wish to be buried at home; the body was embalmed and laid in a large empty room, where, once upon a time, the baroness had wanted to give a ball. there were flowers against the wall, and on the floor. the bier was covered with them; it was a complete roman _infiorata_, the windows were darkened with hangings and the dim ruddy light of dozens of wax-tapers filled the room. countess ilsenbergh and the jatinskys came to this lying in state; distinguished company, in ceremonial black, crowded round the coffin. never had the baroness had so full a 'day' and her sentimental graces showed that, even under these grim circumstances, she felt this as a satisfaction. she stood by the bier in flowing robes loaded with crape, a black-bordered handkerchief in her hand, and a tear on each cheek, and--received her visitors. they pressed her hand and made sympathetic speeches and she murmured feebly: "you are so good--it is so comforting." having spoken to the mother, they turned to look for the sister; every one longed to express, or at least to show, their sincere sympathy for her dreadful sorrow. but she was not in the crowd--not to be seen, till a lady whispered: "there she is," and in a dark recess. princess vulpini was discovered with a quivering, sobbing creature, as pale as death and drowned in tears; but no one ventured to intrude on her grief no one but nini, who looked almost as miserable as zinka herself, and who went up to her, and put her arms round her, and kissed her. next day mass was performed in the chapel of san-marco, adjoining the embassy, and a quartette of voices sang the same pathetic allegretto from the seventh symphony that had been played, hardly three months since, for the 'lady jane grey' tableau. a week later the sterzls quitted rome. up to the very last the baroness was receiving visits of condolence, and to the very last she repeated her monotonous formula of lament: "and on the threshold of such a splendid career!" zinka was never in the drawing-room, and very few ventured to go to her little boudoir. wasted to a shadow, with sunken, cried-out eyes and pinched features, it was heart-rending to see her; and after the first violence of her grief was spent she seemed even more inconsolable. it is so with deep natures. our first sorrow over the dead is always mixed with a certain rebellion against fate--it is a paroxysm in which we forget everything--even the cause of our passionate tears. it is not till we have dried our eyes and our heart has raged itself into weariness--not till we have at last said to ourselves: "submit," that we can measure the awful gap that death has torn in our life, or know how empty and cold and silent the world has become. every day made zinka feel more deeply what it was that she had lost. she was always feeling for the strong arm which had so tenderly supported her. the general and princess vulpini did everything in their power to help her through this trying phase, but the person with whom she felt most at her ease was truyn; and very often, after seven in the evening, when she was sure of meeting no one, she stole off to visit gabrielle; it was touching to see how the little girl understood the trouble of her older friend, and how sweetly she would caress and pet her. on the morning of their departure truyn and the general saw them off from the station. after the ladies were in the carriage truyn got in too, to open or close the windows and blinds; when he had done this zinka put out her hand: "god bless you, for all your kindness," she said, and as she spoke she put up her face to give him a kiss. for an instant he hesitated then he signed her forehead with a cross, and bending down touched her hair with his lips. "_au revoir_," he murmured in a half-choked voice, he bowed to the baroness and jumped out. as he watched the train leave the station his face was crimson and his eyes sparkled strangely; and he stood bareheaded to catch the last glimpse of a pale little face at the window. "if only i had the right to care for her and protect her," he muttered. chapter viii. and now to conclude. baroness sterzl was one of those happily rare natures who have not one redeeming point. in her moravian estate, whither they now retired, she was sick of her life, and treated zinka with affectionate austerity. bored and embittered, she was always bewailing herself and made every one miserable by her sour mien and doleful, appearance. when the year of mourning was ended she began to crave for some excitement; she made excursions to watering places, and to vienna, where she gathered round her the fragmentary remains of her old circle of acquaintance and tried to astonish them by magnificent reminiscences of her sojourn in rome. at the same time she still wore deep furbelows of crape, and wrote her invitations on black-edged paper; she talked incessantly of her broken mother's-heart wearing, as it were, a sort of niobe nimbus; while, in fact, her display of mourning was nothing more than a last foothold for her vanity. general von klinger always declared that at the bottom of her heart she was very proud of her son having been run through by a sempaly. she died, about three years after the catastrophe, of bronchitis, which only proved fatal because, though she already had a severe cold, nothing could dissuade her from going on a keen april morning to see the ceremony of washing the beggars feet at the burg, with a friend from the convent of the sacred heart. zinka felt the loss of her mother more deeply than could have been expected. year after year she spent summer and winter in her country house, where gabrielle truyn, with her english governess, sometimes passed a few weeks with her--her only visitors. truyn very rarely went to see her, and never stayed more than a few hours; and the sacrifice it was to him to lend his little companion for those visits can only be appreciated by those who have understood how completely his life was bound up in hers. with princess vulpini zinka kept up an affectionate correspondence. very, very, slowly did her grief fade into the background; but--as is always the case with a noble nature--it elevated and strengthened her. she gave up her whole time to acts of kindness and benevolence; the only pleasure in which, for years, she could find any real comfort was alleviating the woes of others. * * * not long after the death of the baroness, general von klinger left europe to travel, and did not return till the following spring twelvemonths. he disembarked at havre and proceeded to paris, where he proposed spending a few days to see the salon before going home. by the obliging intervention of a friend he was admitted to the "_vernis sage_"--varnishing day, or, more properly, the private view--the day before the galleries were opened to the public. among the little crowd of fashionable ladies who had gained admittance by the good offices of a drawing-master or an artist friend, he observed a remarkably pretty young girl who, with her nose in the air, was skipping from one picture to another with a light and vigorous step, and pronouncing judgment on the works exhibited with the inexorable severity and innocent conceit of a fanatical novice. this fair young critic was so thoroughly aristocratic in her bearing, there was something so engaging in her girlish arrogance, so like a spoilt child in her confidential chat with her companion--an elderly man, and one of the best known artists of paris--that the old soldier-painter could not help watching her with kindly interest. presently she happened to see him; scrutinized him for a moment, and came to meet him with gay familiarity. "why, general! are you back at last? how glad papa will be--and you have not altered in the very least!..." "i cannot say the same of you, countess gabrielle," he replied. "well, of course. we last met four years ago at zini's i think, ..." she chattered on. "then i was a child, and now i am grown up; and i will tell you something. general, i have exhibited a picture--quite a small water color drawing," and she blushed, which made her look like her father, "you will come and look at it will you not?" "of course," he declared; and then, glancing at her dress: "you are in mourning?" he said hesitatingly. "yes," she replied, "in half mourning now--for poor mamma; it is nearly a year since she died...." and a shade crossed her face--"ah, there is papa!" she exclaimed, suddenly brightening, "we are always losing each other--our tastes are different--papa is old fashioned you know--quite behind the times ..." truyn greeted the general very heartily; gabrielle stood looking from one to the other; little roguish dimples played in her cheeks, and at last she stood on tiptoe and whispered something to her father. at first he seemed doubtful, and it was not without a shade of embarrassment that he said: "we are going on to the hotel bristol, where we are to breakfast with my sister. it will, i am sure, give her the greatest pleasure if you will join her party." the general made some excuses--it was an intrusion, and so forth--but he allowed himself to be persuaded and drove off with them through the flowery and well-watered alleys of the champs elysées to the hotel in the place vendôme. "aunt marie," said gabrielle as she danced into the room, "guess who is here with us!" "ah, general!" said the princess warmly, "you are the right man in the right place." but another figure caught his eye--a little way behind his hostess stood zinka. the sorrow she had experienced had stamped its lines indelibly on her face; still, there was in her eyes a light of calm and assured happiness that blended very sweetly with the traces of past grief. the bright may-morning of her life had been brief and it was past, but there was so tender a charm in her face and manner that even gabrielle, with the radiance of eighteen, could not vie with her. truyn went up to her and there was an awkward silence. then gabrielle began to laugh heartily. "and cannot you guess, general?" she exclaimed. "it is not yet announced to the world," truyn stammered out, "but you have always taken such a kind interest ..." and he took zinka's hand. the old man's face beamed--he positively hugged zinka and shook hands vehemently with truyn. but zinka burst into tears--: "oh, uncle," she said, "if only cecil were here!" * * * and sempaly? after the catastrophe he vanished from the scene--went to the east, and there again came to the surface. a sempaly may do anything. he is now considered one of our most brilliant diplomatists. but he has gone through a singular change; from a dandified, frivolous attaché he became a hard-and-fast official. he looks if possible more distinguished than ever and his features are more sharply cut. he is irritable, arrogant and ruthless; never sparing man or woman the biting sarcasms that dwell on the tip of his tongue, and yet, still--nay, more than ever--he exercises an almost irresistible spell over all who come in contact with him. one day, when the general was waiting at some frontier station in hungary for a train to vienna, he was struck by the full rich voice of a traveller in a seal-skin coat, with a fur cap pulled down over his brows, who was giving peremptory orders to his servant. the old man looked round and his eyes met those of the stranger--it was sempaly, also on his way to vienna, from the east. they spoke--exchanging a few commonplace remarks, but without any cordiality. presently sempaly began with the abruptness for which his name was a by-word: "you have just come from paris. you were present at the wedding? what do you think of truyn's marriage?" "i am delighted at it," said the general. "well, everybody seems satisfied. marie vulpini is enchanted, and gabrielle pleaded for her papa--so i hear.--so everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds!" he added in his sharp, hasty tones--"and zinka--how is she looking? the papers said she was lovely." "she is still very charming," said the general, with the facile garrulity of old age, "and happiness always beautifies a woman--she had but one regret: that cecil had not lived to see it." he was suddenly conscious of his stupendous want of tact; so, to put the conversation on neutral ground, he eagerly began to compliment sempaly on the wonderful rapidity of his advancement, remarking that it must afford him great satisfaction to have so fitting a sphere for the exercise of his peculiar talents. sempaly looked at him keenly, and shrugging his shoulders, with a singular smile, he said: "it is a strange thing, general--when we are young we claim happiness at the hands of destiny, as if it were our right; as we grow older we humbly sue, only for peace, as an alms.--we get what we demand more easily than what we beg for--but it slips through our fingers." the end. ________________ | advertisements | |________________| the amazon.--an art-novel, by carl vosmaer, from the dutch by e. j. irving, with frontispiece by alma tadema, r. a., and preface by georg ebers. in one vol. paper, cts. cloth, cts. * * * * * "among the poets who never overstep the limits of probability and yet aspire to realize the ideal, in whose works we breathe a purer air, who have power to enthral and exalt the reader's soul, to stimulate and enrich his mind, we must number the netherlander vosmaer. "the novel 'amazon,' which attracted great and just attention in the author's fatherland, has been translated into our tongue at my special request. in vosmaer we find no appalling incident, no monstrous or morbid psychology, neither is the worst side of human nature portrayed in glaring colors. the reader is afforded ample opportunity of delighting himself with delicate pictures of the inner life and spiritual conflicts of healthy-minded men and women. in this book a profound student of ancient as well as modern art conducts us from paestum to naples, thence to rome, making us participators in the highest and greatest the eternal city can offer to the soul of man. "vosmaer is a poet by the grace of god, as he has proved by poems both grave and gay; by his translation of the iliad into dutch hexameters, and by his lovely epos 'nanno,' his numerous essays on æsthetics, and more especially his famous 'life of rembrandt,' have secured him an honorable place among the art-historians of our day. as deputy recorder of the high court of justice he has, during the best years of his life (he was born march , ), enjoyed extensive opportunities of acquiring a thorough insight into the social life of the present, and the labyrinths of the human soul. that 'the amazon,' perhaps the maturest work of this author, should--like vosmaer's other writings--be totally unknown outside holland, is owing solely to the circumstance that most of his works are written in his mother-tongue, and are therefore accessible only to a very small circle of readers. "it is a painful thing for a poet to have to write in a language restricted to a small area; and it is the bounden duty of the lover of literature to bring what is excellent in the literature of other lands within the reach of his own countrymen. among these excellent works vosmaer's 'amazon' must unquestionably be reckoned. it introduces us to those whom we cannot fail to consider an acquisition to our circle of acquaintances. it permits us to be present at conversations which--and not least when they provoke dissent--stimulate our minds to reflection. no one who listens to them can depart without having gained something; for vosmaer's novel is rich in subtle observations and shrewd remarks, in profound thoughts and beautifully-conceived situations." _extract from georg ebers' preface to the german edition_. fridolin's mystical marriage.--a study of an original, founded on reminiscences of a friend, by adolf wilbrandt, from the german by clara bell. one vol. paper, cts. cloth, cts. * * * * * "one of the most entertaining of the recent translations of german fiction is 'fridolin's mystical marriage,' by adolf wilbrandt. the author calls it 'a study of an original, founded on reminiscences of a friend,' and one may easily believe that the whimsical, fascinating, brilliant heir must have been drawn more largely from life than fancy. he is a professor of art, who remains single up to his fortieth year because he is, he explains to a friend 'secretly married.' 'when you consider all the men of your acquaintance,' he says, 'does it strike you that every man is thoroughly manly and every woman thoroughly womanly? or, on the contrary, do you not find singular deviations and exceptions to the normal type? if we place all the men on earth in a series, sorting them by the shades of difference in their natural dispositions, from the north pole, so to speak, of stalwart manliness to the south pole of perfect womanhood, and if you then cast a piercing glance into their souls, you would perceive ... beings with masculine intellect and womanly feelings, or womanly gifts and masculine character.' the idea is very cleverly worked out that in these divided souls marriage is possible only between the two natures, and that whenever one of the unfortunates given this mixed nature, cannot contract an outward alliance. how the events of the story overthrow this ingenious theory need not be told here, but the reader will find entertainment in discovery for himself."--_courier, boston_. "a quaint, dry and highly diverting humor pervades the book, and the characters are sketched with great force and are admirably contrasted. the unceasing animation of the narrative, the crispness of the conversations, and the constant movement of the plot hold the interest of the reader in pleasant attention throughout. it provides very bright and unfatiguing reading for a dull summer day."--_gazette, boston_. "the scenes which are colored by the art atmosphere of the studio of fridolin, a professor of art and the principal character, are full of pure humor, through the action and situations that the theory brings about. but no point anywhere for effective humor is neglected. it runs through the story, or comedy, from beginning to end, appearing in every available spot. and the characterization is evenly strong. it is an uncommonly clever work in its line, and will be deliciously enjoyed by the best readers." _globe, boston_. clytia.--a romance of the sixteenth century, by george taylor, from the german by mary j. safford, in one vol. paper, cts. cloth, cts. * * * * * "if report may be trusted 'george taylor,' though writing in german, is an englishman by race, and not merely by the assumption of a pseudonym. the statement is countenanced by the general physiognomy of his novels, which manifest the artistic qualities in which german fiction, when extending beyond the limits of a short story, is usually deficient. 'antinous' was a remarkable book; 'clytia' displays the same talent, and is, for obvious reasons, much better adapted for general circulation. notwithstanding its classical title, it is a romance of the post-lutheran reformation in the second half of the sixteenth century. the scene is laid in the palatinate; the hero, paul laurenzano, is, like john inglesant, the pupil, but, unlike john inglesant, the proselyte and emissary, of the jesuits, who send him to do mischief in the disguise of a protestant clergyman. he becomes confessor to a sisterhood of reformed nuns, as yet imperfectly detached from the old religion, and forms the purpose of reconverting them. during the process, however, he falls in love with one of their number, the beautiful clytia, the original, mr. taylor will have it, of the lovely bust in whose genuineness he will not let us believe. clytia, as is but reasonable, is a match for loyola; the man in laurenzano overpowers the priest, and, after much agitation of various kinds, the story concludes with his marriage. it is an excellent novel from every point of view, and, like 'antinous' gives evidence of superior culture and thoughtfulness."--_the london saturday review_. _william s, gottsberger, publisher, new york_. trafalgar.--a tale, by b. perez galdós, from the spanish by clara bell, in one vol. paper, cents. cloth, cents. * * * * * "this is the third story by galdós in this series, and it is not inferior to those which have preceded it, although it differs from them in many particulars, as it does from most european stories with which we are acquainted, its interest rather depending upon the action with which it deals than upon the actors therein. to subordinate men to events is a new practice in art, and if galdós had not succeeded we should have said that success therein was impossible. he has succeeded doubly, first as a historian, and then as a novelist, for while the main interest of his story centres in the great sea-fight which it depicts--the greatest in which the might of england has figured since her destruction of the grand armada--there is no lack of interest in the characters of his story, who are sharply individualized, and painted in strong colors. don alonso and his wife doña francisca--a simple-minded but heroic old sea-captain, and a sharp-minded, shrewish lady, with a tongue of her own, fairly stand out on the canvas. never before have the danger and the doom of battle been handled with such force as in this spirited and picturesque tale. it is thoroughly characteristic of the writer and of his nationality."--_the mail and express, new york_. _william s. gottsberger, publisher, new york_. a graveyard flower.--by wilhelmine von hillern, from the german by clara bell, in one vol., paper, cts. cloth, cts. * * * * * "the pathos of this story is of a type too delicate to be depressing. the tale is almost a poem, so fine is its imagery, so far removed from the commonplace. the character of marie is merely suggested, and yet she has a most distinct and penetrating individuality. it is a fine piece of work to place, without parade or apparent intention, at the feet of this ideal woman, three loves so widely different from each other. there is clever conception in the impulse that makes marie turn from the selfish, tempestuous love of the count, and the generous, holy passion of anselmo, to the narrower but nearer love of walther, who had perhaps fewer possibilities in his nature than either of the other two. the quality of the story is something we can only describe by one word--spirituelle. it has in it strong suggestions of genius coupled with a rare poetic feeling, which comes perhaps more frequently from germany than from anywhere else. the death of marie and the sculpture of her image by anselmo, is a passage of great power. the tragic end of the book does not come with the gloom of an unforeseen calamity; it leaves with it merely a feeling of tender sadness, for it is only the fulfilment of our daily expectations. it is in fact the only end which the tone of the story would render fitting or natural."--_godeys lady's book_. _william s. gottsberger, publisher, new york_. prusias.--a romance of ancient rome under the republic, by ernst eckstein, from the german by clara bell. authorized edition. in two vols. paper, $ . . cloth, $ . . * * * * * "the date of 'prusias' is the latter half of the first century b. c. rome is waging her tedious war with mithridates. there are also risings in spain, and the home army is badly depleted. prusias comes to capua as a learned armenian, the tutor of a noble pupil in one of the aristocratic households. each member of this circle is distinct. some of the most splendid traits of human nature develop among these grand statesmen and their dignified wives, mothers, and daughters. the ideal roman maiden is psyche; but she has a trace of greek blood and of the native gentleness. of a more interesting type is fannia, who might, minus her slaves and stola, pass for a modern and saucy new york beauty. her wit, spirit, selfishness, and impulsive magnanimity might easily have been a nineteenth-century evolution. in the family to which prusias comes are two sons, one of military leanings, the other a student. into the ear of the latter prusias whispers the real purpose of his coming to italy. he is an armenian and in league with mithridates for the reduction of roman rule. the unity which the senate has tried to extend to the freshly-conquered provinces of italy is a thing of slow growth. prusias by his strategy and helped by mithridates's gold, hopes to organize slaves and disaffected provincials into a force which will oblige weakened rome to make terms, one of which shall be complete emancipation and equality of every man before the law. his harangues are in lofty strain, and, save that he never takes the coarse, belligerent tone of our contemporaries, these speeches might have been made by one of our own abolitionists. the one point that prusias never forgets is personal dignity and a regal consideration for his friends. but after all, this son of the gods is befooled by a woman, a sinuous and transcendently ambitious roman belle, the second wife of the dull and trustful prefect of capua; for this tiny woman had all men in her net whom she found it useful to have there. "the daughter of the prefect--hard, homely-featured, and hating the supple stepmother with an unspeakable hate, tearing her beauty at last like a tigress and so causing her death--is a repulsive but very strong figure. the two brothers who range themselves on opposite sides in the servile war make another unforgettable picture; and the beautiful slave brenna, who follows her noble lover into camp, is a spark of light against the lurid background. the servile movement is combined with the bold plans of the thracian spartacus. he is a good figure and perpetually surprises us with his keen foresight and disciplinary power. "the book is stirring, realistic in the even german way, and full of the fibre and breath of its century." _boston ev'g transcript_. quintus claudius.--a romance of imperial rome, by ernst eckstein, from the german by clara bell, in two vols. paper, $ . . cloth, $ . . * * * * * "we owe to eckstein the brilliant romance of 'quintus claudius,' which clara bell has done well to translate for us, for it is worthy of place beside the emperor of ebers and the aspasia of hamerling. it is a story of rome in the reign of domitian, and the most noted characters of the time figure in its pages, which are a series of picturesque descriptions of roman life and manners in the imperial city, and in those luxurious retreats at baiae and elsewhere to which the wealthy romans used to retreat from the heats of summer. it is full of stirring scenes in the streets, in the palaces, in the temples, and in the amphitheatre, and the actors therein represent every phase of roman character, from the treacherous and cowardly domitian and the vile domitia down to the secret gatherings of the new sect and their exit from life in the blood-soaked sands of the arena, where they were torn in pieces by the beasts of the desert. the life and the manners of all classes at this period were never painted with a bolder pencil than by eckstein in this masterly romance, which displays as much scholarship as invention."--_mail and express, n. y_. "these neat volumes contain a story first published in german. it is written in that style which ebers has cultivated so successfully. the place is rome; the time, that of domitian at the end of the first century. the very careful study of historical data, is evident from the notes at the foot of nearly every page. the author attempted the difficult task of presenting in a single story the whole life of rome, the intrigues of that day which compassed the overthrow of domitian, and the deep fervor and terrible trials of the christians in the last of the general persecutions. the court, the army, the amphitheatre, the catacombs, the evil and the good of roman manhood and womanhood--all are here. and the work is done with power and success. it is a book for every christian and for every student, a book of lasting value, bringing more than one nation under obligation to its author."--_new jerusalem magazine, boston, mass_. "_a new romance of ancient times!_ the success of ernst eckstein's new novel, 'quintus claudius,' which recently appeared in vienna, may fairly be called phenomenal, critics and the public unite in praising the work."--_grazer morgenpost_. "'quintus claudius' is a finished work of art, capable of bearing any analysis, a literary production teeming with instruction and interest, full of plastic forms, and rich in the most dramatic changes of mood."--_pester lloyd_. _william s. gottsberger, publisher, new york_. transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id= hutaaaayaaj . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. mrs. a. l. wister's popular translations from the german. mo. attractively bound in cloth. * * * * * "o thou, my austria!" by ossip schubin. $ . erlach court. by ossip schubin. . the alpine fay. by e. werner. . the owl's nest. by e. marlitt. . picked up in the streets. by h. schobert. . saint michael. by e. werner. . violetta. by ursula zöge von manteuffel. . the lady with the rubies. by e. marlitt. . vain forebodings. by e. oswald. . a penniless girl. by w. heimburg. . quicksands. by adolph streckfuss. . banned and blessed. by e. werner. . a noble name. by claire von glümer . from hand to hand. by golo raimund . severa. by e. hartner . the eichhofs. by moritz von reichenbach. . a new race. by golo raimund. . castle hohenwald. by adolph streckfuss. . margarethe. by e. juncker. . too rich. by adolph streckfuss. . a family feud. by ludwig harder. . the green gate. by ernst wichert. . only a girl. by wilhelmina von hillern. . why did he not die? by ad. von volckhausen. . hulda; or, the deliverer. by f. lewald. . the bailiff's maid. by e. marlitt . in the schillingscourt. by e. marlitt. . at the councillor's. by e. marlitt. . the second wife. by e. marlitt. . the old mam'selle's secret. by e. marlitt. . gold elsie. by e. marlitt. . countess gisela. by e. marlitt. . the little moorland princess. by e. marlitt. . * * * * * _j. b. lippincott company_, _publishers_, _ and market street, philadelphia, pa_. countess erika's apprenticeship translated from the german of ossip schubin author of "o thou, my austria!" etc. by mrs. a. l. wister philadelphia j. b. lippincott company * * * * * copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company * * * * * _all rights reserved_. printed by j. b. lippincott company, philadelphia. preface by the author. a friend returning from a stroll round the globe brought back an odd volume of my work picked up in san francisco, translated without my leave, but proving by its very existence that the american reading world take a certain interest in my show and its puppets. though in a certain sense these unauthorized editions are a picking of the author's pocket, yet i must confess that i felt rather flattered. every one possessing any feeling for modernism must highly prize what american art and american literature have done and are doing for the directness, vividness, and intensity of presentation to our eyes or our imagination either of outward objects or the silent workings of character and inner sensations. the rapidity and intensity of picturing frequently remind us of an electric shock. we old world folk take life, to a certain degree, more at our leisure, but nevertheless every real artist follows the great direction that has seized all our contemporary being. directness of truth, vividness and intensity of presentation, exact rendering of impression, are the means by which we seek to produce life; life itself is the object, but i am afraid that to the end the life-giving spark will defy analysis. let me hope that the figures whose woes and weal my reader will follow through these pages may be half as alive to him as they have been to me; and let me hope, likewise, that when he closes the volume we may have become fast friends. i cannot let this opportunity pass without thanking mrs. wister most heartily for her faithful and picturesque rendering of my story. what a rare delight it is to an author to find himself so admirably rendered and so perfectly understood only those can feel that have undergone the acute misery of seeing their every thought mangled, their every sentence massacred, as common translations will mangle and massacre word and thought. therefore let every writer thank providence, if he find an artist like mrs. wister willing to put herself to the trouble of following his intentions, and of clothing his ideas in so brilliant a garb. it is only natural, therefore, that, having been lucky enough to find so rare a translator, i should authorize the translation to the absolute exclusion of any other. so, hoping it may find favour in the eyes of my transatlantic readers, i should like to shake hands with them at parting and say good-bye with the old world saw, "_auf wiedersehen_." ossip schubin. countess erika's apprenticeship. chapter i. baron von strachinsky reclined upon a lounge in his smoking-room, recovering from the last pecuniary calamity which he had brought upon himself. the fact was, he had built a sugar-factory in a tract of country where the nearest approach to a sugar-beet that could be found was a carrot on a manure-heap, and his enterprise had been followed by the natural result. he bore his misfortune with exemplary fortitude, and beguiled the time with a sentimental novel upon the cover of which was portrayed a lady wringing her hands in presence of a military man drinking champagne. at times he wept over this fiction, at others he dozed over it and was at peace. this he called submitting with dignity to the mysterious decrees of destiny, and he looked upon himself as a martyr. his wife was not at home. whilst he reposed thus in melancholy self-admiration, she was devoting herself to the humiliating occupation of visiting in turn one and another of her wealthy relatives, begging of them the loan of funds necessary for the furtherance of her husband's brilliant scheme. "it is very sad, but 'tis the fault of circumstances," sighed the baron when his thoughts wandered from his book to his absent wife, and for a moment he would cover his eyes with his hand. it was near the end of august, and the asters were beginning to bloom. cheerful industry reigned throughout the village. the baron indeed complained of the failure of the harvest, but this he did of every harvest the proceeds of which were insufficient to cover the interest of his numerous debts: the peasantry, who by no means exacted so high a rate of profit from their meadows and pasture-lands, were happy and content, and the stubble-fields were already dotted with hayricks. outside in the garden a little girl in a worn and faded frock was playing funeral: she was interring her canary, which she had found dead in its cage. she was very sad: the bird had been her best friend. no one paid her any attention. her mother was away, and the englishwoman whose duty it was to superintend her education was just now occupied in company with the bailiff, an ambitious young man desirous of improving his knowledge of languages, in studying the working of a new mowing-machine. from time to time the child glanced through the open door of the principal entrance to the castle into a rather bare hall, its floor paved with red tiles and its high vaulted walls whitewashed and adorned with stags' horns of all sizes. the baron von strachinsky had bought these last in one lot at an auction, but he had long cherished the conviction that they all came from his forest. he had a decided taste for fine, high-sounding expressions, always designating his wood as his 'forest,' his estate as his 'domain,' and his garden as his 'park.' a charwoman with a flat, red, perspiring face, and a knot of thin bristling hair at the back of her head, from which her yellow cotton kerchief had slipped down upon her neck, was shuffling upon hands and knees, her high kilted skirts leaving her red legs quite bare, over the tiles of the hall, rubbing away at the dirt and footmarks with a wisp of straw, while the steam of hot soapy water rose from the wooden bucket beside her. the little girl outside had just planted a row of pink asters upon the grave, which she had dug with a pewter spoon, and had filled up duly, when the scratching of the wisp of straw suddenly ceased. a young fellow was standing in the hall,--very young, scarcely sixteen, and with a portfolio under his arm. his garb was that of a journeyman mechanic, but his bearing had in it something of distinction, and his face was delicately modelled, very pale, with large dark eyes, almost black, gleaming below the brown curls of his hair. the same class of countenance is frequently seen among the neapolitan boys who sell seville oranges in rome; but such eyes as this lad had are seen at most only two or three times in a lifetime. the child in the garden looked with evident satisfaction at the young fellow. apparently he had come into the castle through the back entrance,--the one used by servants and beggars. the charwoman wiped her red hands upon her apron and knocked at one of the doors opening into the hall. she was a new-comer, and did not know that the baron von strachinsky was never disturbed upon any ordinary pretext. she knocked several times. at last a sleepy, ill-humoured voice said, "what is it?" "your grace, a young gentleman: he wants to speak to your grace." with eyes but half open, and the pattern of the embroidered cushion upon which he had been sleeping stamped upon his cheek, the baron von strachinsky came out into the hall. he was of middle height; his face had once been handsome, but was now red and bloated with excessive good living; he was slightly bald, and wore thick brown side-whiskers. his dress was a combination of slovenliness and foppery. he wore scarlet turkish slippers, trodden down at heel, gray trousers, and a soiled dark-blue smoking-jacket with red facings and buttons. "what do you want?" he roared, in a rage at being disturbed for so slight a cause. the young fellow shrank from him, murmuring in a hoarse, tremulous voice, the voice of a very young man growing fast and but scantily nourished, "i am on my way home." "what's that to me?" strachinsky thundered, not without some excuse for his indignation. the youth flushed scarlet. shyly and awkwardly he held out his portfolio to the sleepy baron. evidently it contained drawings, which he would like to sell but had not the courage to show. "give him an alms!" herr von strachinsky shouted to the cook, who, hearing the noise, had hurried into the hall; then, turning to the scrubbing-woman, who was standing beside her steaming bucket, her toothless jaws wide open in dismay, he went on: "if you ever again dare for the sake of a wretched vagabond of a house-painter's apprentice to deprive me of the few moments of repose which i contrive to snatch from my wretched and tormented existence, i'll dismiss you on the spot!" with which he retired to his room, banging to the door behind him. the cook offered the lad two kreutzers. his hand--a long, slender, boyish hand, almost transparent--shook, as he angrily threw the money upon the floor and departed. the little girl in the garden had been watching the scene attentively. her delicate frame trembled with indignation, as she rose, and, with arms hanging at her sides and small fists clinched in a somewhat dramatic attitude, fixed her eyes upon the door behind which the baron had disappeared. she had very bright eyes for a child of nine years, and a very penetrating glance, a glance by no means friendly to the baron. thus she stood for a minute gazing at the door, then put her arms akimbo, frowned, and reflected. before long she shrugged her shoulders with an air of precocious intelligence, deserted the newly-made grave, and hurried into the house, and to the pantry. the door was open. she looked about her. by strict orders of the baron, in his wife's absence all remains of provisions were hoarded in the pantry, although they were seldom of any use. as a consequence of this sordid housekeeping the child found a great store of dishes and bowls filled with scraps of meat and fish, stale cakes, and fermenting stewed apricots. it took her some time to discover what satisfied her,--a cold roast pheasant, and some pieces of tempting almond-cake left over from the last meal. these she packed in a basket with a flask of wine that had been opened, a tumbler, knife and fork, and a clean napkin. she decorated the basket with pink asters, and hurried out of the back door, intent upon playing the part of beneficent fairy. deep down in her heart there was a vein of romance which contrasted oddly with the keen good sense already gleaming in her bright childish eyes. she ran until she was quite out of breath, searching vainly for her handsome vagabond. should she inquire of some one if a young man with a portfolio under his arm had passed along the road? her heart beat; she felt a little shy. from a distance the warm summer breeze wafted towards her the notes of a foreign air clearly whistled, and she directed her steps towards the spot whence it seemed to proceed. there! yes, there---- beside the road rippled a little brook on its way to the rushing stream beyond the village, a brook so narrow that a twelve-year-old school-boy could easily have jumped across it. nevertheless the baron von strachinsky had thought best to span it with a magnificent three-arched stone bridge. in the shade thrown by this monumental structure, for the erection of which the baron had vainly hoped to be decorated by his sovereign, the lad was crouching. he was even paler than before, and there were traces of tears on his cheeks, but all the same he whistled on with forced gaiety, as one does whistle when one has nothing to eat and hopes to forget his hunger. the little girl felt like crying. he looked up and directly at her. overcome by sudden shyness, she stood for a moment as if rooted to the spot; then, awkwardly offering her basket, she stammered, "will you have it?" when he did not answer she simply set the basket down before him, and in her confusion would have avoided all explanations by running away. but a warm young hand detained her firmly and kindly. "did you come from there?" the lad asked, pointing to the castle. "who sent you?" his voice was agreeable, and his address that of a well-born youth. "no one knows that i came," she answered, in confusion, and seeing that he frowned discontentedly at this, she added hastily, by way of excuse, "but if mamma had been at home she certainly would have sent me; she never lets a beggar leave the house without giving him something to eat." at the word 'beggar' he turned away, whereupon she began to cry loudly, so loudly that he had to laugh. "but what are you crying for?" he asked; and she replied, in desperation, "i am crying because you will not eat anything." "indeed! is that all you are crying for?" "yes. oh, do eat something,--do!" she sobbed. "well, since it is to gratify you so hugely," he replied, in a bantering tone; "but sit down beside me and help me." he looked full into her eyes with his careless, merry smile, then took her tiny hand in his and pressed his full, warm lips upon it twice. she was greatly pleased by this courteous homage, and perhaps by the caress, for it was seldom that anything of the kind fell to her share. she had fully decided that the young fellow was no mechanic, but a prince in disguise, and in this exhilarating conviction she sat down upon the grass beside him and unpacked her basket. how he seemed to enjoy its contents, and how white his teeth were! there were also various indications of refinement and good breeding about his manner of eating, which would have given a more experienced observer than the little enthusiast beside him matter for reflection with regard to his rank in life. his portfolio lay beside him. she thrust a slender forefinger between its pasteboard covers tied together with green cotton strings, and whispered, gravely, "may i look into it?" "if you would like to," he replied. with great precision, as if the matter in hand were the unveiling of a sacred relic, she untied the strings and opened the portfolio. her eyes opened wide, and an "oh!" of enthusiastic admiration escaped her lips. a wiser critic than the little girl of nine would scarcely have accorded the sketches so much approval. they were undoubtedly stiff and unfinished. nevertheless, no genuine lover of art would have passed them by without notice, for they indicated a high degree of talent. the hand was unskilled, but the lad had eyes to see. the little girl gazed in rapt admiration. after a while she looked gravely up at her new friend, her compassion converted into awe. "now i know what you are,--an artist!" "do you think so?" the lad rejoined, flattered by the reverential tone in which the word was uttered: meanwhile, he had finished the pheasant, and was considerably less pale than before. "can you paint everything you see?" she asked, after a short pause. "i cannot paint anything," he answered, with a sort of merry discontent which, now that his hunger was satisfied, characterized his every look and movement. "i cannot paint anything," he repeated, with a little nod, "but i try to paint everything that i like." they looked in each other's eyes, he suppressing a laugh, she in some distress. at last she blurted out, "do you not like me at all, then?" "shall i paint you?" she nodded. "what will you give me for it?" she put her hand in her pocket, and took out a very shabby porte-monnaie, a superannuated possession of herr von strachinsky's which he had given her in a moment of unwonted generosity, and in which were five bright silver guilders. "is that enough?" she asked. "i will not take money," he replied. she had been guilty of another stupidity. she was bitterly conscious of it, and so, to justify herself, she put on an air of great wisdom. "you are a very queer artist," she admonished him, "not to take money for your pictures. no wonder you nearly starve." he took the hand which held the five despised silver coins, and kissed it three times. "i do take money for my pictures," he declared, "but not from you: i will draw your picture with all my heart." "for nothing?" "no: you must give me a kiss for it. will you?" he watched her without seeming to look at her. again the insinuating, roguish smile hovered upon his lips,--a charming smile, which he must have inherited from some kind, light-hearted woman. she was not quite sure of the rectitude of her conduct, her heart throbbed almost as if she were on the verge of some compact with satan, but finally, "if you will not do it without," she said, with a sigh, plucking at her hands,--very pretty hands, neglected though they were. he nodded gaily. "all right." then he made her sit down on the grass opposite him, unpacked his tin colour-case, fastened a piece of rough gray paper upon the cover of his portfolio, and began. she sat very still, very grave, her feet stretched out straight in front of her, supporting herself upon both hands. around them breathed the soft august air, the glowing summer sunshine sparkled on the translucent waters of the little brook above which the stone bridge displayed its pompous proportions, while upon the banks grew hundreds of blue forget-me-nots, and yellow water-lilies bloomed among the trunks of the old willows, which here and there showed gaping wounds in their bark, from which meadow daisies were sprouting and, with the silvery willow leaves, showing softly gray against the green background of the gentle ascent of the pasture-land. the brook murmured dreamily, and from the distance came the rhythmic beat of the threshers' flails. steam threshing-machines were not then in general use. both were mute,--he in the warmth of his youthful artistic enthusiasm, she with expectation. suddenly the shrill tinkle of a bell broke the quiet. "that is the dinner-bell!" the little girl exclaimed, springing up with an impatient shrug. she knew that there could be no more pleasure and liberty for her; she would be missed, looked for, and found. "i must go home," she cried. "have you finished it?" "very nearly, yes." she ran and looked over his shoulder, breathless with astonishment at what she saw upon the gray paper,--a little girl in a very short, faded gown, and long red stockings, also much faded, a very slender figure, a little round face, a delicate little nose, two grave bright eyes that looked out into the world with a startled expression, a short upper lip, a round chin, a very fair skin, and shining reddish-brown hair which waved long and silky about the narrow childish shoulders and was tied at the back of the head with a blue ribbon. he had unfastened the sketch from the portfolio, and she held it in her hands, examining it narrowly. "is it like?" she asked, and then, looking down at herself, she added, "the gown is like, and the stockings are like, but the face,--is that like?" she looked up at him eagerly. "i cannot do it any better," he replied, rather ambiguously. "oh, you must not be vexed," she made haste to say. "i only wanted to know if--how can i tell--if--well, it looks too pretty to me, this picture of yours." he gave her a comical side-glance. "every artist must flatter a little if he wishes to please a lady," was his reply. "and you give me the picture?" she asked, shyly, after a little pause. "why, you ordered it," he replied. "i--i--thank you," she stammered, then turned away and would have run off. but he was by no means inclined to let her off so easily. "and my pay?" he cried, catching her in his arms and clasping her so tightly that her little feet were lifted off the daisy-sprinkled turf. "traitress!" he exclaimed, reproachfully. she blushed scarlet, although she was but just nine years old; she put her arm around his neck and kissed him directly upon the mouth; his lips were still the lips of a girl. then she walked away, but she could not hasten from the spot; something seemed to stay her steps. she paused and looked back. the lad was busied with packing up his small belongings: all the gaiety had vanished from his face, he looked pale and sad again. with her heart swelling with pity, she ran back to him. "you come for your basket," he said, good-naturedly, holding it out to her. "no, it isn't that," she replied, shaking her head, as she put down the basket on a willow stump and came close up to him. in some surprise he smiled down at her. "something else to ask, my little princess?" "no,--that is----" she plucked him by the sleeve. "see here," she began, confused and yet coaxingly, "do not be vexed,--only--i thought just now how bad it would be if before you get home you should be treated by somebody else as that man treated you,"--she pointed to the castle,--"and then--and then--oh, i know so well how dreadful it is to have no money. i--please take the guilders: when you are a great artist you can give them back to me." and before he knew what she was doing she had slipped the porte-monnaie into his coat-pocket. the tears stood in his eyes; he put his arm around her, and looked at her as if to learn her face by heart. "it might be," he muttered; "perhaps you will bring me luck; i may still come to be something; and if you then should be as dear and pretty as you are now----" he kissed her upon both eyes. "rika!" a shrill voice called from a distance. "is that your name?" he asked. "yes." "and what is your last name?" "my step-father's is strachinsky. i do not know mine." "rika!" the shrill tones sounded nearer. "and what is your name?" she asked him. before he could reply, the fluttering skirts of the english governess came in sight: suddenly aroused to a consciousness of her neglected duties, she was looking along the road for her charge. the little girl clasped her picture close and fled. when she reached the house she ran up-stairs to put her precious portrait safely away, and then she allowed a clean apron to be put on over her faded frock by the agitated englishwoman,--whose name was in fact sophy lange, and who had been born in hamburg of honest german parents,--after which she presented herself in the dining-room with an assured air as if unconscious of the slightest wrong-doing. her step-father received her with a stern reproof, and instantly inquired where she had been. she replied, curtly, "to the village;" upon which he read her a tremendous lecture upon the enormity of idly wandering about the country, addressing at the same time a few annihilating remarks to the englishwoman from hamburg. he had exchanged his bright-blue morning coat for a light summer suit, in which he presented a much better appearance. but he was no more pleasing to his step-daughter in his light-brown costume than in the blue coat with red facings. she paid very little attention to his discourse, but quietly went on eating. miss sophy, however, shed tears. the baron von strachinsky impressed her greatly; nay, more, she honoured him as a being from a higher sphere. he was popular with women of all ranks, from the lowest to the highest,--why, it would be difficult to tell. he possessed a certain amount of personal magnetism, but it had no effect upon his step-daughter. they were extraordinarily antipathetic, strachinsky and his clear-eyed little step-daughter. what she took exception to in him was of so complex and delicate a nature as to defy explanation in words. what annoyed him in her was principally the fact that, in spite of her tender age, she saw through him, was quite free of all illusions with regard to him. it always increases our regard for our neighbour if he will but view us with flattering eyes. some few illusions in our behalf we require from those around us; they are absolutely necessary to the pleasure of daily intercourse. but the demands of herr von strachinsky in this respect were beyond all reason, while his step-daughter's capacity to comply with them was unusually limited. dinner progressed as usual: the gentleman continued to admonish, miss sophy to weep, and little rika to maintain strict silence, until dessert, when herr von strachinsky, for whom eating was one of the most important occupations in life, inquired after an almond-cake of which, as he assured the servant, five pieces had been left from breakfast,--yes, five pieces and a little broken one: he had counted them. the servant repaired to the kitchen for information: the cook could give none, save that she herself had put the cake away in the pantry, whence it had vanished, without a trace, since the morning. herr von strachinsky was indignant; he accused every servant in the establishment of the theft, from the foremost of those employed in the house to the lowest stable-boy, and talked of having bars put up at the windows. little rika let him give full sweep to his anger; she fairly gloated over his irritation; at last she remarked, indifferently, "what would be the use of bars on the windows, when any one can walk in at the door? it is never locked." "silence! what do you know about it?" thundered her step-father. "oh, i know all about it," the child quietly replied, "and i know what became of the cake." "what?" "i took it. i carried it out to the painter whom you turned out of the house." herr von strachinsky's eyebrows were lifted to a startling extent at this confession. "you--ran--after--that house-painter fellow down the road?" he asked, with a gasp at each word. "yes," the child replied, composedly; "and he was not a house-painter fellow, but a young artist, although i should have run after him all the same if he had been a house-painter fellow." "indeed! and why?" he asked, with a sneer. she looked him full in the face. "why? because you treated him so badly, and i was sorry for him." for a moment he was speechless; then he arose, seized the child by the arm, and thrust her out of the door. without making the least resistance, carelessly humming to herself, she ran up the staircase,--a staircase that turned an abrupt corner and the worn steps of which exhaled an odour of damp decay,--whilst strachinsky turned to the englishwoman from hamburg and groaned, "my step-daughter is a positive torment. i am firmly persuaded that she will end at the galleys." the galleys were tolerably far removed from the sphere of the austrian penal code, but herr von strachinsky had a predilection for what was foreign, and had recently read a novel in which the galleys played a prominent part. meanwhile, little erika had betaken herself to the drawing-room, a spacious but by no means gorgeous apartment, the furniture of which consisted principally of bookcases and a piano. she seated herself at this piano, and instantly became absorbed in the study of one of mozart's sonatas, with which she intended to celebrate her mother's return. she had a decided talent for music; her slender little fingers moved with incredible ease over the keys, and her cheeks, usually rather pale, flushed with enthusiasm. it was going very well; she stretched out her foot to touch the pedal,--an act which in her opinion lent the crowning glory to her musical performance,--when suddenly she became aware of a kind of uproar that seemed to fill the house. dogs barked, servants hurried to and fro, a carriage drove up and stopped before the castle door. frau von strachinsky had returned unexpectedly. the child hurried down-stairs, just in time to see strachinsky take his wife from the carriage. they kissed each other like lovers,--which seemed to produce a disagreeable impression upon the little girl; moreover, it occurred to her that she did not know whether she might venture forward under existing circumstances. then she heard her mother say, "and where is rika?" without awaiting her step-father's reply, she rushed into her mother's arms. "you look finely, darling," the mother exclaimed, patting her little daughter's cheeks. "have you been a good girl?" rika made no reply. frau von strachinsky's face took on a sad, troubled expression. strachinsky frowned, and shrugged his shoulders. his wife looked from him to the child, who had taken her hand and was about to kiss it. "what has she been doing now?" she asked, turning to her husband. "not to speak of her behaviour towards myself,--behaviour that is perfectly unwarrantable,--i repeat, unwarrantable," said strachinsky,--"not to speak of that, the girl has again so far forgotten herself as----well, i will tell you about it by and by." "tell now!" the child exclaimed. "i'd rather you would tell now!" "hush, miss impertinence!" strachinsky ordered her; then, turning to his wife, he asked, "do you bring good news? is your uncle willing?" fran von strachinsky shook her head sadly. "unfortunately, no,--not quite," she murmured; "but he was very kind; he was enchanted with bobby." bobby was rika's step-brother, whom the poor mother had carried with her upon her distressing journey, perhaps as some consolation for herself, perhaps to soften the hearts of her relatives. he did, indeed, seem admirably adapted to this latter purpose, for he was a charming little fellow, with a lovely pink-and-white face crowned by brown curls, and plump bare arms. his hands at present were filled with toys, which he carried to his sister to console her, since he instantly perceived that she was in disgrace. "i cannot understand that," strachinsky murmured. "i should have credited uncle nick with a more generous spirit." and he looked sternly at his wife, as if she were responsible for the ill success of her mission. she laid her hand gently on his arm and said, "you are an incorrigible idealist, my poor nello: you judge all men by yourself." and strachinsky passed his hand over his eyes, and sighed forth sentimentally, "yes, i am an idealist, an incorrigible idealist, a perfect don quixote." the rest of the afternoon was passed by the pair in the large drawing-room, trying to obtain some clear understanding of the state of strachinsky's financial affairs,--a very difficult task. she, pencil in hand, did the reckoning. he paced the room to and fro with a tragic air, and smoked cigarettes. from time to time he uttered some effective sentence, such as, "i am unfit for this world!" or, "of course a marquis posa like myself!" she sat quietly contemplating the figures with which the sheet before her was filled. her face grow sad, while her husband's, on the contrary, brightened. since he was succeeding in casting all his cares upon her shoulders, he felt quite cheerful. "i never had the least idea of this ten thousand guilders which you tell me you owe," the tortured woman exclaimed, in a sudden access of anger. "no?" her husband rejoined, with easy assurance. "i surely wrote you about it; or could the trifle have slipped my memory? yes, now i remember you were with the children at johannisbad. löwy came and pestered me with its being such a splendid chance,--told me i had no right to hold back; and so i bought a hundred shares of schönfeld.' good heavens! what do i understand of business?--how is such knowledge possible for a gentleman? in the army one never learns anything of the kind, and what can one do save follow advice? i trust others far too readily,--you have always told me so; it is the natural result of the magnanimity of my nature. i blame myself for it. i am an egmont,--a perfect egmont. poor egmont! there is nothing left for me but to sigh with him, 'ah, orange! orange!'" strachinsky imagined that this confession, uttered with an indescribably tragic emphasis, would quite reconcile his wife to his unfortunate speculation. but, to his great surprise, the anticipated result did not ensue. frau von strachinsky pushed her thick dark hair back from her temples, and exclaimed, "i cannot understand you; you promised me so faithfully not to speculate in stocks again." "but, my dear emma, the opportunity seemed to me so brilliant a one, that i should have thought myself a very scoundrel not to try at least----" "and you see the result." "when a man acts conscientiously and with the best intentions, he should not be reproached, even although his efforts result in failure," he said, pompously. "no, my dear emma, not a word; do not speak now: you will only be sorry for it by and by." but emma strachinsky was not on this occasion to be thus silenced: she was indignant, and almost in despair. "you have always acted with the 'best intentions'!" she exclaimed, hoarse with agitation, "and the result of your good intentions will be to beggar my children. can you take it ill if i withhold from you my few farthings, that there may be some provision for the children in the future?" jagello von strachinsky looked her over from head to foot. "_your_ few farthings!" he said, with annihilating severity. "what indelicacy! well, i shall steer my course accordingly. do as you choose in future. i have nothing more to say." and, with head haughtily erect, cavalier and martyr every inch of him, he stalked from the room. she looked after him: she had gone too far; again her impulsiveness had led her astray. her heart throbbed; she felt sore with agitation, shame, and remorse. when erika, towards evening, was playing hide-and-seek with her little brother in the garden, she saw her mother and her step-father strolling affectionately along the gravel path between the hawthorn bushes. he was already rather bald; his limbs were loosely knit; he wore full whiskers, and there was a languishing glance in his eyes, but he was still handsome, in spite of a dissipated air; she was tall, slender, and erect, with large dark eyes, and a pale, noble countenance, that could never, however, have been beautiful. they walked close together, and to a casual observer presented an ideal picture of happy wedded life. and yet when one observed more narrowly--his arm was thrown around her shoulder, and he leaned upon her instead of supporting her; the swing of his heavy frame, the languishing, sentimental expression of his face, everything about him, bespoke a self-satisfied, luxurious temperament; while she----in her eyes there was restless anxiety, and her figure looked as though it were slowly being bowed to the ground by a burden which she was either unable or afraid to shake off. she walked with a patiently regular step beneath her heavy load. suddenly she seemed uneasy: she shivered. "what is it, darling?" strachinsky asked her, clinging still closer to her. "nothing," she murmured, "nothing," and walked on. they were passing the spot where the little brother and sister were playing, and in the gathering twilight emma strachinsky became aware of a pair of clear dark-brown childish eyes that seemed to ask, "how can she love that man?" those childish eyes were positively uncanny! the child's dislike dated from far in the past; it was in fact the first clearly formulated emotion of her little heart. during the first years of her second marriage the mother, prompted by an exaggerated tenderness, had concealed from her little daughter as long as possible the fact that strachinsky was not her own father: the child had learned the truth by accident. when she rushed to her mother to have what she had heard confirmed, she was received with the tenderest caresses, as though she were to be consoled for a great grief, while she was entreated not to be sad, and was told that "'papa' was far too good and kind to make any difference between herself and his own children, that he loved her dearly," etc. the mother's caresses were highly prized by the child, all the more that they were rather rare, but on this occasion she could not even seem to enjoy them, since she could not endure to be pitied and soothed for what brought her in reality intense relief. her mother perceived this, and it angered her, although at the same time the child's evident though silent dislike made a deep impression upon her. perhaps the consciousness of its existence in so frank and childish a mind first gave occasion to distrust of the terrible infatuation to which the gifted woman's entire existence had fallen a sacrifice. frau von strachinsky was wont to go herself every evening to see that all was as it should be in the large airy apartment where both the children slept. she hovered noiselessly from one bed to the other, signing the cross upon the brow of each,--an old-fashioned custom to which she still clung although she had long since adopted very philosophical views with regard to religion,--and giving each sleeping child a tender good-night kiss. the evening after her return she went to the nursery at the usual hour, but lingered only by the crib of the sleeping boy, passing her daughter's bed with averted face. rika sat up and looked after her; her mother had reached the door without once looking back. this the child could not endure. she sprang out of bed, ran to her mother, and seized her by her skirt. "mother! mother!" she cried, in a frenzy, "you will not go without bidding me good-night?" "let go of my gown," frau von strachinsky replied, in a cold voice, which nevertheless trembled with emotion. "but what have i done, mother?" the child cried, clinging to her passionately. "can you ask?" her mother rejoined, sternly. "why should i not ask? how should i know what he has told you? i was not by when he accused me." "erika! is that the way to speak of your father?" her mother said, angrily. the little girl frowned. "he is not my father," she declared, defiantly. frau von strachinsky sighed. "your ingratitude is shocking," she exclaimed, and then, controlling herself with an effort, she added, "but that i cannot alter: you are an unnatural, hard-hearted, stubborn child. i cannot soften your heart, but i can insist that you conduct yourself with propriety, and i forbid you once for all to run after vagabonds in the street. and now go to bed." "i will not go to bed until you bid me good-night!" cried the child. she stood there with naked little feet, in her white night-gown, over which her long reddish-brown hair hung down. "and i was not so naughty as you think. you ought not to condemn me without giving me time to defend myself." the child was so desperately reasonable, her mother could not think her wrong, in spite of her momentary anger. she paused. an idea evidently occurred to the little girl. "only wait one minute!" she exclaimed, as she flew across the room to a drawer where she kept her toys, and, returning with her _protégé's_ water-colour sketch, held it up triumphantly before her mother's eyes. "look at that!" she cried. involuntarily emma looked. "where did that come from?" she exclaimed, forgetting her vexation in freshly-aroused interest. "do you know who it is?" asked erika, stretching her slender neck out of the embroidered ruffle of her night-gown. "of course; it is your picture. it is charming. who did it?" "the vagabond whom i ran after, the house-painter fellow," erika replied. "at least you can see he was not _that_, but a young artist." her mother was silent. "ah, if you had only been at home!" the child's bare feet were growing colder, and her cheeks hotter with excitement, "you would have done just as i did. if you had only seen him! he was very handsome, and so pale and thin and weary with hunger,--why, _i_ could have knocked him down,--and he never begged,--he was too proud,--only held out the portfolio to papa, and his hand trembled----" suddenly the excitable temperament which the girl had inherited from her mother asserted itself, and she began to sob, her whole childish frame quivering with emotion. "and papa turned him out of doors, and told the cook--to give--to give him two kreutzers. he threw them away--and then--then i ran after him!" frau von strachinsky had grown very pale; the child's agitated story had evidently made an impression upon her, but she did her best to preserve a severe demeanour. "but it is very improper to run after strangers in the street; you are too old." erika hung her head, ashamed. "but i should not have done it if papa had not abused him," she declared, by way of excuse. "i did it out of pity for him." "pity is a very poor counsellor." her mother said these words with an emphasis which erika never forgot, and which was to echo in her soul years afterwards. then she extricated herself from the child's embrace and left the room, closing the door behind her. a few minutes afterwards she reopened the door. little erika was still standing where she had left her. "go to bed," said her mother, in a far more gentle tone, stooping down to kiss her, "and be a better girl another time." the child clasped her slender little arms tightly about her mother's neck in a strangling embrace, crying, "oh, mother, mother, you do love me still?" the pale woman did not answer the question, save by a kiss; she waited until the little girl had crept back to bed, and then tucked in the coverlet about her shoulders, and once more left the room. erika, precocious child that she was, was a prey to emotions of a very mingled character. she had won a great victory over her step-father,--of this she was well aware,--but then she had grieved her mother sorely. all at once she was seized with profound remorse in recalling to-day's stroke of genius. beneath her mother's severity she had been sure of having right on her side; now a great uncertainty possessed her. "it is very improper to run after strangers in the street; you are too old," she repeated, meekly, and she grew hot. "what would my mother think if she knew that i had kissed him?" in the midst of her distress she was overpowered by intense fatigue: her eyelids drooped above her eyes, and with her nightly prayer still on her lips she fell asleep. emma von strachinsky did not sleep; she sat in the bare room adjoining the nursery, the room where she taught erika her lessons. she wrote two very difficult letters to her husband's creditors, and then proceeded to sew upon a gown for her daughter. she was proud of the child's beauty as only the mother can be who has all her life long been conscious of being obliged to forego the gift of beauty for herself. she loved her daughter idolatrously,--the daughter whom she often treated with a severity verging upon injustice, and whom she sometimes avoided for days because the glance of those clear eyes troubled her. the windows of the room were open, and looked out upon the road. the fragrance of ripened grain was wafted in from the earth outside, resting from its summer fruitfulness and saturated with the august sunshine. a song floated up through the silent night: the reapers were working by moonlight. the low murmur of the brook accompanied the song, and now and then could be heard the soft swish of the grain falling beneath the scythe. a cricket chirped. emma dropped her hands in her lap and gazed into vacancy. suddenly she started; a step approached the door of the room, and strachinsky, smiling sentimentally, entered. "emma," he said, tenderly, "have you written to franks and ziegler?" "yes," she replied, and her voice sounded hoarse. "there lie the letters. read them, and see if they are what you wish." "not at all," her husband exclaimed, gaily. "i have implicit confidence in your tact. h'm! the perusal of such letters is a sorry amusement." "do you suppose that it was a pleasure to write them?" emma asked, with some bitterness. strachinsky immediately assumed an injured air. "you are irritable again. one cannot venture upon the slightest jest with you. do you suppose that i enjoy being forced to ask you to write the letters? good heavens! it is hard enough, but--circumstances will have it so." he passed his hand over his eyes, and stroked his whiskers with an air of great dignity. she was silent. he watched her for a while, and then said, "that eternal sewing is very bad for you. come to bed." "i cannot. i am not sleepy," she replied, plying her needle; "and, moreover, i must finish this frock; let me go on with it." she bent over her work with the air of one determined to complete a task. strachinsky stood beside her for a while longer, hesitating and uncertain: he picked up each small article upon the table, looked at it and laid it down again after the fashion of a man who does not know what to do with himself, then he sighed profoundly, yawned, sighed again, and without another word left the room with heavy, lagging footsteps. when he was gone she laid aside her sewing, and went to the open window to breathe the fresh air. the bluish moonlight shone full upon the whitewashed walls of the peasants' cots crowned with their dark clumsy thatch; in the distance twinkled the little stream winding its plashing way directly across the village towards the river, its banks bordered with curiously-distorted willows that looked like crouching lurking gnomes, and spanned by the huge useless bridge. bridge, willows, and cots all threw pitch-black shadows out into the glaring splendour of the moonlit night, which was absolutely free from mist and damp. beyond the village stretched fields of grain and stubble in endless perspective, a surface of tarnished dull gold. the song was still informing the silence. at last it ceased, and shortly afterwards heavy, regular steps were heard passing along the road. the reapers were going home. they passed by emma's windows, a little dark gray crowd of men; the scythes over their shoulders glimmered in the moonlight; then came a couple of women, bowed and weary, almost dropping asleep as they walked; and last of all the overseer, a young fellow whose hand clasped that of a girl at his side. how he bent over her! a low tender whispering sound reached emma's ears through the dry august air which the night had scarcely cooled. she turned away, frowning. "how happy they look! and why?" she murmured to herself. suddenly she smiled bitterly. had she any right to sneer thus at others?--she? surely if ever a woman lived who had believed in love and had married for love, she was that woman. and whom had she loved? a poor weakling, who had never been worthy to unloose the latchet of her shoe! not only little precocious erika, every sensible human being who had ever come in contact with the married pair had asked how such a union had been possible. and yet it was so simple a story,--so simple and commonplace,--the story of a woman lacking beauty, but gifted, enthusiastic, prone to romantic exaggeration, whose longing for affection had wrought her ruin. her parents belonged to the most ancient if not the most illustrious of the native bohemian nobility; he was of doubtful descent. she had always been wealthy; he possessed nothing save a scheming brain and a soaring self-conceit that bore him triumphantly aloft through all the annoyances of life. he was not entirely without talent, had had a good education, and was, previous to his marriage with emma lenzdorff, neither idle nor inactive, but possessed of a certain desire for culture, the secret springs of which, however, were to be found in an eager social ambition. at eighteen he entered the army: too poor to join the cavalry, and too arrogant to content himself among the infantry, he joined a jäger corps. he had risen to the rank of captain when he was wounded in the schleswig-holstein campaign. he made his wife's acquaintance in a private hospital in berlin, which she had arranged in her own house for the martyrs of the aforesaid campaign. she was very young, very enthusiastic, and a widow,--widow of a cold, unloved northern german whom in accordance with family arrangements she had married while she was yet only a visionary child. the memory of her formal marriage inspired her with horror. before meeting strachinsky she had given scope to her romantic tendencies by all sorts of exaggerated charitable schemes, and by a fanatical devotion to art and poetry. she had long been convinced that her thirst for affection could never be satisfied. no one had ever shown her any passionate devotion, and, conscious of her lack of beauty, she had sadly resigned herself to swell the ranks of those women whom reason might prompt a suitor to woo, but who could never hope to be wooed in defiance of reason. the pole had an easy task. that he was handsome even his enemies could not deny. and he knew how to make the most of his personal advantages: a century earlier he might have been taken for a poniatowski, with a direct claim to the throne of poland. his uniform was very becoming, and a wounded soldier is always interesting. as soon as he divined the young widow's weakness he wooed her with verses,--with passionate declarations of love. poor emma! her thirsty heart thrilled with the sudden bursting into bloom of its spring so long delayed! her parents, who might have warned her of what she was bringing upon herself, were dead; she paid no heed to her mother-in-law, who strenuously opposed her second marriage. when emma, with burning cheeks, and trembling to her finger-tips with emotion, repeated to her the pole's exaggerated expressions of devotion, the elder woman rejoined, coldly, "and you believe the coxcomb?" the words were to emma like the sting from a whip-lash. "and why should i not believe him?" she asked, sharply. "because, perhaps, you think me incapable of inspiring a man with affection?" "nonsense!" replied the sensible mother-in-law. "you could inspire affection in any honest man with a heart in his bosom, but not in that shallow pole, that second-rate dandy." "perhaps you think him an adventurer, who wooes me for the sake of my money?" emma exclaimed, indignantly. "no, i think him a superficial man who, flattered by having made an impression upon a woman of rank, is trying to better his condition. adventurer! nonsense! he has not wit enough. an opportunity offers itself, and he embraces it: _voilà tout_. he is not to blame, but his suit is unworthy of you, and a marriage with him would be a misfortune for you, apart from the fact that you would disgrace your family by it." when a patient is to be persuaded to take a dose of medicine it ought not to be offered him in an unattractive shape. the old lady's representations were correct, but they were humiliating. emma turned away, stubborn and indignant, and a month afterwards married strachinsky and parted from her mother-in-law forever. eight years had passed since then. first came a few months during which emma revelled in the sensation of loving and being loved, and then--well, the bliss was still there, but a slight shadow had fallen upon it, dimming it, chilling it, a gnawing uneasiness, in the midst of which memory would suddenly suggest the sensible mother-in-law's unsparing predictions. his marriage put an end to all exertion on strachinsky's part: it had at a single stroke, as it were, lifted him so far above all for which his ambition had thirsted that he had nothing left to desire, save to enjoy life in distinguished society as far as was possible. with his wife's money he purchased an estate in bohemia where the soil was the poorest, so great in extent that it made a show in the map of the country, and developed a brilliant talent for hospitality: all the land-owners in the vicinity, all the cavalry-officers from the nearest garrison, were habitués of luzano, as the estate was called. with his wife's unceasing attentions strachinsky's self-importance increased, and his regard for her declined. she existed simply to insure his comfort,--for nothing else. the household was turned topsy-turvy when the master's guests appeared, whether invited or unannounced. strachinsky entertained them with exquisite suppers, at which champagne flowed freely, but at which his wife did not appear. after supper cards were produced, and it was frequently four in the morning before the gentlemen were heard driving away from the castle; sometimes they remained until the next night. but the day came when luzano ceased to be a branch of the military casino at k----. the life there suddenly became very quiet, and various disagreeable facts came to light which had been disregarded in the whirl of gaiety. then first little erika saw her mother, pencil in hand, patiently adding up her husband's debts, while strachinsky, his hands clasped behind him, and a cigarette between his teeth, paced the room, dictating amounts to her. in addition to losses at play and in unfortunate speculations, he had magnanimously put his name to various notes of his distinguished friends. emma did not even frown, but exerted herself in every way,--sold her trinkets and almost every valuable piece of furniture, that her husband might meet his liabilities, treating him all the while with the forbearance traditional in model wives, in order to save him from any depressing consciousness of his position. was he conscious of it? if he were, he was entirely successful in concealing any consequent depression. the morning after the first painful revelation of his indebtedness, he skipped with the gayest air imaginable into the dining-room, where the family were already assembled at the breakfast-table, and exhorted all present to economize, and especially not to put too much butter on their bread, afterwards discoursing wittily upon 'poverty and magnanimity.' to lighten his burden,--perhaps to disguise his insensibility from her own heart,--emma persuaded him that his course had been the result solely of warm-hearted imprudence and an exaggerated nobility of character. this view of the case was eagerly adopted by his vanity. he paraded his martyr's nimbus, and with a self-satisfied sigh styled himself a don quixote. nothing could really be farther from don quixote's idealistic and unselfish craze than his utter egotism, in its thin veil of sentimentality. and as for his martyrdom, it was easily seen through. none of the misfortunes brought upon himself by himself did he ever allow to affect his existence. he possessed a kind of cunning intelligence that never forsook him, and that enabled him in the midst of ruin to insure his own personal ease. but how could emma have borne at that comparatively early period to see him as he really was? she seized upon every excuse for him; she patched up her damaged illusions; she would support, restrain him, develop all that was really noble in him. in her jealous ambition to make his home so delightful that he would never look for entertainment elsewhere, she exerted herself to the utmost, pandered to his love of eating, even cooked herself when they were no longer able to bear the expense of such a cook as he had been accustomed to, tried to conform her intellectual interests to his lack of any such,--in short, did everything to strengthen the tie between herself and him. she succeeded completely: she made the tie so strong that no loosening of it was possible. she tried to withdraw him from all outside influences, to win him wholly to herself, and she succeeded; her presence, her tenderness, became an absolute necessity of existence to him; he had never so adored her even during their honeymoon. good heavens! now she would have given everything in the world for any breach between them that could be widened beyond all possibility of healing. it was too late; she must drag on the burden with which she had laden herself; it was her duty; she could not sink beneath it; she had no right to. but in spite of all her efforts her nerves at length gave way. she became irritable. at times she grieved over the change which she saw in him; at other times the thought would suggest itself that this change was merely superficial, that he had never really been any other than at present. then her blood would seem to run cold; she could have screamed. no, no, she would not see! there is nothing sadder in this world than the dutiful, tortured life of a woman with a husband whom she has ceased to love. chapter ii. full four years had passed by since erika had kissed the young artist. she recalled the little adventure, which had taken upon itself quite magnificent dimensions in her lively imagination, with secret delight and a vague sense of shame. emma was bearing her cross as best she might, but at every step she well-nigh fell exhausted. her wretchedness not unfrequently found vent in angry words, for which she was sure to repent and apologize. her relation with her daughter, now a tall, slender, and unusually clever girl of fourteen, suffered from her general wretchedness. she still loved the child tenderly, but the girl's clear, observant gaze pained her. it had grown much clearer and more penetrating with years. a certain weight, an oppression, seemed to brood over luzano like the sense of an impending catastrophe. the only ray of sunshine in the unhappy wife's gloomy lot was her little son. out of several children by her second marriage he alone had survived. he was strong and healthy, the darling of all, his sister's idol. then--he had hardly passed his seventh birthday when he too died. the little fellow had sickened in the midst of his play, had run to his sister and had fallen asleep with his head in her lap. the girl sat still, not to disturb him, and enjoined silence upon miss sophy, who was in the room. the twilight stole gray and vague in upon the bare apartment. the maid-servant--there were no longer any men-servants at luzano--brought in a lamp, and a plate of rosy-cheeked apples for the children's supper. the boy opened his eyes, but closed them again with a low moan and turned his head away from the light. his mother appeared, saw at a glance how matters stood, and put the little fellow to bed. she did not come down to supper, and when erika went, as was her wont, to say good-night to her brother, she was not allowed to enter his room. the next morning the doctor was sent for. whilst he was in the sick-room erika was taking her daily lesson in english with miss sophy, with no thought of any trouble. she was learning by heart her scene from shakespeare, when her mother suddenly put her head in at the door and said, "diphtheria!" the tone of her voice and the expression of her face were such as to terrify the girl. but when erika, trembling with dread, ran towards her, she waved her off and vanished. miss sophy was established in the sick-room, which erika was not allowed to enter. no one paid her any attention, and she spent hours forlornly watching at the end of a long gloomy corridor the door behind which so much that was terrible was going on. if she was seen she was sent away; but before long the entire household was too anxious to pay her the slightest heed. it was about eleven in the forenoon of the fifth day since the first symptoms of the disease had appeared. erika stood listening eagerly near the door, trembling with a sense of something vaguely terrible going on behind it. suddenly it opened, and her mother staggered out, her dress disordered, her face distorted with agony, and supported by the little boy's nurse. behind her came strachinsky, his handkerchief at his eyes. in absolute terror erika looked after her mother, who passed her by, even brushing her with her skirt, without seeing her. then she entered the room which the wretched woman had just left. the bed was covered with a white sheet, which revealed the outline of the little form beneath it. the girl's heart throbbed almost to bursting. she lifted a corner of the sheet: there lay her little brother, dead, so white, and with his sweet face unchanged by disease. the little hands lay half open upon the coverlet, as though life had just slipped from them. a grace born of death hovered above the entire form. his sister gazed in tearless distress. she could not cry; she felt no definable pain, only a terrible heaviness in her limbs, and a weight upon her heart that almost choked her. she bent over the corpse to kiss it, when miss sophy rushed into the room, seized her by the arm, and thrust her out of the door. of course the first thing erika did was to look for her mother. she found her in the morning-room, seated in a large arm-chair, quivering in every limb. minna, the nurse, was moistening her forehead with cologne, but she seemed entirely unconscious. her hands were folded in her lap, and her gaze was fixed on vacancy. erika could not summon the courage to approach her. meanwhile, strachinsky was pacing the room in long strides: his tears were already dried; every now and then he would pause and heave a profound sigh. at first emma seemed not to notice him, but on a sudden she roused from her apathy, and, passing her hand over her brow, with a feeble, wailing cry, she said, "for god's sake, stop, nello!" he paused, cleared his throat several times, took an english penknife from his pocket, began to pare his nails, and then went to his wife and stroked her cheek. she shrank from him involuntarily. he groaned feelingly, left her, and went to the window: with one hand he stroked his whiskers, with the other he jingled the keys in his pocket. after a while he began in an undertone, probably with the foolish expectation of distracting the wretched mother's thoughts, to detail what was going on outside, all in a melancholy, sentimental monotone, that would have set healthy nerves on edge. "ah, see that little sparrow with a straw in its beak! it must be fitting up its winter nest." poor emma sat bolt upright, except that her head inclined somewhat forward, and gazed at the man at the window. suddenly she uttered a short, shrill scream, and, pressing both hands to her temples, rushed out of the room. when she had gone strachinsky shrugged his shoulders, sighed as if gross injustice had been done him, and retired to his room to make a list of the names of all those whom he wished notified of the death. the funeral took place the third day afterwards. on that day they assembled at the dinner-table as on other days. the poor mother ate nothing, and erika could scarce swallow a morsel. the tears which had refused to come at first were falling fast upon her new black gown. strachinsky ate, but after a while he too pushed his plate away. for the first time in her life his stepdaughter was conscious of an emotion of compassion for him. she thought that his grief had made eating impossible, when he cleared his throat, and, "this is intolerable," he whined; "at best i have no appetite, and here is tomato sauce! you know i never eat tomato sauce." his wife made no reply: she only looked at him with her strange new gaze, with eyes from which the last veil had fallen, and which were pained by the light. the look in those eyes would have made one shudder. the clock in the castle tower struck one quarter of an hour after another, bringing ever nearer the time for the interment. the little body was already laid in the coffin. the coffin-lid leaned up against the wall. a fierce restlessness, the strained expectation of a certain moment which was to be the culmination of an intolerable misery, possessed erika: she hurried from place to place, and at last ran after her mother, who had gone into the garden. it was cold and stormy. the autumn had come late and suddenly. some bushes had kept all their leaves, but they were blackened and shrivelled; others had retained only a few red and yellow leaflets that fluttered in the wind. the trees, on the other hand, were almost entirely bare. the naked boughs showed dark gray or purplish brown against the cloudy sky: the birches alone could still boast some golden-coloured foliage. on the moist gravel paths and the sodden autumn grass lay wet brown leaves mingled with those but lately fallen. the asters and chrysanthemums, nipped by the first frost, hung their heads, and among all the autumnal decay the poor mother wandered about, seeking a few fresh flowers to lay in her dead child's coffin. with faltering steps, tripping now and then over the skirt of her gown, she tottered from one ruined flower-bed to another. the sharp autumn wind fluttered her dress and outlined her emaciated limbs. from her lips came a low moaning mingled with caressing words. she kissed the few poor flowers, frost-touched, which she held in her hand. erika walked close behind her. once or twice she stretched out her hand to grasp her mother's skirt, but withdrew it hastily, as if fearing to hurt her by even the gentlest touch. ten minutes afterwards the sharp strokes of a hammer resounded through the castle, and the unhappy woman was crouching in the farthest corner of her room, her hands held tightly to her ears. in the night following the funeral erika was waked from sleep by a low moan. she started up. by the vague light of early dawn, in which the windows were defined amid the darkness, she saw something dark lying upon the floor beside her bed. she cried out in terror, and then it stirred. it was her mother lying there upon the hard floor, where she must have been for some time, for when erika touched her she was icy-cold. the girl took her in her arms and drew her into the soft warm bed beside her. neither spoke one word, but their hearts beat in unison: all discord between them had vanished. she had thrown off her burden; she breathed anew; she would stand erect once more. then she discovered that a heavier burden yet, a fresh tie, bound her to the husband whom now, stripped of all illusion, she detested. the consciousness of this misfortune crept over her slowly; at first she would not believe it, and when she could no longer doubt, it seemed to her that her reason must give way. erika soon perceived that her mother's misery was not due alone to the loss of her child. no, that pain brought with it a tender and gentle mood. another burden oppressed her, something against which her entire nature angrily rebelled, and under the weight of which she displayed a gloomy severity from which her daughter alone never suffered. towards her since the boy's death emma had shown inexpressible tenderness, and the girl, thirsting for affection, was never weary of nestling close in her mother's arms, receiving her caresses with profound gratitude, almost with devout adoration. sometimes the mother would smile in the midst of her grief as she stroked the gold-gleaming hair back from her child's pale face with its large dark eyes. "they do not see it," she would murmur, "but i see how pretty you are growing. poor little erika! you have had a sad youth; but life will atone to you for it when i am no longer here." "do not say that!" cried the girl, clasping her mother in her arms. "as if i could endure life without you! mother! mother!" "you do not dream of what can be endured," her mother said, bitterly. "one submits. learn to submit; learn it as soon as may be. do not ask too much from life; ask for no complete happiness: it is an illusion. you, indeed, are justified in claiming more than your poor, ugly mother had any right to, my beautiful, gifted child!" she uttered the words almost with solemnity. something of the romantic strain which had characterized her through every stage of her prosaic, humiliating existence came to light now in her worship of her daughter. she strongly impressed erika with the idea that she was an exceptional creature, and, although she was always admonishing her to expect nothing of life, she nevertheless gave her to understand that life was sure to offer something extraordinary for her acceptance. on the whole, in spite of the girl's grief at the loss of her little brother, she would have been happier than ever before had it not been for a growing anxiety with regard to her mother, whose health had entirely given way. whereas she had been wont from early morning until late at night to make her presence felt throughout the household and on the estate, grasping with a firm and skilled hand the reins which her husband had idly dropped, now she took an interest in nothing. erika was tortured by anxiety, an anxiety all the more distressing from the fact that she could not define her fears. towards her husband emma displayed a daily increasing irritability. but his easy content was not at all disturbed by it. thanks to a fancy which was ever ready to devise means for sparing and nourishing his self-conceit, he discovered a hundred reasons other than the true one for his wife's attitude towards him. her irritability was all due, so he informed miss sophy, to her situation. and in receiving miss sophy's admiring and compassionate homage he found, and had found for some time, his favourite occupation. emma now lived apart in a large room, which, besides her bed and wash-stand, was furnished only with a couple of book-shelves, two straight-backed chairs covered with horsehair, and a round tiled stove decorated with a rude bas-relief of a train of mad bacchantes and bearing on its level top a large funeral urn. the boards of the floor were bare, and in a deep window-recess there was an arm-chair. in this chair the miserable woman would sit for hours, her elbows resting upon its arms, her hands clasped, staring into vacancy. in the garden upon which this window looked the snow lay several feet deep; upon the meadow beyond, which sloped gently to the broad frozen river, and upon its icy surface, it was so deep that meadow and river were undistinguishable from each other; upon the dark pine forest that bounded the horizon--upon everything--it lay cold and heavy. all cold!--all white! huge drifts of snow; no road definable; never a bird that chirped, never a leaf that stirred; all cold and white, without pulsation, without breath, dead,--the whole earth a lovely stark corpse. and the wretched woman's gaze could fall upon naught outside save this white monotony. spring came. the dignified repose of death dissolved in feverish activity, in the restless change of seasons, vibrating between fair and foul, between purity and its opposite. the earth absorbed the snow, except where in dark hollows it lingered in patches, to disappear slowly in muddy pools. emma still sat for hours daily in her room with hands clasped in her lap, but her eyes were no longer fixed on vacancy; they had found an object upon which to rest. among the tender green of the meadows so lately stripped of their snowy covering, glided the river, dark and swollen. how loudly it exulted in its liberation from its icy fetters! "freedom!" shouted its surging waves,--"freedom!" upon this river her gaze was now riveted. days passed,--weeks; the air was warm and sweet; the window by which she sat was open, and the voice of the river was clear and loud. one afternoon at the end of april the ploughs were creaking over the road, there was an odour of freshly-turned earth in the air, and the fruit-trees were already enveloped in a white mist. the sun had set, and in the west the crescent moon hung pale and shadowy. erika was standing at the low garden wall, looking down across the meadow. her youthful spirit was oppressed by anxiety so vague that she could neither define it nor struggle against it: she seemed to be blindly dragged along to meet the inevitable. her mother had to-day been especially tender to her, but sadder than ever before. she had talked as if her death were nigh at hand, and had spent a long time in writing letters. on a sudden the girl perceived a dark object moving rapidly along in the warm damp evening air,--a tall figure in a black gown which fluttered in the south wind. it was her mother. how quickly she strode through the high rank grass! how strange was her gait! erika had never before seen any one hasten thus, with long strides, and yet falteringly as though borne down by weariness, on--on towards the dark-flowing river. suddenly the girl divined what her mother intended to do. she would have screamed, but for an instant her voice failed her, and in the next she was silent from presence of mind, the clear-sight of terror. she clambered over the low wall and flew after her mother, her feet scarcely touching the ground, her breath coming in painful gasps. the dark figure had reached its goal, the river-bank; it leaned forward,--when two nervous, girlish hands clutched the black folds of her gown. "mother!" shrieked erika, in despair. she turned round. "what do you want?" she said, harshly, almost cruelly, to her daughter. then she shuddered violently, and burst into a convulsive sobbing which it seemed impossible to her to control. her daughter put her arm around her, nestled close to her, and kissed the tears from her cheeks. "mother," she cried, tenderly, "darling mother!" and without another word she gently led the wretched woman away from the water. the mother made no resistance; she was mortally weary, and leaned heavily upon the slender girl of fourteen. they slowly returned to the house. a white translucent mist was rising from the fields, and flying through it with drooping wings, so low that they almost stirred the grass, a flock of hoarsely-croaking ravens passed them by. in the night erika suddenly aroused from sleep, without knowing what had wakened her. she rubbed her eyes, and turned to sleep again, when just outside of her door she heard a voice exclaim, "ah, god of heaven!" in an instant, barefooted and in her nightgown, she was in the corridor, where she saw the cook hurrying in the direction of her mother's room. "what is the matter?" the girl cried, in terror. the cook looked round, shrugged her shoulders, and hurried on. erika would have followed her, but strachinsky appeared at the turning of the corridor where the cook had vanished. he looked as if just roused from sleep; he had on a flowered dressing-gown, and carried a lighted candle. beside him minna walked, pale as ashes. strachinsky set the candlestick down upon a long low table in the passage. "have the horses harnessed immediately," he ordered, "and send the bailiff to k---- for the doctor." "will not the herr baron go himself? people are not always to be relied upon," said minna, with a significant glance at the master of the house. "oh, no; the bailiff will attend to it perfectly, and then--you can understand that i do not wish to be away at this time from my wife, who will of course ask for me----" minna's eyes still being fixed upon him with a very strange expression in them, he added, snapping out his words in childish irritation, "and then--then--it is no business of yours, you stupid fool!" and, turning on his heel, he left her. minna shrugged her shoulders, and turned towards the staircase to give the necessary orders. neither she nor strachinsky had noticed erika. the girl ran to the nurse and plucked her by the sleeve. "minna," she asked, in dread, "what is the matter? is my mother ill?" "yes." "what is the matter with her? tell me, minna! oh, tell me!" but the nurse shook off her clasping hands. "let me alone, child. i am in a hurry," she murmured. erika advanced a step, hesitated, and then returned to her room, where she found miss sophy in great distress, her head crowned with curl-papers, which she cut out of the _modern free press_ every evening and which made her look half like medusa and half like a porcupine. "where are you going?" she asked, seeing that erika began to dress hurriedly. "to my mother; she is ill." miss sophy gently detained her. "do not go," she said, softly: "they would not let you in; you would only be in the way, now. wait a little. your mother does not want you there." and she wagged her porcupine head with melancholy solemnity as she added, "i believe--i think you will perhaps have a little brother, or sister." erika stared at her. this it was, then! among the many sad experiences that were to fall to erika's lot there were none to equal the dull restlessness, the mortal dread mingled with a mysterious, inexpressible emotion, of these hours. she went on dressing, striving only to be ready quickly, as one dresses when the next house is on fire. then she seated herself opposite miss sophy, at a tottering round table upon which stood a guttering candle. for a while all was silent; then there was a noise outside the door. the girl sprang up and hurried out, to see a stout, elderly woman in a tall black cap, with the phlegmatic flabby face of a monk, going towards her mother's room. erika recognized her as the needy widow of a stone-mason; she was wont to doctor both men and cattle in the village. her name was frau jelinek. the scullery-maid who had brought her was just behind her. they passed erika without heeding her, and the girl looked after them in a fresh access of dread. two hours passed. miss sophy was asleep; erika still waked and watched. a light rain had begun to fall; the drops pattered against the window-panes. once more erika arose and crept out into the corridor. trembling in every limb, she stood at the door of the room through which her mother's sleeping-apartment was reached. it was ajar, and light streamed through the crack. she looked in. strachinsky was seated at a table, playing whist with three dummies. it had for some time past been his favourite occupation. a maid stood in a corner, arranging a pile of linen. erika was about to address her, when frau jelinek, her black leathern bag on her arm, came out of her mother's bedroom. "may i not go to mamma,--just for a moment?" the girl asked, in an agitated whisper. the bedroom door opened again, and minna appeared. "is it you, child?" "yes, yes," erika made answer. "do not disturb your mother. stay in your room till you are called," minna said, authoritatively. and from the room came the poor mother's weary, gentle voice: "go lie down, my child; don't sit up any longer; go to bed, dear." for a while erika stood motionless; then she kissed the hard cold door that would not open to her, and went back to her room. she lay down on the bed, dressed as she was, and this time she fell asleep. on a sudden she sat upright. the candle on the table was still burning, and by its light she saw that miss sophy, who had been sleeping on the sofa, was sitting up, awake, and listening, with a startled air. erika hurried out; minna met her in the corridor, and at the same moment a vehicle rattled into the courtyard. "the doctor!" exclaimed minna. "thank god!" the bailiff appeared on the staircase. "where is the doctor?" "he was not at home," the man made answer. "did you not ask where he was and go after him?" minna asked, impatiently. "no," replied the bailiff, twirling his straw hat in his hands. "but i left word for him to come as soon as he got home." "fool!" strachinsky, who had now come into the corridor, exclaimed, shaking his fist at the man. "you are dismissed," he added, grandiloquently. then, turning to minna, he said, "good heavens, if i had a horse i could ride to k----." without heeding him, minna hurried down the staircase, and a few moments later a carriage again left the court-yard. minna had herself gone for the doctor, before her departure beseeching erika to keep quiet: she should be summoned as soon as it would be right for her to see her mother. the girl obeyed, and sat in her room, rigid and motionless, at the table where the candle was burning down into the socket. at first, to shorten the time, she tried to knit, but the needles dropped from her fingers. miss sophy sat opposite her, with elbows upon the table, and her head in her hands, listening. in the distance there was a sound of wheels; it came nearer and nearer. thank god! it was minna, and she brought the doctor. there was a hurried running to and fro, and then all was still, still as death. the dawn crept in at the window. the flame of the candle burned red and dim. the rain had ceased, and through the misty window-panes could be seen a glimmer of white blossoms, and behind them a pale-blue sky in which the last stars were slowly fading. then the door opened, and minna entered. "come, erika," she said, in a low voice. erika arose hastily. "have i really a little brother?" she asked, anxiously. minna shook her head. "it is dead." "and my mother?" "ah, come quickly." she drew the girl along with her through the long whitewashed corridor. in the room leading to the dying woman's chamber strachinsky was standing with the physician. the latter stood with bowed head; strachinsky was weeping. erika went directly to her mother's bedside. the dying woman's hair was brushed back from her temples; her lips were blue. erika kneeled down and buried her face in the bedclothes. her mother laid her hand upon her head and stroked it--ah, how feebly! but how soothing was the touch! in one corner old minna kneeled, praying. outside, the world was brightening; there was a golden splendour over all the earth. the birds twittered, at first faintly, then loudly and shrilly. the dying woman stirred among the pillows: erika was to hear the dear voice once more. "my child, my poor, dear child, i have been a poor mother to you----" "oh, mother, darling----" "my death will make it all right. write to----" at this moment strachinsky knocked at the door. "emma!" he whispered. the dying woman's face expressed positive horror. "do not let him come in!" she exclaimed. erika flew to the door and turned the key; when she returned to the bedside her mother was struggling for breath. evidently most anxious to impart some information to her daughter, she had not the strength to do so. once more she passed her hand over erika's head,--it was for the last time; then the hand grew heavier; it no longer lavished a caress; it was a mere weight. erika moved, and looked at her mother. the tears stood in her eyes unshed, so wondrous was her mother's face. the battle was won. all the pain of life--the sweet pain of supreme rapture hinting to us of that heaven which we cannot attain, and that other bitter pain pointing to the grave at which we shudder--was for her extinct. erika threw herself upon the body and covered it with kisses. with difficulty could she be induced to leave it; but when they led her from the room, as soon as the door closed behind her she was docile and gentle. she seemed bewildered, and walked slowly with bowed head beside minna. once only she looked back when a thin, melancholy wail resounded through the quiet morning air. it was the bell in the little tower of the castle, tolling restlessly. years afterwards she could not bring herself to recall in memory the terrible days that followed,--the dreary burden that she dragged about with her from morning until night, the sleep born of utter exhaustion, the slow pursuance of daily custom as in a dream, the awakening with nerves refreshed by forgetfulness, and then the sudden consciousness of misery, the sensation of soreness in every limb, a sensation intensified by every motion, by a word spoken in her presence, the restlessness which drove her hither and thither until in some dim corner she would crouch down and cry,--cry until the very fount of tears seemed dry and her burning eyes would close again in the leaden sleep which still had to yield to the terrible awakening. she felt the most earnest desire to do something, to perform some office of love for her mother; but scarcely for one moment was she left alone with the body. strangers prepared the loved one for the tomb, the coachman and the gardener lifted her into the coffin. shortly before it was closed, strachinsky remembered that his wife had once expressed a wish to be buried in the dress and veil she had worn at her marriage with him. but neither could be found. the cabinet where she was wont to hoard her treasures was empty, except for a lock of hair of her dead boy, and this they laid beneath her head. her husband bestowed but little thought upon the circumstance. he honestly regretted the dead, and lost his appetite for two days; but as the time for the funeral drew near, he worked himself into an exalted frame of mind, which found vent in solemn pomposity. he had ordered a hearse from the city. erika was standing at a window of the corridor when, with nodding plumes, it rattled into the castle court-yard, and her misery reached the point of despair. until then she had not quite comprehended it all. she heard the men stagger down the stairs beneath the weight of the coffin, heard it knock against the wall at a sharp turn. she followed it to the grave. all walked behind the hearse, the shabby splendour of which suited so ill with the rural landscape. most of the gentry of the surrounding country, who had long since ceased to visit at luzano, assembled to pay the last honours to the poor woman, but they were only a speck in the endless funeral train. behind the few black coats and high hats following close upon the hearse came a swarming crowd. all the peasants, day-labourers, and beggars from luzano and the surrounding estates paid the last token of respect to the martyr gone to her eternal rest: she had been good and kind to all. it was the first of may. the fields were clothed in a light green, and the apple-trees showed pink with half-open blossoms. a reddish smoke curled upward to the skies from the flames of the torches. and there was a flutter of sighs among the blossoming boughs of the trees and above the meadows,--the breath of the freshly-born spring. through the new life strode death. noiselessly the funeral train moved on. erika walked almost mechanically, looking neither to the right nor to the left, only moving forward. on a sudden something attracted her gaze. on a little elevation by the roadside, between two apple-trees, stood a young peasant woman with a child in her arms,--a child who stared at the long procession with large eyes of wonder. chapter iii. the day after the funeral strachinsky, in melancholy mood, paced to and fro in the room where his wife had died. from time to time he walked to the window and looked out,--then he would turn again towards the interior of the chamber. suddenly his eyes fell upon a sheet of blotting-paper left upon the writing-table. his wife's handwriting had been remarkably large, and the words which were of course imprinted backwards upon the sheet attracted his notice. with very little trouble he deciphered them: "my last will." he frowned. "so she has made a fresh will," he said to himself. in spite of his enormous self-conceit, he did not doubt that it could hardly be in his favour. the blood rushed to his head. where was the will? probably in her writing-table. but where were the keys? the shrewdness which, in spite of his intellectual deterioration, stood him in stead whenever he feared personal inconvenience came to his aid. he remembered that his wife had been wont to keep her keys in the drawer of a small table at her bedside, and he reflected that, in the sad confusion ensuing upon her death, it was hardly likely that they had as yet been removed. in fact he found them there, and with them he opened the middle drawer of her writing-table. it contained a large sealed envelope inscribed "my last will." strachinsky slipped the document into his pocket, and returned the keys to their place. at that moment the door opened, and erika entered. she looked wretchedly pale and wan, with dark rings around her weary eyes. she wore a black gown which her mother had made hastily for her when her little brother died, and which she had outgrown during the winter. although the day was warm and sunshiny, she looked cold, and in all her movements there was something of the timorous hesitation that a dog will display after losing his master, when he seems uncertain where to creep away and hide himself. the resolute attitude she had been wont to maintain when with her step-father was all gone; heart, mind, and soul seemed alike crushed. "what do you want here?" strachinsky asked, suspiciously. she looked at him in what was almost surprise, and a tremor of pain passed through her. "what should i want?" she murmured, in a hoarse whisper. "i want to go to my mother!" she said it to herself, not to him; she seemed to have forgotten his presence. her chin trembled, her lips twitched, the tears rushed to her eyes. no, that pitiable creature never could have come to look for a will. strachinsky, always ready to be sentimental, gave a sigh of relief, put his hand over his eyes, and left the room. scarcely had he gone when erika's sad eye fell upon the bed: it had been stripped of all its coverings and looked like some couch in a lumber-room that had been unused for years. with a shudder the girl turned away. yes, what could she want here? she asked herself the question now. but on a sudden she perceived hanging on the wall a black skirt, the hem soiled with mud. it was the gown her mother had worn when she hurried across the fields, the day before her death. erika clutched it as if it had been a living thing, and with a low wail buried her face in its folds, about which some aroma of her dead mother seemed to cling. meanwhile, strachinsky had locked himself into his room, where he walked to and fro, lost in reflection, the portentous will in his pocket, with the seal as yet unbroken. the only legal document of the kind, in his opinion, was the will made by his wife eleven years previously, shortly after their marriage, by which she constituted him her sole heir and the guardian of her daughter. any later testamentary disposition he could not possibly regard otherwise than as the result of an aberration of mind, of which she had for some time shown symptoms, and which had, shortly before her death, come to be distinctly developed. poor emma! there was no doubt that her intellect, once so clear and strong, had been clouded of late years. so soon as he had entirely convinced himself of this fact, he broke the seal of the will. even in his rascality he was a thorough sentimentalist. he never could have committed a crime without first skilfully contriving to exalt in his own eyes both himself and his motives. whilst reading the document he changed colour several times. when he had finished he sighed thrice consecutively: "poor emma!" then, after pacing the room thoughtfully, he said to himself, "she would be indeed distressed if this paper--worthless legally in view of her mental condition, and throwing so false a light upon our marriage--should ever be made public; she--to whom the tie between us was so sacred!" a flood of proofs of his wife's devotion to him, interrupted but temporarily, overwhelmed strachinsky's soul. he lit a candle and burned emma's last will. and then, without the slightest pricking of conscience, he betook himself to his beloved lounge. he had the sensation of having performed an act of exalted devotion. "no need, dearest emma," he said, apostrophizing his wife's portrait which hung above his couch, "to say that i never shall let your child want. no legal document is necessary to insure that. poor emma!" and, remembering the extract-books which he had devised at a former period of his existence, he moaned, drearily, "oh, what a noble mind was there o'erthrown!" when, a few hours afterwards, he encountered his step-daughter, he felt it incumbent upon him to be especially kind to her. he patted her shoulder, with the insinuating tenderness people are apt to show towards those whom they have wronged, and said, solemnly, "poor little rika! your loss is great. your mother is gone; but never forget that you still have a father." weeks passed,--months; everything in the house went on as best it could. strachinsky lay on the sofa from morning until night, reading novels most of the time. in the pauses of this edifying occupation he roused himself to an unedifying activity; that is to say, he scolded all the servants, without assigning any grounds for his displeasure. no one minded it much: every one knew that after such an episode he would betake himself to his sofa again and to his sentimental romances. with regard to his step-daughter's education, he showed the same tendency to vehement attacks of zeal. he would suddenly go to the school-room, inspect her written exercises, question her as to some historical date which he had quite forgotten himself, and conclude by asking her to play something upon the piano. during her performance he would pace the room with a face expressive of the gravest anxiety. at first she took pains to play for him, but when she discovered that he had determined beforehand to find fault, she rattled away upon the keys of her old instrument like a perfect imp of waywardness, whenever required to show what progress she had made. almost before her fingers had left the key-board the scolding began. "i see no improvement; no, not the slightest improvement do i perceive! and to think of all that has been done for your education! i fairly work my fingers to the bone to give you every advantage that a princess could claim, while you--you do nothing!" and then would follow a long dramatic summary of the sacrifices that had been made for her. he always talked to her like the father addressing a worthless daughter in some popular melodrama, ending upon every occasion with, "what is to become of you? tell me, what--what will become of you?" then he would bring down both fists upon the top of the piano, to emphasize the horror inspired by the thought of her future, shake his head for the last time, and leave the room with a heavy stride. afterwards he was sure to complain of the injury the agitation had caused him, and to betake himself to his sofa. the girl was left more and more to herself. about six months after her mother's death miss sophy was dismissed. she was a thoroughly capable woman, personally much attached to her pupil, trustworthy and practical as a housekeeper, but prone to fall in love with every man, and to find a rival and foe in every woman who refused to be the confidante of her morbid and distorted sentimentality. during emma's lifetime she had been able to conceal most of her eccentricities in this respect, but afterwards she became positively intolerable,--perhaps because there was no one to restrain or intimidate her. without a single personal attraction, she was inordinately vain, forever striving by her dress and conduct to invite attention from the other sex. in the forenoons she gave erika lessons, in the afternoons she mended and made her clothes,--she was a skilled needlewoman,--and the evenings she devoted to music. she sang. her répertoire was limited, consisting principally of the soprano part of mendelssohn's duet "i would that my love could silently flow in a single word," which she shrieked out as a solo, and in schumann's "i'll not complain,"--which last always caused her to shed copious tears. at last her love of self-adornment as well as her musical enthusiasm passed all bounds. she cut off her hair, dressed it in short curls, and purchased two new silk gowns. she also bought an old zither, and every evening, with her hair freshly curled, and in a rustling silk robe, she betook herself to the drawing-room, where strachinsky, in pursuance of his boasted activity, was wont to finish the day by endless games of patience. her manner, the languishing looks cast at him over her instrument, left no doubt as to her sentiments towards him. at first the master of the house took but little heed of these demonstrations. her performance upon the zither he found rather agreeable: the whining drawl of the tones she evoked from it soothed his melancholy. but one evening when he had requested her to play for him "the tyrolean and his child," and also to repeat "may breezes," she was so carried away by triumphant vanity that she attempted to sing with her instrument, accompanying her shrill notes with such languishing glances that their object could no longer ignore their meaning. the next morning strachinsky sent for his stepdaughter. clad in his dressing-gown, as he reclined upon his lounge, with all the romantic drawling indifference in his air and voice which he had learned from his favourite hero "pelham," he asked her as she stood before him,-- "the englishwoman's behaviour must have struck you as extraordinary?" she nodded. he passed his hand thoughtfully across his brow. she did not speak, and he went on playing the english nobleman to his own entire satisfaction. his left hand, in which he held a french novel, hanging negligently over the arm of the lounge, he waved his right in the air, and said, "of course i pity the poor creature, but she bores me. rid me of the fool, i pray,--rid me of her!" he then inclined his head towards the door, and buried himself in the perusal of his novel. from that time erika ceased to spend the evenings with miss sophy in the drawing-room; she withdrew after supper to the solitude of the old school-room, which in fact she greatly preferred. of course miss sophy suspected some plot of erika's in strachinsky's altered demeanour, and lost every remnant of sense still left in her silly head. she employed all her leisure moments in writing to her hero letters which she bribed the maid to lay upon the table in his dressing-room. this would all have been ridiculous, if the affair had not taken a tragic turn. one morning miss sophy did not appear at the breakfast-table, and when minna went to call her she found the wretched woman in bed, writhing in agony. in despair at strachinsky's insensibility she had poisoned herself with the tips of some old lucifer matches. the physician, summoned in haste, was barely able to save her life; and of course she left luzano as soon as she was able to travel. strachinsky was much flattered that the poor woman's love for him had ended in madness, and he invested her memory with an ideal excellence, recalling her as brilliantly gifted by nature and endowed with many personal attractions. erika was now left without instruction. her step-father decided that a young girl of her age needed no further supervision, and that the daughter of a poor farmer could lay no claim to any personal luxury. when he spoke of himself only, it was always as an 'impoverished cavalier;' when he alluded to himself as her father, he was always degraded to simply 'a poor farmer.' all through the summer she was alone, and during a long dreary winter, followed by another summer and another winter, she was still alone. another girl in her place might have fallen into gossip with the servants to pass the time; another, again, might have married the bailiff out of sheer ennui: assuredly any one else would have grown stupid and uncouth. she did nothing of the kind. she had occupation enough. she learned long pages of goethe and shakespeare by heart, and declaimed them, clad in improvised costumes, before a tall dim mirror; she played on the piano for hours daily, and made decided progress, despite certain bad habits unavoidable in the lack of instruction. the rest of her time was spent in building numberless castles in the air, and in taking long walks about the neighboring country. but when three years had gone by since her mother's death, without the least alteration in her circumstances, the poor child began to be impatient and to look eagerly about for some relief from so sordid an existence. why could she not be an artist?--an actress, a singer, or a pianist? on a cold spring morning towards the end of april she seated herself at the big table in her former school-room and indited a letter to the director of the castle theatre at vienna,--a letter in which she partially explained to him her position and requested him to make a trial of her dramatic talent, with a view to an engagement at his theatre. she declared herself ready to go to vienna if he would promise her an audience. she had finished the clearly-written document, but when about to sign her name she hesitated. erika lenzdorff she signed at last. "lenzdorff," she repeated, thoughtfully,--"lenzdorff." what possessed her to write to the director of a theatre--an utter stranger--explaining her circumstances? would it not be much better to turn to her father's relatives? to be sure, she knew nothing about them,--not even their address; but that, she thought, might be procured. her mother had never spoken of them; she had always abruptly changed the subject when erika asked about her father and his relatives. why? strachinsky and his wife had often spoken of the parents of the latter, but never of those of her first husband. "lenzdorff." she wrote the name again and again on a sheet of paper. it looked distinguished. perhaps they were wealthy people, who could do something for her; but---- emma had told her daughter that her name was lenzdorff the day after the adventure with the young painter, when the child, mortified at not having been able to tell it, had asked what it was. but when she had precociously repeated, in a questioning tone, "_von_ lenzdorff?" her mother had replied, sternly, "what is that to you? it is of no consequence whatever." erika began to ponder. her mother's parents had died long since; must not her father's parents be dead also? if they were still living, it was difficult to see why strachinsky had not cast upon them the burden of her maintenance. still, there were reasons why he should not have done so. if her father's relatives were people of integrity and refinement, any business discussion or explanation with them would have been most distressing; no wonder that he avoided it, especially since erika's maintenance cost him little or nothing. thus far she had arrived in her reflections, when minna entered and asked her to go immediately to the drawing-room, where a visitor awaited her. a visitor at luzano? such an event was unheard of. in some distress erika looked down at her shabby gown, made out of an old dressing-gown of her mother's, black, with a turkish border. there was a hole in the elbow of the left sleeve. "what sort of a gentleman is it, minna?" she asked, irritably, suspecting him to be some business acquaintance of strachinsky's. "a foreign gentleman." "old or young?" "an elderly gentleman." "well, if he is elderly, and has no lady with him," she murmured, "i can go just as i am." she knew from books, whence she derived all her worldly wisdom, that ladies were much more critical than gentlemen. "what in the world can he want of me?" she went up to the mirror, smoothed her hair, drew together with a black thread the hole in her sleeve, and hurried down to the drawing-room. the apartment to which this name was still given was on the ground-floor, as large as a riding-school, and almost as empty. besides the piano it still contained two huge bookcases, a shabby sofa behind a rickety table, and a round piano-stool. the rest of the furniture had disappeared. some chairs had been banished as unsafe; the other things had been sold piece by piece, under stress of various pecuniary embarrassments, to the jew broker of the village. strachinsky had several times attempted to dispose thus of the books also, but solomon bondy had no market for them. once the pole had tried to sell the piano. but solomon had curtly refused to find a purchaser for it, knowing that with the piano the last remnant of enjoyment would be snatched from the poor lonely girl vegetating in the castle. the jew had shown more mercy than the christian. and then her dead mother had been dear to him, as she was to all around her. she had been dear to strachinsky also, but he never allowed his affection to stand in the way of his ease. in consequence of the total lack of furniture, strachinsky, when erika entered the room, was sitting beside the stranger on the sofa,--which looked comical. the stranger, a man of middle age, tall, broad-shouldered, and erect in bearing, rose to receive her. "may i beg you to present me to the countess?" he said, turning to strachinsky. "countess!" it thrilled her. had she heard aright? "herr doctor herbegg--my daughter," with a wave of the hand. "your step-daughter," the stranger corrected him, with cool emphasis. "i have never made any difference between her and my own children, dead in their early youth," said the other; and he was right, for he had taken very little interest in his own children. "you know that, my child," he added, in a caressing tone that in his stepdaughter's ears was like an echo of his old love-making to his wife, and which offended her. he would have taken her hand, but she withdrew it hastily from his flabby warm touch. since there was no other scat to be had, she turned to the piano to get the piano-stool. doctor herbegg arose and took it from her. then strachinsky started up with incredible activity, and a positive struggle for the stool ensued, a mutual "pray, pray, herr baron--herr doctor!" erika calmly looked on at their strange behaviour. had she suddenly become of such importance that each was striving to show her courtesy? through her youthful soul the word 'countess' echoed again with thrilling fascination. strachinsky finally gained the day: he placed the piano-stool for his step-daughter, panting as he did so, so unused was he to the slightest physical exertion. erika seated herself upon the stool, although each gentleman offered her a place on the sofa, assumed a dignified air, or what she supposed to be such, and calmly surveyed the situation and the stranger. something told her that his visit was an important event for her and hinted at a turning-point in her life. she was not mistaken. doctor herbegg was her grandmother's legal adviser. he began to converse upon indifferent topics, watching her narrowly the while. her step-father, who had become utterly unaccustomed to the reception of guests, wriggled about on the sofa as if stung by a tarantula. he had always been restless in his demeanour when he was not awkwardly stiff, but formerly his good looks had compensated for his defective training. they no longer existed: the self-indulgent indolence to which he had given himself over, so soon as all social contact with the world was at an end for him, had done its part in effecting their decay. "a bottle of wine! bring a bottle of wine!" he ordered the young girl, forgetting the suavity of speech he had just before adopted, and falling into his usual tone. "pray do not trouble the countess on my account," doctor herbegg interposed. "i can take nothing. my time is limited, since i must catch the next train for berlin." "surely, herr doctor, you will take a glass of tokay," strachinsky persisted, and, perceiving that his manner of addressing his step-daughter had offended the lawyer, he was amiable enough to add, "do not trouble yourself, my dear rika; i will attend to it." he arose, and as he was leaving the room he went on, "the herr doctor will inform you, meanwhile, as to the change in your prospects." the lawyer made no attempt to detain him. he cared very little about the glass of tokay, but very much about an interview with the young girl. when strachinsky had left the room he approached erika, and in a short time had explained matters to her. the title of countess, which her mother had concealed from her, apparently because in the circumstances in which she was forced to educate her child it would have been more of a hinderance than a help, was hers of right. her mother's first marriage had been with the only son by a second marriage of count lenzdorff: he had held office under the minister of foreign affairs, and two years after his marriage had been killed in a railroad accident. by her second marriage frau von strachinsky had alienated her mother-in-law. meanwhile, the two sons of count lenzdorff's first marriage had died, childless, and finally the count himself had died, at a very advanced age,--so old that he had persuaded himself that he had outlived death, and had therefore never taken the trouble to make a will; consequently his entire estate devolved upon his grand-daughter. the lawyer had just imparted this intelligence to the grand-daughter in question, when strachinsky re-entered the room, very much out of breath and excited, and followed by minna, tall, gaunt, with the bearing of a grenadier and the gloomy air of an energetic old maid whom it behooves to be upon the defensive with the entire male sex. she carried a waiter, which she placed upon the table before the sofa. "one little glass, herr doctor,--one little glass!" cried strachinsky. the doctor bowed his thanks, and touched the glass distrustfully with his lips. "the tokay is excellent," he remarked, in evident surprise at finding anything of strachinsky's genuine. "yes, yes," his host declared; "you can't get such a glass of wine as that everywhere, herr doctor. i purchased it in hungary by favour of an intimate friend, prince liskat,--_les restes des grandeurs passées_, my dear doctor." after a first glass strachinsky became tenderly condescending: he patted the lawyer on the shoulder. "pray don't hurry, my dear herbegg; you'll not easily find another glass of such tokay." erika observed that doctor herbegg bit his lip and did not touch his second glass. he looked at his watch and said, "unfortunately, countess, i have but little time left, but i should like to inform myself upon several points, in accordance with your grandmother's wish. where and with whom have you been educated?" "at home, and with my mother." "exclusively with your mother?" "yes; she even gave me lessons in french and upon the piano." she was burning to rehabilitate her mother in his eyes. "my wife was an admirable performer, an artist, a pupil of liszt's," strachinsky interposed.--"play something to the doctor; be quick!" he ordered, grandiloquently, dropping again his _rôle_ of tender parent. his imperious tone provoked erika unutterably: she would have liked to rush from the room and fling to the door behind her, but she conquered herself for her mother's sake and--out of vanity. she opened the piano, and played the last portion of beethoven's moonlight sonata,--the last thing that she had studied with her mother. her execution was still rude and unequal, like that of an ardent youthful creature whose musical aspirations have never been toned down by culture, but an unusual amount of talent was evident in her performance. "magnificent, countess!" exclaimed the lawyer, rising and going towards her as she left the piano. "very well; but you missed that last chord once," strachinsky said, pompously. doctor herbegg paid him not the least attention. "now i am forced to go," he said to the young girl; "and you must not smile, countess, if i tell you that i leave you with a much lighter heart than the one i brought with me. your grandmother sent me here to reconnoitre, as it were: i find a gifted young lady, where i had feared to encounter an untrained village girl." then suddenly erika's overstrained nerves gave way. "my grandmother had no right to allow of such a fear on your part; no one who had ever known my mother could have supposed anything of the kind." he looked her full in the face more steadily, more searchingly than before, and his cold, clear eyes suddenly shone with a genial light. "forgive me," he said, kissing the hand she held out to him; then, turning, he would have left the room with a brief bow to strachinsky. his host, however, made haste to disburden himself of a fine speech. "you will have something to tell in berlin, will you not? you have at least seen how a bohemian gentleman lives. no lounging-chairs in the drawing-room, but tokay in the cellar. original, at all events, eh?" "extremely original," the lawyer assented. on the threshold he paused. "one question more, herr baron," he began, bending upon his condescending host a look of keenest scrutiny. "did the late frau von strachinsky leave no written document by which she provided for her daughter's future?" strachinsky listened to this question with a scarcely perceptible degree of embarrassment. "not that i know of," he said, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. erika suddenly remembered that her mother had been busily engaged in writing a few days before her death. meanwhile, her step-father, having gained entire control of his features, continued, "moreover, in this case any testamentary document would have been entirely superfluous. my wife knew well that should she die i should care for her daughter as for my own." "h'm!" the doctor ejaculated. "and did frau von strachinsky never speak to you of her berlin relatives, countess?" "no," erika replied, thoughtfully. "she was very restless for some weeks before her death, and often told me that as soon as we were quite sure of being uninterrupted she had an important communication to make to me. but she never did so: death closed her lips." the doctor reflected for a moment, and then said, "i am rather surprised, herr von strachinsky, that you did not advise old countess lenzdorff of your wife's death." strachinsky assumed an injured air. "permit me to ask you, herr doctor," he said, with lofty emphasis, "why i should have informed countess lenzdorff of my adored wife's death? countess lenzdorff was my bitterest enemy. she opposed my wife's union with me not only openly, but with all sorts of underhand schemes, and when she could not succeed in severing the tie that united our hearts, she dismissed my wife and her daughter without one friendly word of farewell. since she entirely ignored my wife while she lived, how was i to suppose that she would take any interest in the death of my idolized emma?" "but the announcement of her death would have seriously influenced your step-daughter's destiny," doctor herbegg observed. "my wife considered me the guardian of her child," strachinsky declared, with pathos. "another man might have refused to accept a burden entailing upon him sacrifice of every kind. but i am not like other men. my wife evidently supposed that her child would be best cared for under my protection; and i was not the man to betray her confidence. you look surprised, doctor. yes, no doubt you think it strange for a man nowadays to vindicate his chivalry and disinterestedness, to his own ruin. but such a man am i,--a marquis posa, a don quixote, an egmont----" "pardon me, herr baron, i shall be late for the train," said the doctor, and, with a bow to erika, he left the room. strachinsky ran after him with astonishing celerity, expatiating upon his chivalrous disinterestedness. shortly afterwards a carriage was heard driving out of the courtyard; and strachinsky returned to the bare drawing-room, which his step-daughter had not yet left. his face beamed with satisfaction; rubbing his hands, he cried out, "now we shall lack for nothing!" then, turning to erika, he continued, "i shall see to it that your german relatives do not squander your property. this lawyer-fellow seems to me a schemer, a sly dog. but i shall do my best to watch over your interests. in fact, it is my duty as your guardian to administer your affairs. moreover, in three years you will be of age, and then we can avail ourselves of your money to free luzano from its weight of debt." this delightful scheme made him extremely cheerful. after pacing the apartment for a while, lost in contemplation of its feasibility, he went to the table, and, taking up the doctor's untouched second glass of tokay, he poured its contents back into the bottle. this he called economy. then with the bottle in his hand, apparently with a view of re-sealing it, he went towards the door, saying, "the affair has greatly agitated me. i am so very sensitive. but when one has had to wait upon fortune so long---!" he had settled it with himself that he was the person principally interested; his step-daughter was quite a secondary consideration, at most the means to an end. but circumstances shaped themselves after what was to him a most unexpected and undesirable fashion. erika received a brief and rather formal letter from countess lenzdorff, in which the old lady requested her to repair as soon as possible to berlin, but upon no account to allow strachinsky to accompany her; in short, the old countess refused to have any personal intercourse with him whatever. by the same post came a letter from doctor herbegg to strachinsky, formally advising him to resign his guardianship voluntarily. should he comply, the countess would refrain from closer examination of his administration of the property of her daughter-in-law and of her grandchild. but if, on the other hand, he made the slightest attempt to interfere in the management of his step-daughter's german estate, she would, as the guardian appointed by the late count, resort to legal means for relieving herself of such interference. had strachinsky's conscience been perfectly clear he would probably have set himself in opposition, but as it was he contented himself with gnashing his teeth and raging for two days, indulging freely in vituperation of old countess lenzdorff. then he made a final tender attempt to work upon erika's feelings and to induce her to espouse his cause with her grandmother. when this failed, he wrapped himself in his martyr's cloak and submitted with much grumbling. dulled as his nature was, he bore his disappointment with comparative ease. at first he assumed an air of magnanimous renunciation towards his step-daughter, but after a while he overwhelmed her with good advice, and groaned for her whenever she lifted any weight or stooped in her packing. erika herself, meanwhile, was in a state of tremendous excitement. on the morning of her departure, when her trunks were all packed she took a walk. she first visited her mother's grave for the last time, and then went into the garden, pausing in all her favourite haunts, and avoiding with a shudder even a glance towards the spot by the low garden wall whence she had seen her mother hurrying across the fields towards the river. still, in whatever direction she turned she felt the presence of the stream: she heard its voice loud and wailing as it rushed along swollen by the winter's snows. a soft breeze swept above the earth, mingling its sighs with the graver note of the water. everything trembled and quivered; every tree, every sprouting plant, throbbed; all nature thrilled with delicious pain,--the fever of the spring. and on a sudden she felt herself carried away by a like thrill of excitement; a nameless yearning, ignorant of aim, possessed her, transporting her to the skies, and yet binding her to the earth in the fetters of a languor such as she had never before experienced. once more there arose in her memory the figure of the young artist who had drawn her picture there beside the brook as it rippled dreamily on its way to the river. she saw him distinctly before her: her heart began to throb wildly. she hurried on to the spot where he had sketched her. the swollen brook murmured far more loudly over the pebbles than it had done on that hot day in midsummer; the reddish boughs of the willows began to show silver-gray buds, and on the bank there gleamed something blue,--the first forget-me-nots. she stooped to pluck them. at that moment she heard minna's voice calling, "rika! where are you?" she started, and, tripping upon the wet slippery soil, all but fell into the brook. with difficulty she regained her footing, and without her flowers; they grew too far below her. she looked at them longingly and went her way. when she reached the house she found the carriage already in the court-yard,--a huge, green, glass coach, that clattered and jingled at the slightest movement. it was lined with dark-brown striped awning-stuff,--the shabbiest vehicle that ever ran upon four wheels. beside the carriage stood a clumsy cart, in which the luggage was to be piled. herr von strachinsky was ordering about the servants carrying the trunks. everything in the house was topsy-turvy. breakfast had been hurriedly prepared, and was waiting--a most uninviting repast--upon the dining-room table. erika could not eat. she ran to her room and put on her bonnet. "hurry, hurry!" minna called up from below. she ran down and crossed the threshold. the air was warm and damp, and a fine rain was falling. strachinsky helped her into the carriage with pompous formality. "i shall not accompany you to the station," he said. "i do not like driving in a close carriage. adieu!" he had nothing more affectionate to say to her, as he shook her hand. the carriage door clattered to; the horses started. thus erika rattled out of the court-yard, with minna beside her. the servant looked tired out; her face was very red, and she had a hand-bag in her lap, and a bandbox and two bundles of shawls on the seat opposite her. the carriage was very stuffy, and smelled of old leather. erika opened one of the windows. they were driving along the same road by which she had followed her mother's coffin; there beyond the meadow she could see the wall of the church-yard. she leaned far out of the window. the driver whipped up his horses; the church-yard vanished. the young girl suddenly felt as if the very heart were being torn from her breast, and she burst into tears, sobbing convulsively, uncontrollably. chapter iv. on the evening of the same day an old lady was walking to and fro in a large, tastefully-furnished apartment looking out upon a little front garden in bellevue street, berlin. both furniture and hangings in the room, in contrast with the prevailing fashion, were light and cheerful. the old lady's forehead wore a slight frown, and her air was somewhat impatient, as of one awaiting a verdict. at the first glance it was plain that she was very old, very tall, broad-shouldered, and straight as a fir. in her bearing there was the personal dignity of one whose pride has never had to bow, who has never paid society the tribute of the slightest hypocrisy, who has never had to lower a glance before mankind or before a memory; but it was at the same time characterized by the unconscious selfishness, disguised as love of independence, of one who has never allowed aught to interfere with personal ease. upon the broad shoulders, so well fitted to support with dignity and power the convictions of a lifetime, was set a head of remarkable beauty,--the head, noble in every line, of an old woman who has never made the slightest attempt to appear one day younger than her age. oddly enough, there looked forth from the face--the face of an antique statue--a pair of large, modern eyes, philosophic eyes, whose glance could penetrate to the secret core of a human soul,--eyes which nothing escaped, in the sight of which there were few things sacred, and nothing inexcusable, because they perceived human nature as it is, without requiring from it the impossible. such was erika's grandmother, countess anna lenzdorff. after she had paced the room to and fro for a long time, she seated herself, with a short impatient sigh, in an arm-chair that stood invitingly beside a table covered with books and provided with a student-lamp. she took up a volume of maupassant, but a degree of mental restlessness to which she was entirely unaccustomed tormented her, and she laid the book aside. her bright eyes wandered from one object to another in the room, and were finally arrested by a large picture hanging on the opposite wall. it represented an opening in a leafy forest, dewy fresh, and saturated with depth of sunshine. in the midst of the golden glow was a strange group,--two nymphs sporting with a shaggy brown faun. the picture was by böcklin, and the forest, the faun, and the white limbs of the nymphs were painted with incomparable skill: nevertheless the picture could not be pronounced free from the reproach of a certain meretriciousness. it had never occurred to countess lenzdorff to ponder upon the picture; she had bought it because she thought it beautiful, and certainly an old woman has a right to hang anything that she chooses upon her walls, so long as it is a work of art. to-night she suddenly began to attach all sorts of considerations to the picture. meanwhile, an old footman, with a duly-shaven upper lip, and very bushy whiskers, entered and announced, "herr von sydow." "i am very glad," the old lady rejoined, evidently quite rejoiced, whereupon there entered a very tall, almost gigantic officer of dragoons, with short fair hair and a grave handsome face. "you come just at the right time, goswyn," she said, cordially, extending her delicate old hand. he touched it with his lips, and then, in obedience to her gesture, took a seat near her, within the circle of light of the lamp. "how can i serve you, countess?" he asked. "you are acquainted with my small gallery," she began, looking around the large airy room with some pride. "i have frequently enjoyed your works of art," the young officer replied. the phrase was rather formal; in fact, he himself was rather formal, but there was something so genial behind his stiff north-german formality that one easily forgave him his purely superficial priggishness,--nay, upon further acquaintance came to like it. "rather antiquated in expression, your reply," the old lady rejoined. "my small collection thanks you for your kindly appreciation; but that is not the question at present. you know my böcklin?" "yes, countess." "what do you think of it?" he fixed his eyes upon it. "what could i think of it? it is a masterpiece." "h'm! that all the world admits," the old lady murmured, impatiently, as if vexed at the want of originality in his remark; "but is it a picture that one would leave hanging on the wall of one's boudoir when one was about to receive into one's house as an inmate a grand-daughter of sixteen? give me your opinion as to that, goswyn." again goswyn von sydow fixed his eyes upon the picture. "that would depend very much upon the kind of grand-daughter," he said, frowning slightly. "if she were a young girl brought up in the world and accustomed from childhood to works of art, i should say yes. if she were a young girl educated in a convent or bred in the country, i should say no." the old lady sighed. "i knew it!" she said. "my böcklin is doomed. ah!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands in mock despair. "pray, goswyn,"--she treated the young officer with the affectionate familiarity an old lady would use towards a young fellow whom she has known intimately from early childhood,--"press that button beside you." the dragoon, evidently perfectly at home in the house, stretched out a very long arm and pressed the button. the footman immediately appeared. "lüdecke, call friedrich to help you take down that picture." "friedrich has gone to the station, your excellency," lüdecke permitted himself to remark. "yes, of course everything is topsy-turvy; nothing is as it has been used to be. 'coming events cast their shadows before.' it will always be so now," sighed the countess. "i will help you take down the picture, lüdecke," herr von sydow said, quietly, and before the countess could look around there was nothing save a broad expanse of light cretonne and two hooks upon the wall where the böcklin had hung. lüdecke's strength sufficed to carry the picture from the room. "bring in tea," the countess called after him. "you will take a cup of tea with me, goswyn?" "are you not going to wait for the young countess?" sydow asked, rather timidly. "oh, she will not be here before midnight. i don't know why friedrich has gone at this hour to the station; probably he is in love with the young person at the railway restaurant; else i cannot understand his hurry. however, i thank you for your admonition." "but, my dear countess----" exclaimed the young man. "no need to excuse yourself," she cut short what he was about to say. "i am not displeased: you have never displeased me, except by not having arranged matters so as to come into the world as my son. moreover, i should seriously regret the loss of your good opinion. pray forgive me for not driving myself to the railway station to meet my grand-daughter and to edify the officials with a touching and effective scene. consider, this is my last comfortable evening." "your last comfortable evening," goswyn von sydow repeated, thoughtfully. "now you disapprove of me again," the old countess complained, ironically. "disapprove!" he repeated, with an ineffective attempt to laugh at the word. "really, countess, if i did not know how kind-hearted you are, i should be sorry for your grand-daughter." ho cleared his throat several times as he spoke; he always became a little hoarse when speaking directly from his heart. "kind-hearted,--kind-hearted," the old lady murmured, provoked; "pray don't put me off with compliments. what sort of word is 'kind-hearted'? one has weak nerves just as one has an aching tooth, and one does all that one can to spare them; all the little woes one perceives one relieves, if possible,--of course it is very disagreeable not to relieve them,--but the intense misery with which the world is filled one simply forgets, and is none the worse for so doing. you know it is not my fashion to deceive myself as to the beauty of my own character. you are sorry for my grand-daughter." he would have assured her that he spoke conditionally, but she would not allow him to do so. "yes, you are sorry for my grand-daughter," she said, decidedly, "but are you not at all sorry for me?" "upon that point you must allow me to express myself when i have made acquaintance with the young countess." "that has very little to do with it," rejoined the old lady. "let us take it for granted that she is charming. doctor herbegg says she is a jewel of the purest water, lacking nothing but a little polish; between ourselves, i do not altogether believe him. he exaggerated my grand-daughter's attractions a little to make it easy for me to receive her. he is a good man, but, like two-thirds of the men who are worth anything,"--with a significant side-glance at sydow,--"a little of a prig. but let us take for granted that my grand-daughter is the ph[oe]nix he describes, it is none the less true that on her account i must, in my old age, alter my comfortable mode of life, and subject myself to the thousand petty annoyances which the presence of a young girl in my house is sure to bring with it. do you know how i felt when my indispensable old donkey"--the countess lenzdorff was wont frequently to designate thus her old footman lüdecke--"carried out my böcklin?" she fixed her eyes sadly upon the bare place on the wall. "i felt as if he were dragging out with it all the comforts of my daily life! ah, here is the tea." "it has been here for some time," sydow said, smiling. "i was just about to call your attention to the kettle, which is boiling over." she made the tea with extreme precision. it was delightful to see the beautiful old lady presiding over the old-fashioned silver tray with its contents. she wore on this evening a white tulle cap tied beneath the chin, and over it an exquisite little black lace scarf. a refined epicurean nature revealed itself in her every movement,--in the delicate grace with which she handled the transparent teacups and measured the tea from its dainty caddy,--in the gusto with which she inhaled the aroma of this very choice brand of tea. "there!" she said, handing the young officer a cup, "you may not agree with my views of life, but you must praise my tea, which is in fact much too good for you, who follow the vile german custom of spoiling it with sugar." she herself had put in the sugar for him, taking care to give him just as much as he liked; she handed him a plate, and offered him the delicate wafers which she knew he preferred. she was excessively kind to him, and he valued her; he was cordially attached to her; she had been his mother's oldest friend; she had spoiled him from boyhood, and had, as she said, "thought the world of him." this could not but please any man. he appreciated so highly her kindness and thoughtfulness that until to-night the selfishness of which she boasted, and by which she had laid down the rules of her life, had seemed to him little more than amusing eccentricity. but to-night her attitude towards her grandchild grieved him. not that he regarded this grandchild from a romantic point of view. he was no unpractical dreamer, nor even what is usually called an idealist, which means in german nothing except a muddled brain that deems it quite improper to hold clear views upon any subject or to look any reality boldly in the face. on the contrary, he had a very calm and sensible way of regarding matters. consequently he thought it probable that the poor, neglected young girl, left for three years to the care of a boorish step-father, awkward and tactless as she must be under the circumstances, would be anything but a suitable addition to the household of the countess lenzdorff; but, good heavens! the girl was the old lady's flesh and blood, a poor thing who had lost her mother three years previously and had had no one to speak a kind word to her since. if the poor creature were ill-bred and neglected, whose fault was it, in fact? it passed his power of comprehension that the old lady should feel nothing save the inconvenience and annoyance of the situation, that she should be stirred by no emotion of pity. perhaps she guessed his thoughts,--she was skilled in divining the thoughts of others,--but she cared nothing about shocking people; on the contrary, she rather liked to do so. when he picked up one of the books on her table she said, "none of your namby-pamby literature, goswyn, but a bright, witty book. tell me, do you think that in my grand-daughter's honour i ought to lock up all my entertaining books and subscribe to the 'children's friend'?" "let us take for granted that your grand-daughter has not contracted the habit of dipping into every book she sees lying about," goswyn observed. "let us hope so," she said, with a laugh; "but who knows? for three years she has been without any one to look after her, and probably she has already devoured her precious step-father's entire library." "oh, countess!" "what would you have? such cases do occur. look at your sister-in-law dorothea: she told me, with an air of great satisfaction, that before her marriage she had read all belot." "she avowed the same thing to me just after she came home from her wedding journey, and she seemed to think it very clever," replied goswyn, slowly. "h'm! the wicked fairy always asserts that you were in love with your sister-in-law," the old lady said, archly menacing him with her forefinger. "indeed? i should like to know upon what my aunt brock founds her assertion," the young man rejoined, coldly. "why, upon the intense dislike you always parade for your pretty sister-in-law," the countess said, with a laugh. "i do not parade it at all." "but you feel it." goswyn von sydow had risen from his chair. "it is very late," he said, picking up his cap. "i have not driven you away with my poor jests?" the old lady inquired, as she also rose. "no," he replied,--"at least not for long: if you will permit me, my dear countess, i will call upon you in the autumn." "and until then----?" "i shall not have that pleasure, unfortunately; i leave with the general to-morrow for kiel, and came to-night only to bid you good-bye. when i return i shall hardly find you still in berlin." "indeed? i am sorry," she replied, "first because i really like to see you from time to time, although you entertain antiquated views of life and always disapprove of me, and secondly because i had hoped you would help me a little in my grand-daughter's education. of course if she has already perused all belot----" "it would suit you precisely, countess," he said, rallying her, "for then you could--h'm--hang up your böcklin in its old place." "what an idea!" cried the countess. "but you are quite mistaken: i should be furious if my grand-daughter should be found to have read all belot's works." "indeed?" "of course; because then there would be absolutely no hope of your taking the child off my hands." he frowned. "do you understand me?" the old lady asked, gaily. "partly." "unfortunately, you seem to have very little desire for matrimony." "i confess that for the present it is but faint." "let us hope that this mysterious erika will be charming enough to----" suddenly she turned her head: a carriage was rolling along bellevue street, already deserted at this hour because of the lateness of the season. it stopped before the house. the old lady started, grew visibly paler, and compressed her lips. the hall door opened; the servants ran down the staircase. "good night, countess!" goswyn touched the delicate old hand with his lips and hurried away. on the staircase he encountered a tall slender girl in the most unbecoming mourning attire that he had ever seen a human being wear, and with gloves so much too short that they revealed a pair of slightly-reddened wrists. he touched his cap, and bowed profoundly. he carried into the street with him an impression in his heart of something pale, slender, immature, pathetic, concealing the germ of great beauty. he could not forget the distress in the eyes that had looked out from the pale oval face. he recalled the coldly-sneering old woman in the room he had left, with her disdain of all emotion. he knew how she would be repelled by the red wrists and the disfiguring gown. "poor thing!" he said to himself. in thoughtful mood he walked along a path in the thiergarten. all around reigned silence. the sweet vigour of the spring-time was wafted from the soil, from the trees, from every tender soft unfolding leaf. in the gentle light of countless sparkling stars the feathery young foliage gleamed with a ghostly pallor; here and there a lantern shone, a spot of yellow light in the dimness, colouring the grass and leaves about it arsenic-green. no people were here who had anything to do; only here and there a pair of lovers were strolling in the warm shade of the spring night. the insistent rhythm of some popular dance interrupted the yearning music of spring which was sighing through the half-open leaves and blossoms. the noise annoyed him, reminding him unpleasantly of the cynicism with which unsuccessful men are wont to vaunt the bitterness of their existence. he had walked far out of his way, into the midst of the thiergarten. more lovers; another pair,--and still another. except for them the place was deserted, silent: above were the glimmering stars, and on the earth below them the tall trees full of life, striving upward to the light; everywhere breathed the fragrance of fresh young growth, mingled with the aroma of last year's decaying leaves; the thrill of life around, with the echo in the distance of the vulgar dance-music. he could not have told how or why it was, but sydow was more than ever conscious to-night of the discord sounding through creation, vainly seeking, as it has done for centuries, for its solution. and in the midst of his discontent there arose within him the memory of the haunting distress in the young girl's large eyes, and he was filled with warm, eager compassion for the poor, forlorn creature for whom there was no one to care. he would have liked to take the child in his arms and soothe her distress as one would have petted a bird fallen from the nest, or a truant, beaten dog. chapter v. the countess lenzdorff had gone to meet her granddaughter as far as the vestibule, which was hung with japanese crape and lighted by red venetian lanterns in wrought-iron frames. she had been convinced from the first that the brilliant description which doctor herbegg had given of her grand-daughter was not to be trusted, and she had consequently moderated her expectations, but yet she was startled at what she encountered in the vestibule, the door of which the ever-ready lüdecke had left open. at first she thought that the tall spare girl in that gown was her grand-daughter's attendant; but since behind the awkward creature whose clothes were all awry stalked a broad-shouldered female grenadier with a woollen kerchief on her head and a pasteboard bandbox in her hand, she doubted no longer which was her grand-daughter: it was not necessary for doctor herbegg to present the girl to her with, "here is the young countess, your excellency." she advanced a step and touched the girl's forehead with her lips. "welcome to berlin, dear child," she said, coldly. this, then, was her grand-daughter,--this angular creature with red wrists and a servant who wore a woollen kerchief on her head and carried in her hand an archaic pasteboard bandbox. the countess shuddered. "will you have a cup of tea, my dear doctor?" she said, turning to her lawyer with the hope of putting a little life into the situation. then, seeing him look at her with something of the dismay in his expression which goswyn von sydow's features had shown when she had complained that this was to be her last comfortable evening, she added, hastily, "you will not? well, you are right; it is late; another time, my dear herbegg, you will do me the pleasure; and i--i could hardly remain with you; i am too--too desirous of making acquaintance with my grand-daughter." the last words came with something of a stumble, as if the countess had been obliged to give them a push before they would leave her lips. the doctor took a ceremonious leave. minna, with her bandbox, which she refused to allow any one to take from her, was conducted by a footman to the servants' hall, the countess lenzdorff having informed her that her own maid would attend for this evening to her young mistress's wants. erika followed her grandmother through several brilliantly-lighted apartments, the arrangement of which produced upon her the impression of a fairy-tale, to an airy little room adjoining the old countess's sleeping-apartment. "this is your room," said countess lenzdorff. "i had your bed put for the present in my dressing-room; it is the best arrangement, and--and i--i think i would rather have you close at hand. of course it is all provisionary: i do not even know yet what is to be done with you, whether--whether you will stay with me, or go for a while to some school. at any rate, for the present you must try to feel comfortable with me." comfortable! it was asking much of the girl that she should feel comfortable under the circumstances! she wanted to say something: it annoyed her to have to play the part of a dunce,--her poor, youthful pride rebelled against it,--but she said not a word; she had to summon up all her resolution to keep back the tears that would well up to her eyes. with the slow stony gaze of one who is determined not to cry, she looked about her upon her new surroundings. how airy and fragrant, how bright and fresh and inviting, it all was! but in the midst of this paradise she stood, trembling with fatigue, sore in soul and body, timid and sad, with but one wish,--that she might creep away somewhere into the dark. â?¢ her grandmother perceived something of the girl's suffering, but still could not overcome her own distaste. "will you dress first, or have some supper immediately?" she asked, with an evident effort to be kind. as she spoke, her bright eyes scanned the girl from head to foot. poor erika! she understood only too clearly that her grandmother was disappointed in her, that personally she was in no respect what the old lady had hoped for. "i should like to brush off some of this dust," she stammered, meekly. her voice was remarkably soft and sweet, and her accent brought a reminiscence of the austrian intonation, so much admired in berlin. for the first time the countess's heart was moved in favour of the young creature; some chord within her vibrated agreeably. "well, my child, do just as you like," she said, rather more warmly, as she made an attempt to unfasten the top button of the ugly black garment that so disfigured her grand-daughter. with a shy gesture erika raised her hands and held her poor gown together over her breast. there was something in the gesture that touched the old lady. "you may go," she said to the maid, who had meanwhile been unpacking erika's travelling-bag. "i will ring for you when we want you." then, turning to erika, she added, "i will help you myself to undress." erika's sensations can hardly be described. apart from the fact that in consequence of her intense shyness, the shyness of a very strong, pure nature bred in solitude, it was terrible to her even to take off her gown in the presence of a stranger, it suddenly seemed very hard to her (she had not thought of it at first) to expose to her grandmother's penetrating gaze the poverty of her wardrobe. she trembled from head to foot as her grandmother drew down her gown from her shoulders. but, strange to say, it almost seemed as if with the ugly dress some sort of barrier of separation between herself and her grandmother were removed. the old lady's bright eyes were dimmed by a certain emotion as she noticed the coarse, ill-made, but daintily white linen shift that left bare a small portion of the young, half-developed shoulders. "poor thing!" she murmured, the words coming for the first time warm from her heart. then, stroking the girl's long, slender, nobly-modelled arm, she said, "how fair you are! i only begin now to see what you look like." she lifted the heavy knot of shining hair from the back of erika's neck, and, in an access of that absence of mind for which she was noted in the berlin world of society, exclaimed, "_mais elle est magnifique!_--in three years she will be a beauty!--turn your head a little to the left." her grand-daughter's stare of dismay recalled her. "what would goswyn say if he heard me?" she thought, and smiled. erika had only bathed her face and hands, and slipped on a long white dressing-gown of her grandmother's, when the maid brought in a waiter with her supper. in spite of her continued sense of discomfort, youth demanded its rights. she was decidedly hungry, and it was long since she had seen anything so inviting as this dainty repast. she sat down and began to eat. the old countess observed her narrowly, but saw nothing to displease her. her grandchild's manner of eating and drinking, of holding her fork, her glass of water,--all was just as it should be. the whole thing seemed odd to the countess lenzdorff: she delighted in everything odd. not to disturb the girl at her repast, she looked away from her, glancing at the contents of the shabby old travelling-bag which the maid had unpacked. how poverty-stricken it all looked, in almost ridiculous--no, in positively pathetic--contrast with the young creature who in spite of her awkwardness had a regal air. "_mais elle est superbe!_ where were my eyes?" the countess thought, as she casually picked up a book from among erika's belongings. it was a volume of plutarch. "'tis comical enough," she thought, "if i am to have a little blue-stocking in the house." as she turned over the leaves rather absently, she noticed that passages here and there were encircled by thick pencil-marks: sometimes an entire page would be thus marked, sometimes only a few lines. "what does that mean?" she asked. "my mother always used to mark so in my books the parts that i must not read," erika said, simply. the countess's eyes flashed. how sure a way to lead a child to taste the forbidden fruit!--or was it possible that girls growing up in the country under the exclusive influence of a mother might be differently constituted from girls in cities and boarding-schools? "and you really did not read those portions?" she asked, half smiling. the girl's face grew dark. "how could i?" she exclaimed, almost angrily. "brava!" cried her grandmother, patting her grandchild's shoulder. "you are an honourable little lady,--a very great rarity. we shall get along very well together." but, far from the girl's expressing any pleasure at this frank recognition of her excellence, her face did not relax one whit. erika had gone to bed. countess lenzdorff was still up and pacing her chamber to and fro. she thoroughly understood the full significance of her granddaughter's being with her; she was neither heartless nor complaining, but, where emotion was concerned, a sensitive old woman who studiously avoided everything that could agitate her nerves. but at present she could not control her emotion; feeling awoke within her as from a long sleep. at first she was conscious only of a vague discomfort,--a strange sensation which she ascribed to nervousness that must be controlled; but, far from being controlled, it increased, growing stronger until it became a positive hunger of the heart. the self-dissatisfaction which had begun to torment her when she learned that erika after her mother's death had been entirely uncared for, left alone with her step-father, now increased tenfold. it was the fault of the pole, who had not notified her of his wife's death. but this excuse did not content her. how could she blame him? what had he done save follow her example in caring only for his own personal ease? the unkindness with which she had treated her daughter-in-law now troubled her more than her loveless neglect of her grandchild. had she any right to despise and cast her off because of her weakness? good heavens! she was a rare creature in spite of everything; she had shown herself so in her child's education. what an influence she must have exercised over the girl to preserve her from deterioration through those terrible three years. poor emma! the old countess's heart grew heavy as she recalled her. her injustice to the poor woman dated from years back. she could not deny it. she had never been fond of her daughter-in-law: each differed too fundamentally from the other. on the one hand was anna lenzdorff, with her keenly observant mind, self-interested even in her strict morality which in her arrogance she regarded as the necessity of her nature for moral purity and independence, something for which she claimed no merit, since she practised it solely for her private satisfaction; good-natured, but without enthusiasm, endlessly but lovelessly indulgent to humanity, and rather of opinion that life is nothing but a farce with a tragic conclusion, something out of which the most advantage may be gained by observing it from a safe, comfortable corner, without ever making an attempt to mingle in its activities, firmly convinced that the best conduct of life consists in acknowledging its glaring contradictions, its lack of harmony, in making use of palliatives where they are of use, and in postponing for as long as possible the facing of the huge deficit sure to appear at the close of every human existence. and on the other hand was emma,--emma, who had a positive horror of the philosophy of life, which her mother-in-law with easy indifference denominated "my laughing despair,"--emma, who believed in everything, in god and in humanity,--yes, even, as her mother-in-law maintained, in the cure of leprosy and the disinterestedness of english politics,--emma, for whom an existence in which she could take no active part was devoid of interest, and who looked upon a loveless life as worse than death,--emma, whose unselfishness bordered upon fanaticism, blinding her conscience for a moment now and then, when she would have given to one person what she had no right to take from others,--emma, utterly unable to appreciate proportion and moderation, and who, scorning all the palliatives and make shifts with which one eases existence, demanded from life absolute happiness, and consequently, dazzled by an illusion, plunged blindly into an abyss. ah, if it had been only an abyss! but no, it was a slough, and anna lenzdorff could not traverse it. it certainly was strange that she, who found an excuse for every criminal of whom she read in the papers, had never been able to forgive her daughter-in-law when, thanks to her inborn thirst for the romantic, she forgot herself so far as to adore that polish nonentity. what in the world could a woman of sense find in romance? when anna von rhödern, at twenty-two, had married count ernst lenzdorff, her views of life were in great measure the same that she had since elaborated so perfectly. she was of courland descent, and the daughter of a prominent diplomat in the russian service. unlike her daughter-in-law, she had been a courted beauty, but at two-and-twenty she had turned her back upon all the sentimental possibilities to which in virtue of her great charm she had a right, and had married count lenzdorff, whose entire part in her existence she afterwards summed up in declaring that he really had bored her very little. and that, she maintained, was a great deal in a husband. she had become acquainted with him in paris, where he was secretary to the prussian legation, and she married him there; afterwards he took up his abode in berlin, where he held a distinguished position in the ministry of foreign affairs. in moments of insolent frankness she was wont to describe him as an automaton whose key was in the possession of whoever might be minister of foreign affairs. once wound up, he could perform all the duties of his office during the few hours in which they were required of him; when they were over he was a lifeless wooden figure-head--nothing more. a wooden figure-head whom one is obliged to drag after one in life conduces but little to one's comfort, especially when the wooden figure-head is of the dimensions of count ernst lenzdorff, and of this his wife shortly became aware. with great courtesy and skill she removed him from her life as soon as possible, placing him somewhere in the background upon a suitable pedestal,--the best place for wooden figureheads, and one where they can be made to look very effective. the countess's only son was the very image of his father, and quite as imposingly wooden. if emma, following her mother-in-law's example, could have courteously and respectfully put him upon a pedestal in some corner where he would not have been in her way, she might have led a very tolerable life with him. the mistake was that she attempted to make him happy. poor emma! as if one possibly could make a wooden figure-head happy! young count lenzdorff was extremely uncomfortable in view of his wife's exertions to make him happy. what ensued was of a very unedifying character: from being simply a state of contented indifference, the marriage became a decidedly irksome bond. nevertheless it was most unfortunate for emma when edmund lenzdorff, two years after their marriage, lost his life in a railway accident. had he lived, her existence might at least have been a quiet one; in time she would have relinquished her ill-judged attempts to make him happy, and have found an object in life in the education of her child; while, as it was, he was no sooner dead than her existence began to totter uncertainly, like a ship from which the ballast has been removed. at first she sickened, as her mother-in-law expressed it, with an attack of acute philanthropy. she haunted the most disreputable corners of berlin in search of cases of misery to be relieved, never allowing a servant to accompany her, because, as she explained, it might humiliate the poor. upon one of her excursions her watch was snatched from her, and another time she caught spotted fever. this was very annoying to the countess anna, but she forgave her, with--as she was wont to declare--praiseworthy courage, in view of the terrible disease. six months afterwards emma married strachinsky; and this her mother-in-law did not forgive her. since then fourteen years had passed, fourteen years during which she had had nothing whatever to do with poor emma. and now she was sorry. again and again did the countess anna revert to the education given to the young girl asleep in the next room. a woman who could so educate her child, and who could continue so to influence her after her death, was no ordinary character. of course she had had fine material to work upon. and the old countess was conscious of an emotion never awakened within her by her son, yet now aroused by her grand-daughter,--pride in her own flesh and blood. "a splendid creature!" she murmured to herself once or twice, then adding, with a sneer at her own lack of perception, "and i was fool enough to think her ugly at first. whom does she resemble? she is not in the least like her mother,--nor like my son!" still pondering, she paused in her monotonous pacing to and fro, strangely thrilled. going to an antique buhl cabinet with a multitude of drawers, she opened one of them,--a secret drawer, which had long been undisturbed,--and began to look through its contents. at last she found what she sought, a lithograph representing a young girl, _décolletée_, and with the huge sleeves in fashion in . a very charming young girl the picture portrayed,--countess lenzdorff when she was still anna von rhödern. the little faded picture trembled in the old lady's hand: it worked upon her like a spell, carrying her back to a time long forgotten,--a time when life had been to her something different from a farce with a tragic ending, by which one might be vastly entertained, but in which one should scorn to play a part. she was suddenly deeply pained at sight of the beautiful, grave, proud young face: it suggested to her something that had begun very finely and ended in unutterable bitterness, something through which the best and most genial part of her had been destroyed, or at least paralyzed. hark! what was that? a low, suppressed sob! another! they came from the adjoining room. the old countess dropped the little picture, and, with a candle in her hand, went to her grand-daughter's bedside. when she heard her grandmother coming, erika closed her eyes, feigning sleep, but she had not time to wipe away the tears from her cheeks. her grandmother set the candle upon the table, and then, bending over the girl, whispered, softly, "erika!" erika did not stir. how pathetic she looked!--pale and thin, and yet so noble and charming in spite of the traces of tears. the countess sat down upon the edge of the bed and stroked the girl's wet cheeks. "erika, my darling, what is the matter? are you homesick?" then erika opened her large eyes and looked gloomily at her grandmother. she answered not a word, but compressed her lips. how could her grandmother ask her if she was homesick, when all that she had of home was a grave? for one moment the old countess hesitated; then, lifting the reluctant girl from the pillows, she clasped her to her breast, pressing her lips upon the golden head, and murmuring softly, "forgive me, my child, forgive me!" for one moment erika's obstinate resistance was maintained; then she began to sob convulsively; and then--then her grandmother felt the slender form nestle close within her arms, while the weary young head fell upon her shoulder and a sensation of sweet, young warmth penetrated to the countess's very heart, which suddenly grew quite heavy with tenderness. erika was soon sound asleep, but her grandmother still felt no desire to retire to rest. "i will write to goswyn," she said to herself. "i must tell him she is charming, and that i will make her happy." chapter vi. nine months had passed since erika's arrival in berlin. she had travelled much with her grandmother, passing the time in schlangenbad, gastein, and the riviera. as soon as she had become further acquainted with her, countess anna had relinquished all thoughts of sending her grand-daughter to a boarding-school. "what could you gain from a boarding-school?" she said. "h'm! have your corners rubbed off? in my opinion that would be matter of regret. and as for your education, there's too much already in that head of yours for a girl of your age; but that we can't alter, and must make allowance for." and she tapped erika on the cheek, and looked at her with eyes beaming with pride. erika had come to be the centre of her existence, her idol, the most entertaining toy she had ever possessed, the most precious jewel she had ever worn. moreover, she was the late-awakened poetry of her life, the transfigured resurrection of her own youth. that was all very natural: she was not the first grand-mother in the world who had thought her grand-daughter a phenomenon; and it would have mattered little in any wise if she had not thought it necessary to impress her grand-daughter with the high opinion she entertained of her. everything that she could do to turn the young girl's head she did, all out of pure inconsequence and love of talking, because never in her life had she been able to keep anything to herself. for in fact she was as unwise as she was clever: her cleverness was an article of luxury, something with which she entertained herself and others, with which she theoretically arranged the most complex combination of circumstances, but which never helped her over the simplest disturbance of her daily life. she was thoroughly unpractical, and was aware of it, without understanding why it was so. since she could not alter it,--indeed, she never tried to,--she evaded every difficult problem of existence, with the epicurean love of ease which was her only enduring rule of conduct. her affection for erika was now part of her egotism. she was never weary of exulting in the girl's beauty and brilliant qualities; she felt every annoyance experienced by her grand-daughter as a personal pang, every triumph as homage paid to herself; but she never thought of the responsibility she had assumed towards this lovely blossom unfolding in such luxuriance. she was convinced that erika's life would develop of itself just as her own had done, and in this conviction she felt not the slightest compunction in spoiling the girl from morning until night, and in absolutely forcing her to consider herself the centre of the universe. with almost equal impatience grandmother and grand-daughter awaited the moment when erika should enchant the world of berlin society. and now it was the beginning of february, and the first wednesday-afternoon reception of countess anna lenzdorff after her return from italy. she, whose social indolence had long been proverbial, had sent out numerous cards, many of them to people who had long since supposed themselves forgotten by her. all this, too, without any idea of as yet introducing her grand-daughter to society, but simply that people "might have a glimpse of her." as a result of the countess anna's suddenly developed amiability towards berlin society, this reception was largely attended. erika presided at the tea-table in a toilette of studied simplicity and with a regal self-consciousness due to the enthusiasm which her grandmother displayed for her various charms, but which the girl had the good taste to conceal beneath an attractive air of modesty. she did not rattle her teacups awkwardly, she upset no cream, she never pressed a guest to take what had once been declined; in short, she committed none of the blunders so frequently the consequence of shyness in young novices; and she was, as her grandmother expressed it, simply "wonderful." full forty times the old lady had presented "my grand-daughter," with the same proud intonation, observing narrowly the impression produced upon each guest,--an impression almost sure to be one of pleased surprise; whereupon countess lenzdorff--the same countess lenzdorff who had been always ready to ridicule, and to ridicule nothing more unsparingly than the mutual admiration characteristic of german families--would begin, in a loud whisper of which not one word escaped erika's ears, to enumerate her grandchild's unusual attractions: "what do you think of this child who has dropped from the skies into my house to brighten my old age? 'tis my usual luck, is it not? a charming creature; and what a carriage! just observe her profile,--now, when she turns her head,--and the line of the cheek and throat. and to think that i was actually reluctant to receive the child! oh, i treated her shamefully; but i am atoning to her for the past. i spoil her a little; but how can i help it? i thought it would be such a bore to have a young girl in the house, but, on the contrary, she makes me young again. no need to stoop to her intellectually: she is interested in everything. at first i was going to send her to school. h'm! there is more in that golden head of hers than behind the blue spectacles of all the school-mistresses in germany. and that is not what interests me most: she has a certain frank honesty of nature that enchants me. oh, she certainly is remarkable." there the countess lenzdorff was right,--erika was remarkable,--but she was wrong in parading the child before her acquaintances: first because it bored her acquaintances,--when are we ever entertained by listening to the praises of somebody whom we hardly know?--and again because her exaggerated laudation of her grandchild excited the antagonism of her listeners. on this first reception-day she laid the foundation of the unpopularity from which erika was to suffer long afterwards. the afternoon was nearing its close; the lamps were lit; three or four ladies only, all in black,--the court was in mourning at the time,--were still sitting in the cosiest corner of the drawing-room. close by the hearth sat a tiny old lady, frau von norbin, _née_ princess nimbsch, with a delicately chiselled face framed in silver-gray curls, a face the colour of a faded rose-leaf, and with a thin clear voice that sounded like an antique musical clock and seemed to come from far away. she was about ten years older than countess anna, but had been one of her most intimate friends from childhood, belonging also to an old courland family, which had given the vienna congress a good deal of trouble. she had known talleyrand in her youth, and had corresponded with chateaubriand. countess lenzdorff had a water-colour sketch of her as a young girl with a wreath of vine-leaves on her head, her hair hanging about her shoulders in bacchante fashion, and with very bare arms holding aloft a tambourine. the rococo sentiment of the faded sketch contrasted strangely with the old lady's dignified decrepitude and poetically softened charm. opposite her, and evidently very desirous to stand well with her, sat a certain frau von geroldstein, wife of a wealthy merchant who had purchased a patent of nobility in one of the petty german states, without, as he learned too late, acquiring any court privileges for his wife. indignant at the pettiness of the german sovereign in duodecimo, he had established himself in berlin, where his wife hoped to find a suitable stage for her social efforts. she had been there three years without finding any aristocratic coigne of vantage for her pretensions; in despair she had fallen back upon celebrities, artists, professors, politicians (even democrats), to lend a certain splendour to her _salon_. after at last finding her aristocratic vantage-ground at a watering-place in the shape of a general's widow, with debts, and a daughter of forty whom she alleged to be twenty-four, she annoyed her old acquaintances extremely. it was the business of her life to extort forgiveness from society for having once invited eugene richter to her house. society never forgives, but it sometimes forgets if it be convenient to do so. it began to find it convenient to forget all sorts of things about frau von geroldstein, not only her political acquaintances, but also that her husband had made his fortune by furnishing army-supplies of doubtful quality. frau von geroldstein was so available, and was besides so ready to make any concessions required of her. she threw eugene richter overboard, and developed a touching enthusiasm for the court chaplain dryander. she bombarded society with invitations to dinners which were excellent, and at which one was sure to meet no undesirable individuals. she paid endless visits, and possessed in fullest measure the article most indispensable to the career of social aspirants,--a very thick skin. she was about twenty-five years old, and was gifted by nature with a very small waist, which she pinched in to the stifling-point, and with a face which would have been pretty had it not given the impression, as did everything else about her, of artificiality. of course her court mourning was trimmed with three times as much crape as that of any other lady present; and today she had made it her special business to win the favour of little frau von norbin. she had offered her three things already,--her riding-horse for frau von norbin's daughter, her lawn-tennis ground (she had a wonderful garden behind her house, which no one used), and her opera-box; but frau von norbin's manner was still coldly reserved. at last frau von geroldstein discovered from a remark of countess lenzdorff's that the old lady's principal interest lay in a children's hospital of which she was the chief patroness. frau von geroldstein instantly declared that the improvement of the health of the children of the poor was positively all that she cared for in life: when might she visit the hospital? countess lenzdorff smiled somewhat maliciously when frau von norbin, caught at last by this benevolent birdlime, plunged into a conversation with frau von geroldstein upon the most practical mode of nursing children. meanwhile, countess lenzdorff turned for amusement to a young maid of honour, a charming person, whose delicate sense of humour had been uninjured by the debilitating atmosphere of the court, and who was now detailing the latest misfortunes of a certain countess ida von brock. this countess brock was a notorious figure in berlin society. she was usually called the twelfth fairy, since she was frequently omitted in the invitations to some social 'high mass' (the word was of countess lenzdorff's invention) and was then sure to appear uninvited and to do all kinds of mischief by her malicious gossip. every winter she looked out for fresh lions for her menagerie, as her _salon_ was called in familiar conversation,--for artists sufficiently well bred to consort with men of fashion, and for men of fashion sufficiently intelligent to appreciate artists. since, thanks to her numberless eccentricities and indiscretions, she had quarrelled with all sorts of people, she was always obliged to entreat a few influential friends to procure for her her anthropological curiosities. some time ago she had applied to countess lenzdorff to provide her with 'twelve witty counts,'--an order which countess lenzdorff had declined to fill, upon the plea that the supply was just then exhausted. during the previous winter the glory of her _salon_ had been a hypnotizer, a young american for whom the countess ida had been wildly enthusiastic. mr. van tromp was his name; he had a dome-like forehead, and he cost nothing; he was quite ready to sacrifice his time without pay for the pleasure of mingling in good society,--a pleasure more highly prized by an american, as is well known, than by any european aspirant. at the close of the season the countess's footman had unfortunately put aqua-fortis in the chambermaid's tea, and, as the countess ascribed the crime to the influence of van tromp, she straightway relinquished her hypnotic pastime, the more willingly as most of her other guests considered it a rather dangerous game. van tromp was informed of this when he next visited the countess. he acquiesced in her decision, and amiably and unselfishly hoped that without any further exercise of his peculiar talent she would allow him to visit her 'as a friend.' countess brock, however, wrote him a note thanking him for his great kindness, but at the same time insisting that she could not possibly allow him to waste his time at her house; the people frequenting it were in fact quite too insignificant to associate with so great a man as himself. this mode of turning out of doors people whom she could no longer make use of she called treating them with delicacy and tact. what mr. van tromp thought of it is not known: he revenged himself, however, by writing a book upon berlin society, which, as it was full of scandalous stories and appeared anonymously, lived through twenty-five editions. with a view of making her thursday evenings attractive this year, countess brock had determined to have some one of her favourite modern dramas read aloud at each of them, and had engaged the services of a handsome young actor with a broad chest and a strong voice as reader. the readings had begun the previous week with a german translation of dumas' "_femme de claude_." the young maid of honour had been present, and she declared it "comical beyond description." there were several young girls among the audience, and scarcely had the handsome young actor with the powerful voice reached the middle of the second act when there was a rustling in the assembly, caused by a mother's conducting her daughter from the room. this went on all through the evening. whilst the reader pursued his way with enthusiasm, each scene frightened away some two or three delicate-minded individuals, until the hostess found herself left almost entirely alone with the handsome young actor and a few gentlemen. "i persisted in remaining," the maid of honour continued, amid the laughter of her audience, "but i assure you----" at this moment the servant announced "frau countess brock," and there entered a woman of medium height, in a large high-shouldered seal-skin coat, for which departure from the prescribed court mourning a long crape veil atoned, a wonder of a veil, draped picturesquely over a mary stuart bonnet and hanging down over a slightly-bent back. her grizzled hair was arranged above her forehead in curls, and her face, which must once have been handsome, was disfigured by affected contortions, sometimes grotesque, sometimes malicious, often both together. countess lenzdorff immediately presented her niece to the new-comer, but the 'wicked fairy' paid no heed, and erika made her a graceful courtesy which she did not see. she gave additional proof of near-sightedness by almost sitting down upon frau von norbin, and by mistaking frau von geroldstein for a distinguished authoress aged seventy. frau von norbin smiled good-naturedly, and frau von geroldstein declared the blunder delicious. privately she was furious, not at being mistaken for an aged woman, but at being supposed to be an authoress. however, she could endure it, since she had arranged a visit with frau von norbin to the children's hospital for the next afternoon. that was a triumph, at all events. "h'm! h'm! what were you all laughing at when i came in?" asked the 'wicked fairy,' taking a seat beside countess lenzdorff. upon which a rather embarrassed silence ensued, and she went on with a sigh: "at my disaster, of course. yes, yes, i know, clara,"--this to the maid of honour,--"you will tell the _désastre_ to all berlin. it was terrible!--oh, thanks, no,"--this with a polite grin to erika, who offered her a cup of tea. "that frightful actor!" she wailed, raising her black-gloved hands, palms outward,--a gesture peculiarly her own and used to express the climax of despair. "i have already denounced him to our principal managers: he never will get any position in a berlin theatre. think of his insolence in reading my guests out of my drawing-room and showing me up as a lover of questionable literature." "was the drama one of his selection?" asked countess lenzdorff. "no; i chose it myself. but, good heavens! the piece was of no importance. the mode of delivery was everything. all he had to do was to skip lightly over the questionable parts; instead of which he fairly roared them in the faces of my guests." "evidently he liked them best," the maid of honour said, with a laugh. "of course," the 'wicked fairy' went on, indignantly; "these people have neither tact nor sense of decency. well, i have forbidden the man my house for the future." "like mr. van tromp," countess lenzdorff interposed. "oh, i am too easily imposed upon," countess brock sighed. "the worst of it is that i have nothing now in prospect for my thursdays." "i saw in the newspaper that a couple of almehs on their way from paris to petersburg are to appear at kroll's," countess lenzdorff observed, maliciously: "you might hire them for an evening." "that would be against the law," remarked frau von geroldstein, who knew about everything and had no sense of humour. countess brock, who had declared that nothing should ever induce her to receive 'the archduchess,' as she called frau von geroldstein, pretended not to hear; frau von norbin begged to be told what an _almeh_ was. countess lenzdorff laughed, and was just enlightening her in a low tone, out of regard for her grand-daughter, as to this oriental specialty, when herr von sydow was announced. "goswyn!" exclaimed countess anna, evidently delighted. "it is good of you to come at last, but not good to have let us wait so long for you." "i came as soon as i heard of your return," sydow replied. "and, as usual, you come as late as possible," his old friend remarked, in an access of absence of mind, "in hopes of finding me alone." "i call that a skilful method of turning people out of doors," exclaimed frau von norbin, laughing, and in spite of her hostess's protestations she arose and took her leave, accompanied by the young maid of honour. whilst erika, with the modest grace which she had learned so quickly, conducted the two ladies to the vestibule, where only two or three remained of the crowd of footmen that had occupied it early in the afternoon, goswyn's eyes rested on the wall, where, to his great surprise, hung the same böcklin that had been removed upon his former visit in view of the expected arrival of the countess's grand-daughter. "so you sent the young countess to boarding-school?" he remarked. "what?" exclaimed the countess, indignant at such an idea. "you must see that i am far too old to forego the pleasure of having the child with me." then, observing that the young man's eyes were directed towards her favourite picture, she suddenly remembered the conversation she had had with him in the spring. "oh, yes; you are thinking of how hard it seemed to me to receive the child. it makes me laugh to recall it. as for the picture, there was no need to hide it from her: she knew the entire vatican by heart when she came to me, from photographs. she looks at everything, and sees beyond it! i am longing to have you know her: did you not notice her? though this february twilight, to be sure, is very dim. she has just escorted hedwig norton from the room." "was that your grand-daughter?" sydow asked, in surprise. "i thought it was your niece odette." "where were your eyes?" countess lenzdorff asked, in an aggrieved tone. "odette is pretty enough, but a grisette,--a mere grisette,--in comparison with erika. erika is a head taller; and then, my dear, _un port de reine_,--_absolument, un port de reine_. ah, here she comes.--erika, herr von sydow wishes to be presented to you: you know who he is,--a great favourite of mine, and the nicest young fellow in all berlin." erika inclined her head graciously, and, whilst the young man blushed at the old lady's exaggerated praise, said, with perfect self-possession, "of course my grandmother has enlightened you as to my perfections. i think we may both be quite content, herr von sydow." he bowed low and took the offered chair beside his hostess. he knew that countess lenzdorff expected him to say something to her grand-daughter, but he could not; he was mute with astonishment. it was true that the countess had written him shortly after the young girl's arrival that she was charming, but he had regarded this asseveration as a piece of remorse on her part, knowing that remorse will incline people to exaggerate, especially kind-hearted, selfish people, for whom the memory of injustice done by them is among the greatest annoyances of life. he could not reconcile his memory of the distressed, pale, shy girl whom he had seen for an instant with this extremely beautiful and self-possessed young lady who seemed expressly devised to act as a cordial for her grandmother's epicurean selfishness. he did not know why, but he was half vexed that erika was so beautiful: the previous tender compassion with which she had inspired him seemed ridiculous. the words for which he sought in vain with which to begin a conversation she soon found. "it is strange that you should not have recognized me here in my grandmother's drawing-room, where you might have expected me to be," she said, gaily. "i should have known you in africa." "where have you seen each other before?" the countess asked, curiously. "on the stairs, on the evening of my arrival," erika explained. "evidently you do not recall it, herr von sydow: i ought not to have confessed how perfectly i remember." "oh, i remember it very well," said sydow, and then he paused suddenly with a faint smile, a smile peculiarly his own, and behind which some sensitive souls suspected a degree of malice, but which actually concealed only a certain agitation and embarrassment, a momentary non-comprehension of the situation. he was not very clever, except in moments of great danger, when he developed unusual presence of mind. "after all, 'tis no wonder that you made more impression upon me than i did upon you," erika went on, easily and simply. "in the first place, you were the first prussian officer i had ever met; i had never seen anything in austria so tall and broad: your epaulettes inspired me with a degree of awe. and then you bowed so respectfully. you can't imagine how much good it did me. i was half dead with terror: you looked as if you pitied me." "i did pity you, countess," he confessed, frankly. the tone of her voice, which had first won over her grandmother, was sweet in his ears. moreover, she seemed very much of a child, now that she was talking. the impression of self-possession which she had at first given him was quite obliterated. "you knew that my grandmother was not glad to have me?" she asked. "yes, i told him so, and he scolded me for it," countess lenzdorff declared, with a nod. "but, my dear countess!" sydow remonstrated. "oh, i always speak the truth," the countess exclaimed,--"always, that is, if possible, and sometimes even oftener: it is the only virtue upon which i pride myself. and you were right, goswyn. but do you know how you look now? as if you were ashamed of your pity. aha! i have hit the nail upon the head, and a very sensitive nail, too. it is human nature. there is one extravagance which even the most magnanimous never forgive themselves,--wasted compassion. in fact, you must perceive that the child has no need of the article." goswyn was silent. if at first the countess had hit the nail upon the head, he was by no means convinced of the truth of her last remark. something in the old countess's manner to her grand-daughter went against the grain with him: once while she was talking to him, and erika, sitting beside her, nestled close to her with the innocent grace of a young creature to whom a little tenderness is as necessary as is sunshine to the opening flower, the grandmother suddenly, with a significant glance at sydow, put her finger beneath the girl's chin and turned her face so that he might observe the particularly lovely outline of her cheek. meanwhile, countess brock was defending herself with much ill humour and many grimaces from the exaggerated amiability of the 'archduchess,' which found vent especially in the offer of a specific for the cure of neuralgia, from which the 'wicked fairy' suffered constantly, and which partly explained the peculiar twitching of her features. extricating herself at last with much bluntness from the snare thus spread to entrap her favour, countess brock turned to the young officer, who, strange to relate, was her nephew. strange to relate; for there certainly could be no greater contrast than that of his characteristic grave simplicity with her restless affectation. "my dear goswyn!" she said, in a honeyed tone, taking a chair beside him. "well, aunt?" "you scarcely spoke to me when you came in," she continued, reproachfully, in the same sweet tone. "you seemed very much occupied." "occupied? yes, occupied indeed. for the last quarter of an hour i have been struggling like a fly in a trap. you come just at the right moment, dear boy." and she tapped his epaulette with a caressing forefinger. "ah? do you wish me to audit your accounts?" he asked, dryly: he had but slight sympathy with her. "god forbid!" exclaimed the 'wicked fairy,' raising her black-gloved hands with her characteristic gesture. "nothing so prosaic as that this time. it was about----" "about your thursdays," her nephew interrupted her. "rightly guessed, dear boy. i want a new star; and you can help me a little. do you know g----?" "the pianist?" "yes." "i have practised with him once or twice." goswyn played the violin in moments of leisure, a weakness to which he did not like to hear allusions made. "there! i thought so. you must bring him to me." "pray excuse me," the young man said, decidedly. "i will have nothing to do with introducing any artist to you. i know too well what will ensue. you will squeeze him like a lemon, and then show him the door on the pretence that he outrages your æsthetic sense,--that his manners are not to your taste. you should inform yourself on that point before making use of him. we all know that artists are not always well bred." "too true!" sighed frau von geroldstein, edging her chair nearer to the speaker. "all artists are ill-mannered," countess lenzdorff maintained, with her good-humoured insolence. "even the greatest?" asked erika, shyly. she was thinking of the young painter whom she had met by the monster of a bridge, and she could not decide whether to resent her grandmother's arrogance or to be ashamed of the childish admiration in which she had indulged all these years for the handsome vagabond of whom she had never heard since. as frau von geroldstein was gently sighing, "ah, yes, even the greatest," countess anna interposed with a laugh, "they are the worst of all. artistic mediocrities acquire a certain drawing-room polish far sooner than do the great geniuses who live in a world of their own. and, after all, average good manners are only the dress-suit for average men: they rarely sit well upon a genius. i care very little for them: a little _naïve_ awkwardness does not displease me at all; on the contrary, to be quite to my mind an artist must always have something of the bear about him: i take no interest whatever in those trim dandies, 'gentlemen artists,' who think more of the polish of their boots than of their art." "nor do i," sighed frau von geroldstein. "h'm! your discourse is always very instructive," the 'wicked fairy' declared, "but it does not help me in my trouble." she sighed tragically and arose. as she did so, her fur boa slipped from her shoulders to the ground. erika picked it up and handed it to her. the 'wicked fairy' stared at the young girl through her eye-glass, surprise slowly dawning in her distorted features. "you are the grand-daughter from bohemia?" she asked, still with her eye-glass at her eyes. "yes, frau countess." "ah, excuse me: i have been taking you all this time for my dear anna's companion. now i remember she died last year: i sent some flowers to her funeral. poor thing! she was desperately tiresome, but an excellent girl; you must remember her, my dear goswyn. you used to call her the duke of wellington, because she was a little deaf and used to go on talking without hearing what was said to her. how could i make such a mistake! but i am very near-sighted, and very absent-minded." she put her finger beneath erika's chin and smiled an indescribable smile. "and you are very pretty, my dear. what is your name?" "erika." "erika!--heather blossom! and you come from bohemia. how poetic!--how poetic! she is positively charming, this grand-daughter of yours, anna! do you not think so, goswyn?" sydow flushed crimson, frowned, and was silent. "i must go: i seem to be saying the wrong thing," countess brock ran on; then, looking towards the window, "good heavens!" she exclaimed, "it is pouring! pray let them call a droschky." "erika, ring the bell," said countess lenzdorff. before erika could obey, frau von geroldstein extended a detaining arm. "but, my dear countess erika, why send for a droschky, when my carriage is waiting below, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to drive countess brock home?--surely you will permit me?"--this last addressed to the 'wicked fairy.' "i really cannot. i know you far too slightly to impose such a burden upon you," countess brock replied, crossly. "why call it a burden? it is a pleasure," the other insisted. "there is no pleasure in driving with me: i am forced to have all the windows closed," said the countess. meanwhile, erika stood uncertain whether or not to ring the bell, when suddenly affairs took a turn most favourable for frau von geroldstein. herr reichert was announced, and without another word countess brock vanished with frau von geroldstein, in whose coupé she was driven home. she had private reasons for this hurried retreat. reichert, a special favourite of anna lenzdorff's, an animal painter with a lion face and an inexhaustible fund of anecdote, was among the '_remords_' of the 'wicked fairy.' she called her '_remords_' the assemblage of men of talent of whom she had made use only to throw them aside remorselessly afterwards. the animal painter's visit was a brief one, and none of the countess lenzdorff's guests remained save sydow, who stayed in obedience to the countess's whispered invitation. "there! now i have had enough," she exclaimed, as the door closed behind her beloved animal painter. "stay and dine, goswyn: we dine early--at six--tonight, and then you can go with us to the academy. joachim is to play, and i have a spare ticket for you." chapter vii. it is later by four-and-twenty hours. countess lenzdorff, with her grand-daughter, has just returned from a drive in a close carriage,--a drive interrupted by a couple of calls, and by a little shopping in the interest of the young girl's wardrobe. she is now sitting near the fire, a teacup in her hand, and saying, "you cannot go out very much this season, especially since you are not to be presented until next winter, but you can divert yourself with a few small entertainments. it was well to order your gown from petrus in time: people must open their eyes when they see you first." meanwhile, erika has taken off her seal-skin jacket, and is sitting beside her grandmother, thinking of the gown that has been ordered for her to-day,--a white cachemire, so simple,--oh, so simple! "nobody must think of your dress when they see you," her grandmother had said: nevertheless it was a triumph of art, this gown. "everything about you must be perfect in style upon your first appearance in the world," her grandmother now says. "people must find nothing to criticise about you at first: afterwards we may, perhaps, allow ourselves a little eccentricity. i have a couple of gowns in my head for you which marianne can arrange admirably, but just at first we must show that you can dress like everybody else,--with a slight difference. you must produce a certain effect. give me another cup of tea, my child." erika hands her the cup. the old lady, pats her arm caressingly. "petrus is quite proud to assist at your début: at first i thought of sending to paris for a dress for you," she adds, and then there is a silence. the old lady has lain back in her arm-chair and fallen asleep. she never lies down to take a nap in the daytime, but she often dozes in her chair at this hour. twilight sets in,--sets in unusually soon and quickly to-night, for the winter which had seemed to have bidden farewell to berlin has returned with cruel intensity. the rain which on the previous day had forced countess brock into frau von geroldstein's arms and coupé has to-day turned to snow: it is lying a foot deep in the gardens in front of the grand houses in bellevue street, and is falling so fast that it has no chance to grow black: it lies on the trees in the thiergarten, each twig bearing its own special weight, and down one side of each trunk is a broad bluish-white stripe; it lies on the roofs, on the palings of the little city gardens, yes, even on the telegraph-wires which stretch in countless lines against the purplish-gray sky above the white city. for a while erika gazes out at the noiselessly-falling flakes: the snow still gleams white through the twilight. the girl has ceased to think of her gown: her thoughts have carried her far back,--back to luzano. that last winter there,--how cold and long it had been!--snow, snow everywhere; nothing to be seen but a vast field of snow beneath a gloomy sky, the poor little village, the frozen brook, the river, the trees, all buried beneath it. the roads were obliterated; there was some difficulty in procuring the necessaries of existence. the cold was so great that fuel cost "a fortune," as her step-father expressed it. erika was allowed none for the school-room, where she was wont to sit, nor for the former drawing-room, where was her piano. the greater part of the day she was forced to spend in the room, blackened with tobacco-smoke, where strachinsky had his meals, played patience, and dozed on the sofa over his novels. what an atmosphere! the room was never aired, and reeked of stale cigar-smoke, coal gas, and the odour of ill-cooked food. once erika had privately broken a windowpane to admit some fresh air. but what good had it done? since there was no glazier to be had immediately, the hole in the window had been stuffed up with rags and straw. yet the worst of that last winter had been the constant association with strachinsky. one day, in desperation, she had hurried out of doors as if driven by fiends, and had gone deep into the forest. around her reigned dead silence. there was nothing but snow everywhere: she could not have got through it but that she wore high boots. here and there the black bough of a dead fir would protrude against the sky. no life was to be seen,--not even a bird. the only sounds that at intervals broke the silence were the creak of some bough bending beneath its weight of snow, and the dull thud of its burden falling on the snow beneath. as she was returning to her home she was overcome by a sudden weakness and a sense of utter discouragement. why endure this torture any longer? who could tell when it would end, this intense disgust, this gnawing degrading misery, suffering without dignity,--a martyrdom without faith, without hope? and there, just at the edge of the forest, close to the meadow that spread before her like a huge winding-sheet, she lay down in the snow, to put an end to it: the cold would soon bring her release, she thought. how long she lay there she could not have told,--the drowsiness which she had heard was the precursor of the end had begun to steal over her,--when on the low horizon bounding the plain she saw the full moon rise, huge, misty, blood-red. the outlying firs of the forest cast broad dark shadows upon the snow, and upon her rigid form. the snow began to sparkle; the world suddenly grew beautiful. she seemed to feel a grasp upon her shoulder, and a voice called to her, "stand up: life is not yet finished for you: who knows what the future may have in store?" hope, curiosity, perhaps only the inextinguishable love of life that belongs to youth and health, appealed to her. she rose to her feet and forced her stiffened limbs to carry her home. good heavens! it was hardly a year since! and now! she looks away from the large windows, behind the panes of which there is now only a bluish-white shimmer to be discerned, and gazes around the room. how cosey and comfortable it is! in the darkening daylight the outlines of objects show like a half-obliterated drawing. the subjects of the pictures on the walls cannot be discerned, but their gilt frames gleam through the all-embracing veil of twilight. there is a ruddy light on the hearth, partially hidden from the girl's eyes by the figure of the old countess in her arm-chair; the air is pure and cool, and there is a faint agreeable odour of burning wood. from beneath the windows comes the noise of rolling wheels, deadened by the snow, and there is now and then a faint crackle from the logs in the chimney, now falling into embers. erika revels in a sense of comfort, as only those can who have known the reverse in early life. suddenly she is possessed by a vague distress, an oppressive melancholy,--the memory of her mother who had voluntarily left all this pleasant easy-going life--for what? her nerves quiver. meanwhile, lüdecke brings in two lamps, which in consequence of their large coloured shades fail to illumine the corners of the room, and hardly do more than "teach light to counterfeit a gloom." that grave dignitary was still occupied in their arrangement, when he turned his head and paused, listening to an animated colloquy in two voices just outside the portière which separated the countess's boudoir from the reception-rooms. evidently friedrich, lüdecke's young adjutant, who was not yet thoroughly drilled, was endeavouring to protect his mistress from a determined intruder. "if you please, frau countess, her excellency is not at home," he said for the third time, whereupon an irritated feminine voice made reply,-- "i know that the countess is at home; and if she is not, i will wait for her." "the fairy," said countess lenzdorff, awaking. "poor friedrich! he is doing what he can, but there is nothing for it but to put the best face upon the matter." and, rising, she advanced to meet countess brock, who came through the portière with a very angry face. "that wretch!" she exclaimed. "i believe he was about to use personal violence to detain me!" and she sank exhausted into an arm-chair. "since i ordered him to deny me to every one, he only did his duty, although he may have failed in the manner of its performance," countess lenzdorff replied. "but he ought to have known that i was an exception," the fairy rejoined, still angrily. "yes, he ought to have known. and now tell me what you have on your mind, for i see by your bonnet's being all awry that you have not engaged in a duel with that simpleton friedrich without some special cause." "ah, yes!" countess brock groaned. "i have a request--an audacious request--to make, and you must not refuse me." "we shall see. is it fifty yards of red flannel for your association for the relief of rheumatic old women?" "oh, if it were only that i should have no doubt of your assent,--every one knows how generous you are; but you have certain whims." the wicked fairy's smile was sourly sweet: "i begged goswyn to prefer my request, for i know how much you like him, and that you would not willingly refuse him anything; but he would not do it. he behaves so queerly to me." "tell me what you mean, without any further preliminaries. i am curious to know what the matter is with which goswyn will have nothing to do." "it is about my next thursday,--no, not the next, i shall simply skip that, but the one after the next,--which, under the circumstances, ought to be particularly brilliant. i want to have tableaux, and two of the greatest beauties in berlin have promised to help me,--dorothea sydow and constance mühlberg," countess brock explained, breathlessly. "h'm! that is magnificent," her friend interposed. "well, yes; but every one knows them by heart, and i want to show the berlin folk something new. in short, i have come to the conclusion that the great attraction for my next evening reception must be your enchanting grand-daughter," the 'fairy' declared, wriggling herself out of her seal-skin coat. erika, who had hitherto kept modestly in the background, occupying herself with some embroidery, here paused, her needle suspended in the air, and looked up curiously. "my grand-daughter?" her grandmother exclaimed, in surprise. "yes, yes; i have fallen in love with your granddaughter,--actually fallen in love with her. she has a natural air of distinction, with a certain barbaric charm which is immensely aristocratic: it reminds me of some noble wild animal: the aristocracy always reminds me of a noble wild animal, and the bourgeoisie of a well-fed barn-yard fowl,--except that the former is never hunted and the latter never slaughtered. but, then, who can tell, _par le temps qui court? mais je me perds_. the matter in hand is not socialism nor any other threatening horror, but my tableaux. there are to be only three,--senta lost in dreams of the flying dutchman, by constance mühlberg, werther's charlotte, by thea sydow, and last your grand-daughter as a heather blossom. she will bear away the palm, of course: the others are not to be compared with her." countess lenzdorff looked at erika and smiled good-naturedly, as she saw how the young girl had gone on sewing diligently as if hearing nothing of this conversation. it never occurred to the old lady that it might not be advisable thus calmly to extol that young person's beauty in her presence. "you will let the child do me this favour, will you not?" the 'fairy' persisted. "it is all admirably arranged. riedel is to pose them,--you know him,--the little painter with such good manners who has his shirts laundered in paris." "oh, that colour-grinder!" countess lenzdorff said, contemptuously. the 'fairy' shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "colour-grinder or not, he is one of the few artists whom one can meet socially." "yes, yes; and he will find it much easier to arrange a couple of pictures than to paint them," countess lenzdorff declared. "then you consent? i may count upon your grand-daughter?" "i must first consider the matter," countess lenzdorff replied, but in a tone which plainly showed that she was not averse to granting her eccentric old friend's request. "i see that affairs look favourable for me," countess brock murmured. "thank heaven! i think i should have killed myself if i had met with a refusal. what o'clock is it?" "six o'clock,--a few minutes past. where are you going?" "to dine with the geroldsteins. we are going to the lessing theatre afterwards. there have been no tickets to be had for ten days past." "you--are going to dine with the geroldsteins?" the old countess clasped her hands in frank, if discourteous, astonishment. "i am going to dine with the geroldsteins," the 'wicked fairy' repeated, with irritated emphasis; "and what of it? you have received her for more than a year." "i have no social prejudices. moreover, i do not receive her: i simply do not turn her out of doors." "well, at present she suits me," countess brock declared, her features working violently. "i have been longing for two months to be present at this first representation, without being able to get a seat: she offers me the best seat in a box,--no, she does not offer it to me, she entreats me to take it as a favour to her. and then think how i begged goswyn yesterday to introduce g---- to me. no, he would not do it. she will see to all that. she is the most obliging woman in all germany. and then--this very morning i saw her driving with hedwig norbin in the thiergarten. surely any one may know a woman with whom hedwig norbin drives through the thiergarten." she ran off, repeating her request as she vanished. "you will let me know your decision to-morrow, anna?" countess lenzdorff shook her head as she looked after her,--shook her head and smiled. she is still smiling as she thoughtfully paces the room to and fro. what is she considering? whether it is fitting thus, in this barefaced manner, to call the attention of society to a young girl's beauty. evidently goswyn does not think it right; but goswyn is a prig. the countess's delicacy gives way and troubles her no further. another consideration occupies her: will her grand-daughter hold her own in comparison with the acknowledged beauties who are to share with her the honours of the evening? her gaze rests upon erika. "that crackbrained elise is right. erika hold her own beside them! the others cannot compare with her." "what do you say, child?" she asked, approaching the girl. "would you like to do it?" "yes," erika confesses, frankly. "it would not be quite undesirable," says her grandmother, whose mind is entirely made up. "you cannot go out much this year, and it would be something to appear once to excite attention and then to retire to the background for the rest of the season. curiosity would be aroused, and would prepare a fine triumph for you next year." the following morning countess brock received a note from anna lenzdorff containing a consent to her request. about ten days afterwards countess erika lenzdorff presented herself before a select public, chosen from the most exclusive society in berlin, as "heather blossom," in a ragged petticoat, with her hair falling about her to her knees. it was a strange _soirée_, that in which the youthful beauty made her first appearance in the world. countess brock, the childless widow of a very wealthy man who had derived much of his social prestige from his wife, had inherited from the deceased the use during her lifetime of a magnificent mansion, together with an income the narrowness of which was in striking contrast with her residence. the consequence whereof was much shabbiness amid brilliant surroundings. the tableaux were given in a spacious ball-room, decorated with white and gold, at one end of which a small stage had been erected. the stage-decorations had been painted for nothing, by aspiring young artists. the curtain consisted of several worn old yellow damask portières sewed together, upon which the 'wicked fairy' herself had painted various fantastic flowers to conceal the threadbare spots. whatever ridicule might attach to her thursday evenings generally, on this one her preparations were crowned with success. the effect of the whole was greatly heightened by the musical accompaniment, furnished by g---- at the instigation of the indefatigable frau von geroldstein. for once this talented but shy young virtuoso forgot himself, and presented his audience with something more than a pattern-card of conquered technical difficulties. whether it were the result of caprice, or of a vivid impression made upon him by erika, or of a presumptuous desire to do all that he could to add to her triumph, thus irritating the acknowledged beauties of the day, certain it is that he played all his musical trumps in his accompaniment to the representation of "heather blossom." old countess lenzdorff, who had been wont to compare his clear sharp performance to a richly-furnished cockney drawing-room far too brilliantly lighted, and with gas into the bargain, could scarcely believe her ears when as an introduction to the third picture the low wailing notes of the familiar but lovely melody "ah, had i never left my moor!" rang through the crowded assemblage of fashionable people. how sweet, how melancholy, were the tones breathed from the instrument! they seemed to rouse an echo in the soul of boris lensky's magic violin. the curtain drew up, and revealed a waste, dreary heath, treated with tolerable conventionality by the amiable riedel, and in the midst of it a single figure, tall, slender, in a worn petticoat and coarse white linen shift that left exposed the nobly-formed neck and the long and as yet rather thin arms, a pale face framed in heavy gleaming masses of hair, the features delicate yet strong, and with unfathomable, indescribable eyes. the painter riedel had tried to force the heather blossom into the attitude of ary scheffer's mignon. she had apparently yielded to his efforts, but at the last moment had posed according to her own wish, with her head bent slightly forward and her arms hanging straight by her side. the audacious simplicity of her pose puzzled the spectators, and those elegant votaries of fashion, weary of counterfeit presentments of art and poetry, were in a manner shaken out of the monotonous indifference of their lives at sight of the blank dumb despair embodied in this young creature. they seemed suddenly to feel among them the working of some mysterious force of nature. the curtain remained lifted for a longer time than usual; the young girl maintained her motionless attitude with a strength born of vanity; the wailing, sighing music sounded on. the curtain fell. the public was wild with enthusiasm. three times the curtain rose; but when there was a demand for a fourth glimpse of the strange, pathetic picture, it remained obstinately down: erika had retired. "oh, the witch!" murmured old countess lenzdorff to hedwig norbin, who sat beside her. the stupidest and most innocent of country grandmothers could not have exulted more frankly in her grand-daughter's triumph than did the clever countess lenzdorff. she was never weary of hearing the child praised: her appetite for compliments was inappeasable. when erika, transformed and modestly shy in her new gown from petrus, appeared among the guests, she aroused enthusiasm afresh, and was immediately surrounded. she won the admiration not only of all the men present, but also of all the old ladies. of course the younger women were somewhat envious, as were likewise the mothers with marriageable daughters. in a word, nothing was lacking to make her appearance a brilliant success. her grandmother presented her right and left, and was unwearied in describing in whispered confidences to her friends the girl's extraordinary talents and capacity. any other grandmother so conducting herself would have been called ridiculous, but it was not easy so to stigmatize anna lenzdorff; instead there was some irritation excited against the innocent object of such exaggerated praise, the girl herself, to whom various disagreeable traits were ascribed. the younger women pronounced her entirely self-occupied and thoroughly calculating. she was both in a certain degree, but after a precocious, childish fashion, that was diverting, rather than reprehensible. countess mühlenberg, the wife of an officer in the guards who did not appreciate her and with whom she was very unhappy, had appeared as senta out of pure good nature, and held herself quite aloof from erika's detractors,--in fact, she showed the young _débutante_ much kindness,--but dorothea sydow's dislike was almost ill-bred in its manifestation. she was a strangely fascinating and yet repulsive person,--very well born, even of royal blood, a princess, in fact, but so wretchedly poor that she had rejoiced when a simple squire laid his heart and his wealth at her feet. her family at first cried out against the misalliance, but finally consented to admit that the young lady had done very well for herself. some of her equals in rank came even to envy her after a while, for all agreed that there was not in the world another husband who so idolized and spoiled his wife, indulging her in every whim, as did otto von sydow his princess dorothea. he was goswyn's elder brother, and the heir of the sydow estates, which was why there was such a difference in the incomes of the brothers. in all else the advantage was decidedly on goswyn's side. otto looked like him, but his face lacked the force of goswyn's; his features were rounder, his shoulders broader, his hands and feet larger, and he had a great deal of colour. the 'wicked fairy' maintained that he showed the blood of his bourgeoise mother. countess lenzdorff, who had been an intimate friend of the late frau von sydow, denied this, insisting that the sydow mother had enriched the family not only by her money but also by her pure, strong, red blood. in fact, otto was a genuine sydow: such types are not rare among the prussian country gentry. he was one of the men who always show to most advantage in the country and out of doors, for whom a drawing-room, even the most spacious, is too confined. in a brilliant crowd he looked as if he could hardly catch his breath. with the shyness not unusual in men with much-admired wives, he was wont to efface himself in a corner, emerging to make himself useful at supper-time, and never speaking except when he encountered some one still less at home in society than himself. he was never weary of watching his wife, devouring her with his eyes, drinking in her grace and beauty. many people declared that she was not beautiful, only distinguished in appearance. in fact, she was both to an astonishing degree, and aristocratic to her finger-tips. tall, slender almost to emaciation, with long, narrow hands and feet, a head proudly erect, and sharply-cut features, her carriage was inimitable, her walk grace itself. wherever she went she attracted universal attention. she wore her fair hair short in close curls about her small head, a piece of audacity indeed, and she talked quickly in a rather high voice, and with a slight defect in her utterance, characteristic of the royal family to which she was related, and which made some people nervous, while her countless adorers declared it enchanting. however, beautiful or not, she had been a leader in berlin society for two years, and would brook no rival near her throne. the evening ran its course; the servants opened the doors into the dining-hall; the ladies took their places at small tables, while the gentlemen served them--the entertainment being but meagre--before satisfying their own appetites. some of them performed this duty with skill and dexterity, while others rattled plates and glasses and invariably dropped something. erika, paler than usual, with sparkling eyes and very red lips, sat at a table with a charmingly fresh young girl about her own age, but ten years younger intellectually. nevertheless the child's development might almost be said to be finished, while erika's had scarcely passed its first stage. she had honestly tried to talk with this companion, but without success; nor had she much to say to the young men who, attracted by her beauty, thronged around her. reaction had set in: her enjoyment of her triumph had been succeeded by a strange restlessness. dorothea von sydow was sitting near by at a table with one of the most fashionable women in berlin, an austrian diplomat, an officer of cuirassiers, and one of her cousins, prince helmy nimbsch. all five had remarkably good appetites and talked incessantly. in their midst sat frau von geroldstein, a vacant place on each side of her,--solemn and mute. no one knew her, no one spoke to her, but she was sitting among people of rank and was content. her only regret was that she had mistaken the continuance of the court mourning by a day, and had consequently appeared in a plain black gown in an assemblage of women in full dress with feathers and diamonds in their hair. to justify her error she had hastily trumped up a story of the death of a near relative. goswyn's place was with the elder women, a distinction that frequently fell to his share. he looked grave and anxious, and countess lenzdorff, who had commanded his presence at her table, with her usual imperiousness, reproached him for being tiresome and bad-tempered. from time to time he glanced towards erika, of whom he could see nothing save a slender neck with a knot of gold-gleaming hair, a little pink ear, and now and then the outline of a softly-rounded cheek. yes, she was bewitching, there was no denying it, but she must be insufferable, there was no doubt of that either. the idea of thus making a show of a girl scarcely eighteen! it was in such bad taste: it was absolutely unprincipled: the old countess, in her senseless vanity, was doing the child a positive injury. at times a kind of rage half choked him: he could have shaken his old friend, to whom he had been as a son, and who had from his boyhood petted him far more than her own child. again he glanced towards erika. then his thoughtful gaze wandered across to the round table where his sister-in-law was sitting. she looked particularly well in a dress of white velvet with an antique spanish necklace of emeralds around her slender neck. it was all very lovely, but her short hair was not in harmony with it. beside her sat her cousin, prince helmy nimbsch, a good-tempered dandy, scarcely twenty-five years old, with large light-blue eyes and a face smoothly shaven, except for a moustache. as goswyn looked at thea, she was laughing at her cousin over the champagne-glass which she held to her lips. her eyes were her greatest beauty,--large hazel eyes, but with no soul in them, no expression, not even a bad one. her charm was entirely physical, but it was very great. it was a pity that her manners were so loud. that perpetual giggle of hers rasped goswyn's nerves. but he was alone in his dislike: her adorers were legion. he looked away from her. where was his brother? over in a corner, at a table without ladies, he was sitting with another gentleman. fortunately he had found a man who was even more uncomfortable than himself in this brilliant assemblage. this was herr geroldstein, husband of the ambitious dame, a pale little man with a bald head and mutton-chop whiskers, who looked for all the world like a man who had wielded a yard-stick behind a counter all his life long,--a decent enough little man, with an air of being perpetually ashamed of himself, who never made use for his own part of the title which he had purchased as a birthday-present for his wife. he spoke very softly and ate and drank but little, while otto von sydow did both with great gusto, now and then uttering some oracular remark as to the best wine-merchant in rheims. his face was redder than usual, and produced the impression of rude health beside the pale tradesman who had passed his life in his office. there was in goswyn's opinion no denying that no man in the room was as ill fitted to be the husband of the slender princess dorothea as was his brother otto. after supper there was a little music. when goswyn was relieved from duty with countess lenzdorff, he was about to leave the house unnoticed, but longed for one more glimpse of erika, whom he wished to remember as she looked to-night. "the dew will be brushed off so soon," he said to himself, adding, "oh, the pity of it!" he could not find her anywhere. "ah, of course she is surrounded somewhere by a crowd of detestable admirers!" he said to himself, and turned to go. why he had thus decided that all her admirers were detestable we shall not attempt to explain. the fourth and last in the suite of the 'wicked fairy's' reception-rooms was empty and dimly lighted. he suddenly seemed to hear low suppressed sobs, as he looked in. a red gleam of light played about the folds of a white gown behind a huge effective artificial palm. involuntarily he advanced a step. there sat erika, the youthful queen of beauty, whom he had supposed entirely absorbed in receiving the homage of her vassals, curled up in an arm-chair, her handkerchief to her eyes, crying like a tired child. usually deliberate in thought and action, when once his nerves were irritated he became quick and impetuous. he did not hesitate a moment, but, bending over the girl, exclaimed, "countess erika! in heaven's name what is the matter? can any one have offended you?" his voice grew angry at the bare suspicion. "ah, no, no!" she sobbed. "shall i go for your grandmother?" "no--no!" he paused an instant. then, in a very low and kindly voice, he asked, "do i annoy you? would you rather be alone? shall i go?" she took the handkerchief from her eyes and assured him frankly and cordially, "oh, no, certainly not: i am glad to have you stay with me," adding, rather shyly, "pray sit down." nothing was left of the self-possessed young lady: here was only a little girl dissolved in tears and dreading lest she should seem impolite to a friend of her grandmother's. "she treats me exactly like an old man," the young captain said to himself, at once touched and annoyed; nevertheless he accepted her invitation, and took a seat near her. "it will soon be over," she said, trying to dry her tears. but they would not be dried; they welled forth afresh: she was evidently quite unnerved by the excitement of her _début_, poor thing! "oh, heavens," she cried, making a supreme effort to control herself, "i must stop crying! what a disgrace it would be if any of those people should see me!" apparently there was a great gulf in her mind between goswyn and "those people." he was glad of it. for a while he was sympathetically silent, and then he said, kindly, "countess erika, would you rather keep your sorrow to yourself, or will you confide it to me?" his mere presence had had a soothing effect; her tears ceased to flow; she only shivered slightly from time to time. "ah, it was not a sorrow," she explained,--"only a distress,--something like what i felt on the night when i first came to berlin. it was not homesickness,--what have i to be homesick for?--but suddenly i felt so lonely among all those strangers who stared at me curiously but cared nothing for me. i seemed to feel a great chill around me: it all hurt me; their way of speaking, their way of looking down upon everything that was not as fine and proud as themselves, went to my heart. you--you cannot understand it, for you have grown up in the midst of it; you have breathed this air from your childhood." "i think you do me injustice, countess erika," he interposed. "i can understand you perfectly, although i have grown up in the midst of it all." "i felt as if i hated the people," she went on, her large melancholy eyes flashing angrily, "and then--then, amidst all this elegance and arrogance,"--she named these characteristics in a perfectly frank way, as if they were elements but lately introduced into her life,--"the thought came to me of the misery in which i grew up, and of all the little pleasures and surprises which my mother prepared for me in spite of our poverty,--ah, such poor little pleasures!--those people would laugh at the idea of any one's enjoying them,--but they were very much to me. oh, if you knew how my mother used to look at me when she had contrived a new gown for me out of some old rag!--no one will ever look at me so again. and then"--she clinched the hand that held the poor wet handkerchief--"to think that my mother belonged of right to all this bright gay world, and to remember how she died, in what sordid distress, and that it is past,--that i can give her nothing of all that i have---- my heart seemed breaking." she paused, breathless. "poor countess erika!" he murmured, very gently. "it is one of the miseries of this life to remember our dead and to be powerless to be kind to them. all that we can do is to bestow as much love as we can upon the living." "but whom have i to bestow my love upon?" erika cried, with such an innocent insistence that, in spite of his pity, goswyn could hardly suppress a smile. "i cannot offer it to my grandmother: she would not know what i meant, and would simply think me ill." "but in fact," he said, now openly amused, "it is not to be supposed that you will all your life have only your grandmother to love." "you mean that----" she looked at him in sudden dismay. "i mean that--that----" the sound of a ritornella drummed upon the piano suddenly fell on their ears, and then came the notes of a thin, clear, expressionless soprano. his sister-in-law was singing. he listened breathless. just then countess lenzdorff with frau von norbin appeared. "ah, here you are, erika!" she exclaimed. "this i call pretty conduct. i have been looking for you everywhere. h'm! to run away from one's admirers, to be made love to by a young gentleman---- what do you say to it, hedwig?" this last to frau von norbin. "it was only goswyn," the old lady replied, in her musical-box voice. "yes, that is an extenuating circumstance," countess anna admitted. "and he did not make love to me," erika assured them. "indeed? that i take ill of him," countess lenzdorff said, with a laugh, while erika went on with sincere cordiality. "i suddenly felt so lonely and sad, and he was very, very kind to me!" she raised her eyes gratefully to his. "ah, well----but come now, child; we are going home. i have had quite enough of this.--adieu, goswyn." "perhaps you will permit me to take you home," said goswyn. "you had much better go in there and put a stop to the mischief which, if i am not mistaken, is being largely added to to-night." this with a significant glance towards the music-room. "i am powerless," goswyn observed, dryly. he conducted the ladies to the anteroom, where a regiment of lackeys were in waiting. after attending to the old ladies, he had the pleasure of helping erika to put on her cloak. he had a strange sensation as he wrapped it about the girl's slender figure. the white fur with which it was trimmed was wonderfully becoming to her. "a heather blossom in the snow," the vain grandmother remarked, with a glance in his direction, whereby she discovered that there was no necessity for calling his attention to her grand-daughter's charms. this discovery rejoiced her. she bade him good-night with unusual cordiality, smiling to herself as she descended the brilliantly-lighted staircase. meanwhile, goswyn had returned to the music-room. his sister-in-law was still standing by the piano, singing. g---- was accompanying her, good-humouredly ready to burden his soul with any musical misdeed that could give pleasure to his audience, a readiness arising partly from the prosaic view which he took of his "trade," as he was wont to call his music. quite a little throng of ladies had already rustled out of the room. countess brock was beginning to be uneasy. the effect of the princess's performance vividly reminded her of the effect which the young actor's reading had had upon her guests. goswyn glanced at his brother. otto von sydow was a picture of distress: he looked as if threatened with an apoplectic stroke; he alternately clinched and opened his gloved hands, looked uneasily at the men whom he saw laughing, and at the women whom he saw leaving the room; he stood first on one foot and then on the other; but he allowed his wife to go on singing. the first verses of the music-hall song she had now selected were simply coarse. goswyn comforted himself with thinking that perhaps she would not sing the last. he had underrated his sister-in-law's temerity. she went on. sight and hearing seemed to fail him. suddenly there came a loud burst of applause. a few of the men present, in pity for the unhappy husband, had thus drowned the improprieties of the last verse. princess dorothea looked round,--saw men laughing significantly and women hurriedly leaving the room. she grew pale, and there came into her spanish face a look of indescribable hardness. she was about to continue, when her hostess approached her. "charming!" exclaimed the 'fairy,'--"charming, my dear thea, but you must not exert yourself further: you are a little hoarse." it was too unequivocal. princess dorothea understood. her assumed gaiety took another turn. "i have a sudden longing for a dance!" she exclaimed. "g----, play us a waltz: we will extemporize a ball." g---- began to play with immense spirit one of strauss's waltzes, when a gray-haired old general raised his voice,--a clear, sharp voice,--and said, "it would be a little difficult to extemporize a ball, for, with the exception of the hostess, your excellency is the only lady present." dorothea grew paler still, held herself rather more erect than usual, threw back her head, and smiled. just thus, deadly pale, hard, erect and smiling, goswyn was to see her once again in his life, a couple of years later, when all her world was pointing at her the finger of scorn. "you will let me drive helmy home, will you not, otto?" dorothea asked in the hall, where she was holding a kind of little court amid her admirers, a yellow lace scarf wound around her head, and a black velvet wrap about her shoulders. "helmy has such a cold, and there is no finding a droschky at this hour." involuntarily goswyn, who was just buckling on his sabre, paused to listen to this little speech of his fascinating sister-in-law's, uttered in the tenderest tone. he had no idea that his brother had anything to fear from prince helmy: this was only dorothea's way of escaping any admonition from her husband. if otto did not scold on the spot he never scolded at all. there really was nothing objectionable in her driving home alone with her cousin, but then---- she laid her little hand on her husband's breast as she spoke: the gentlemen around her looked on. without waiting to hear his brother's reply, goswyn left the house. he had gone but two or three steps in the street when some one joined him: it was otto. "have you a light?" he asked, in a rather uncertain voice. goswyn struck a match for him, and paused in silence while his brother lighted his cigar with unnecessary effort. "i am really very glad to walk," said otto, keeping pace with his brother. "thea cannot bear to have me smoke in the coupé." goswyn was silent. "i know thea through and through," otto continued: "she is as innocent as a child, but a little imprudent; and then all those starched, stiff-necked berlin women cannot forgive her for being more fascinating and original than the whole of them together. and, after all, what harm was there in her singing those songs? it was easy enough to see that she did not understand what she was singing, or at least did not think. the purest women are always the most imprudent. these people do not understand her. they admire her,--no one can help that,--but they do not appreciate her. when she saw that she was shocking those philistines she sang on out of sheer bravado. it was perhaps not wise to brave public opinion." each time that otto von sydow had broken the thread of his discourse in hopes that goswyn would assent to his view of the situation, he had been disappointed. his brother was persistently mute. otto's footsteps sounded louder, his breath came more heavily; goswyn, who knew him thoroughly, saw that he was struggling against an access of rage. for a while he maintained a silence like his brother's; then, pausing, he addressed goswyn directly: "do you find anything to blame in my allowing my wife to drive home alone with a cousin who is not well, and who may thereby be saved a fit of illness,--a cousin, too, with whom her relations have always been those of a sister?" goswyn shrugged his shoulders. "since you ask me, i must speak the truth," he replied. "on this particular evening i think it would have been wiser for you to drive home _tête-à-tête_ with your wife than to let her go with young nimbsch." otto's breathing became still more audible; he stamped his foot, and, before goswyn could look round, had turned off into a side-street with a sullen "good-night." he was greatly to be pitied: he had hoped that goswyn would comfort him, but goswyn had not comforted him. "he never understood her, and therefore never liked her," he muttered between his teeth. "he is the worst philistine of all." and then he recalled goswyn's persistent opposition to his marriage with the princess dorothea, how passionately--for goswyn, calm as he seemed, could be passionate--he had entreated his brother not to propose to her. "a blind man could see how unfitted you are for each other: you will be each other's ruin!" he had said. the words rang in his ears now with vivid distinctness. it was about two o'clock in the morning: the streets were dim, deserted. at intervals of a hundred steps the reddish lights of the street-lamps were reflected from the brown muddy surface of the asphalt. from time to time a carriage casting two bluish rays of light before it shot past otto with an unnaturally loud rattle in the dull silence. the windows of the houses were all dark and quiet, except where from one open building came the muffled notes of some light popular airs: it was a cheap kind of music-hall. involuntarily sydow listened: something in the faint melody commanded his attention. they were playing the music of the very song his wife had sung but now. his wretchedness was intolerable; his limbs seemed weighed down with fatigue. "pshaw! it is this confounded thaw," he said to himself. in his ears rang the words, "you are utterly unfitted for each other." what if goswyn had been right, after all? good god! no one could have resisted her. they had met first in florence. the two brothers had made a tour through italy just after otto's attaining his majority. they travelled together so far as that means having the same starting-point and the same goal, but each followed his own devices, stopping where he liked, so that sometimes they did not meet for a long while. while goswyn underwent all kinds of inconveniences for the sake of visiting many interesting little towns in northern italy, otto, whose first requirement was a good hotel, went directly from venice to florence. he had been there for five days, and was terribly bored; he missed goswyn. although otto was the elder of the two, he had always been in the habit of letting goswyn think for him. old countess lenzdorff maintained that when they were children she had often heard him ask, "goswyn, am i cold?" "goswyn, am i hungry?" he had carried with him through life a certain sense of dependence upon his younger brother, looking to him for help in every difficulty, for support in every sorrow. he had no acquaintances in florence, the food was not to his taste, the wine was poor, the beds, in which so many had slept before him, disgusted him, the theatres did not edify him. he took no pleasure in the opera; he was thoroughly--and for a german remarkably--devoid of a taste for music; and the italian drama he did not understand. consequently he found his evenings intolerably long: he spoke no italian, and very little french. since there were no germans in the hotel save those with whom, in spite of his homesickness, he did not choose to consort, he led a very lonely life. and, as he took not the slightest interest in art, it was no wonder that on the fifth day of his sojourn in florence he declared such an "italian course of culture" the "veriest mockery of pleasure in which a prussian country nobleman could indulge." the queerest thing was that goswyn seemed to be enjoying himself so much. he received delighted post-cards from him from all kinds of little out-of-the-way places of which otto had never before even heard the names, not even when he studied geography at school, and he seemed entirely independent of discomfort as to his lodgings in his enjoyment of all that "art-stuff," as otto expressed it to himself. one afternoon in the cathedral, in an access of most depressing ennui, he was sauntering from one shrine to another, when he suddenly heard a sigh. he looked round. a young girl in a large vandyke hat and a dark cloth dress trimmed with silver braid had just seated herself in one of the chairs, and was opening a yellow-covered novel. everything about her, her hat, her dress, as well as her own striking figure, gave an impression of distinction, although of distinction somewhat down in the world. she was very young, and yet did not seem at all affected by her loneliness. before long she noticed that otto was observing her, and she bestowed a scornful glance upon him over the pages of her book. he instantly flushed crimson, and turned away, feeling very uncomfortable. then in the twilight silence of the spacious church, always deserted at this hour of the day, he heard a delicate insinuating voice call, "feistmantel, dear!" involuntarily he looked round: it was the slender girl in the chair who had called. he then observed hurrying towards her a short, stout individual in a striped gray-and-black water-proof with an opera-glass in a strap,--a wonderful creature, whom he had noticed before strolling about the church, but without an idea that she had anything to do with the attractive occupant of the chair. "feistmantel, dear." "princess!" "i am so hungry. have you not seen enough of those stupid old relics?" and the girl yawned, sighed, and rubbed her eyes. "oh, pray, princess!" both ladies then walked to the door of exit, where they paused dismayed. it was raining in torrents, that steady downpour that gives no hope of any speedy cessation. "this is intolerable!" exclaimed the young girl, in her insinuating and now melancholy voice, and with a slight imperfection of speech which struck kindly, awkward sydow as something too charming ever to be forgotten. "insufferable! we cannot put our skirts over our heads, like female pilgrims." "pray permit me to call a droschky for you." with these words the young prussian approached the pair; then when the girl measured him from head to foot with a half-merry, half-haughty stare, he added, with a bow, by way of explanation, "von sydow." the ladies bowed without finding it necessary to mention their names, and the younger said, with her bewitching voice and imperfection of speech, "you will greatly oblige us if you will be so kind as to take the trouble." and in fact it was a trouble. it is difficult to withstand the insistence of italian droschky-drivers in fine weather, when one wishes to walk, but to find a droschky in bad weather, when one wishes to drive, is more difficult still. when he at last succeeded he feared to find that the ladies had left in despair at the delay; but no, there they were still, the companion in the striped waterproof with her face shining with the rain which had drenched it as she stretched her neck to see if he were coming, and her curls dangling limp in damp disorder; the girl more bewitching than ever, her cheeks slightly flushed by the fresh damp breeze, and evidently exhilarated in mind, flattered by her conquest. she had grown gracious, and she smiled her thanks, as she hurried into the carriage, lifting her skirts to avoid wetting them, and thereby displaying a pair of the prettiest little feet imaginable. "what address shall i give to the coachman?" he asked, after helping the ladies to ensconce themselves in the vehicle. "hôtel washington." he had no umbrella; he was wet to the skin, and the day was cold. but that was of no consequence. otto von sydow had never felt so warm since he had been in italy. that very evening he moved to the hôtel washington from the hôtel de la paix. since the entire first floor was occupied by a banker from vienna, and the hotel was overcrowded, the room assigned him was far from comfortable; but he did not mind that. and that very evening, before the _table-d'hôte_ dinner, he found his fair one. she was in the reading-room, reading a paris paper. he also learned who she was,--princess dorothea von ilm. she was an orphan, and very poor. the family, originally distinguished, had degenerated sadly, principally through the dissipated habits of the princess's two brothers, notably through the marriage of the elder to a french circus-rider. since her installation in castle egerstein the princess dorothea had been homeless, and had been wandering about the world with very little means and a companion who was half instructress, half maid. this individual, whom prince ilm had hurriedly engaged for his sister through a newspaper advertisement, was named alma feistmantel, and came from vienna, where she belonged to those æsthetic circles, the members of which interest themselves chiefly for artists and the drama. for ten years she had cherished a hopeless passion for sonnenthal: her chief enthusiasms were for broad-shouldered men, wagner's music, and novels which exalted "the sacred voice of nature." under the protection of this lady the princess dorothea had for three years been completing her education in vienna, rome, and paris successively. the princess enlightened her admirer as to her affairs with the greatest candour, informing him that her brother had treated her shamefully, but that it was all the fault of the circus-rider, who could make him do just as she chose; and in spite of it all willy was the most fascinating creature imaginable: he looked like a spaniard. sydow remembered him: he had served a year in the same regiment with him during his term of compulsory service. with equal frankness princess dorothea explained that she was often embarrassed pecuniarily; once she had been so pinched that she had sold her dog to an englishman for three hundred francs; she had hated to part with him, for she never had loved any creature as she did that dog, but she needed a ball-dress to wear at an entertainment in rome at the german embassy. her aunt, princess nimbsch, had chaperoned her when she went into society: sometimes she went, and sometimes she did not; it depended upon her circumstances. in fact, she did not care much about going into society, it prevented you from doing so many amusing things; you could not go to the little theatres, where the funniest farces were played. therefore she preferred to be in paris, where not a soul knew her, and she and feistmantel could go everywhere together. feistmantel had frequently during these confessions admonished the princess to greater discretion by a touch of her foot beneath the table: of one of these hints sydow's boot had been the recipient. but when she found that she could thus make no impression upon her charge the viennese interposed with some temper: "pray, baron sydow, discount all this talk some fifty per cent. you must not believe that i would take any young girl intrusted to my care where it was not proper that she should go." "i know nothing about proper or improper: i only know what is amusing and what is tiresome," the princess said, with a laugh, "and we went everywhere. feistmantel is putting on airs because of my exalted family, but do not you believe her, herr von sydow. we saw 'ma camarade,' and 'niniche,' and we even went one evening to the café des ambassadeurs. eh?" and she pinched her companion's ear. "but, baron sydow, do not allow yourself to be imposed upon," feistmantel exclaimed, almost beside herself. "the café des ambassadeurs,--why, that is a _café chantant_. there is not a word of truth in all her nonsense." "not true? oh, but it is," the princess retorted, quite at her ease. "of course it was a _café chantant_, and the singer sang '_estelle, où est ta flanelle?_'--it was too funny; but i can sing it just like her. i practised it that very evening. i must sing it to you some day, herr von sydow,--that is, when we are better acquainted. oh, is there no _café chantant_ in florence to which you could take us?" "but, princess----!" exclaimed feistmantel. "why, a gentleman took us to the café des ambassadeurs, a man whose acquaintance we made in the hotel," dorothea ran on. "he was an american,--a mr. higgs: he came from connecticut, and dealt in cheeses. he was very rich, and he sent us tickets for the theatre. afterwards he wanted to marry me: i liked him very well, and would have accepted him, but my brother said he was no match for me. well, i did not break my heart, but i should have liked to marry him for all that. we princesses ilm have the right, it is true, to marry crowned heads, but i never mean to avail myself of it. if i were an empress i should always travel incognito. as soon as i am of age i shall marry a chimney-sweeper--if he is a millionaire, or if i fall in love with him." "both contingencies seem highly probable," sydow observed, laughing. it was the only remark he allowed himself during the conversation,--a conversation which took place in the reading-room of the washington hotel on the first evening of his stay there. after the princess had finished her confessions, she went to the window, and looked out upon the arno. for a while she was perfectly silent; but when alma feistmantel, recovering from her dismay, began to invent all sorts of falsehoods with which to impress sydow, dorothea quietly turned to him and said, "herr von sydow, will you not take a walk with us? florence is so lovely at night!" the next day he drove with the ladies to fiesole. he sat on the front seat of a very uncomfortable droschky and felt as happy as a king. it was the middle of april, and an upright crest of white and purple iris crowned the white wall bordering the crooked road leading to the famous old town. here and there the rose-bushes trailed their blossoming branches in the dust. barefooted italian children, with dishevelled hair and glowing eyes tossed nosegays into the carriage and offered their straw wares to the ladies with persistent entreaties to buy. how many liri and fifty-centesimi pieces sydow threw away on that wonderful day! the more he gave the rein to his liberality the longer grew the train of children, laughing, gesticulating, all pretty, with light in their eyes and flowers in their hands. suddenly the driver shouted to some one who would not get out of the way. sydow sprang out of the droschky and saw creeping along the dusty road a pair of wretched beggars, old and bent, their weary feet wrapped in rags. the sight of anything so miserable on the lovely spring day cut him to the heart. he could do no less than toss them some money. alma feistmantel, as a member of the society for the suppression of mendicancy, lectured him for his lavish alms, and the princess laughed at the beggars, whose misery struck her as comical. she flung a sneering "baucis and philemon!" after them. this shocked sydow for an instant; the next he gave her a kindly glance, saying to himself, "ah, she is but a child!" he was already incapable of finding any harm in her. the next morning the german clerk of the hotel came to him, and, after some circumlocution, asked him if he were intimately acquainted with the princess. quite confused, and without a suspicion of the clerk's motive in asking, he explained that his acquaintance with her was of the most superficial kind. the clerk suppressed a smile beneath his bearded lip. sydow was sorely tempted to knock him down, and was restrained only by regard for the princess's reputation. it appeared, however, that the clerk's question was not the result of impertinent curiosity; he had no interest in the young prussian's relations to the fair princess, he only wished to discover whether sydow knew anything of her family,--if she were a genuine princess, and if they were people of wealth. she was travelling without a maid, and had not paid her hotel bill for a month. whereupon sydow snubbed the clerk sharply, informing him that he need be under no anxiety, the ilms were among the first families of germany. the princess had simply forgotten to pay, supposing it to be a matter of small importance. the clerk was profuse in apologies. sydow spent three hours considering how he should offer his aid to the princess. at last--it was raining, and the ladies were at home--he knocked at their door. "who is it?" feistmantel's harsh voice inquired. "sydow." "oh, pray come in," called the high voice of the princess. he entered. it was a small room in the third story. feistmantel was sitting by the window, mending some article of dress; the princess was sitting on her bed, reading "autour du mariage," by gyp. the princess moved no farther than to offer him her hand with a charming smile; feistmantel cleared off the articles from an arm-chair, that he might sit down. "oh, what a dreary day! i am so glad you are come! we are nearly bored to death," said dorothea, rubbing her eyes, and gathering her feet under her so that she sat cross-legged on the bed. "can you give me a cigarette? mine are all gone." feistmantel said something in disapproval of a lady's smoking, when dorothea remarked, composedly, "don't listen to her; she is putting on airs again because of my exalted family, when the fact is that it was from her that i learned to smoke. oh, what a wretched world! 'who but ducks and pumps can keep out of the dumps, in a world that is never dry?' oh, i am so bored,--so bored!" she stretched herself slightly. "i should like at least to go to doney's and get an ice, but we cannot; we have no money." then sydow blurted out the little speech he had composed with infinite pains, coming to a stand-still three times during the recital. he had heard that the ladies had been expecting remittances from germany. of course there was some mistake: would they permit him to relieve them--from--their temporary embarrassment? he paused in great confusion. would they turn him out of the room? no! the princess simply held out her hands and exclaimed, "you are an angel! i could really embrace you!" which of course she did not do, but which she could have done without thinking much of it. that same evening the princess's bill was paid. two days later goswyn arrived in florence. he surprised his brother at dinner with dorothea and feistmantel at a small table at the extreme end of a long close dining-room, beside a window looking out upon the arno. the princess was giggling and chatting in her clear high voice, which could be heard outside of the dining-hall; she wore a white dress, and a diamond ring sparkled upon her hand. at first goswyn smiled at his brother's charming travelling acquaintances, but in a very little while the state of affairs made him grave. of course he took his place at the table with the three. the princess instantly began to flirt with him. first she congratulated herself that they were now a _partie carrée_; it was very jolly; until then herr von sydow had cut but a sorry figure between two ladies, now they could be taken for two couples on a wedding-tour. then, planting both elbows upon the table, she leaned across to goswyn and asked, "which of the gentlemen will appropriate feistmantel?" "that is for the ladies to decide," goswyn replied, laughing. "then my guardian spirit shall fall to your lot," said dorothea, "for i prefer your brother. i perceived the instant that you appeared that you are a very disagreeable fellow, herr goswyn von sydow," pronouncing the name with mock pathos,--"yes, a thoroughly disagreeable fellow. i could not live with you three days; while i could endure a lifetime with your brother. he is such an honest, clumsy bear: i have always had a liking for bears. look, he gave me this ring as a keepsake: is it not pretty?" otto von sydow long remembered the look which his brother gave the ring. that evening the brothers had a violent dispute. goswyn admitted that the princess was charming in spite of her wretched training and impossible behaviour; that there could not be a more amusing transient travelling acquaintance; that, finally, she certainly did come of very good stock, and was, in spite of her free and easy style of conversation, a pure-minded woman,--which should make it still more a matter of conscience with otto not to compromise her as he was doing; for a marriage with her, even although her poor but haughty family could be brought to consent to the misalliance, was out of the question. the result of this conversation was that otto at last hung his head and admitted that his wiser, stronger brother was right; he promised to leave florence with goswyn the next morning; but when the trunks were all piled on the coach for their departure he met the princess dorothea on the stairs, and did not leave, but stayed and was betrothed to her. it would be doing her injustice to say that she married him solely for his money. no, she really had a decided liking for "bears," and, as far as she could love any one, she loved her big, clumsy husband, just as she preferred brown bread and sour milk to all the delicacies of the table. during the honey-moon, which she spent with otto upon his estate in silesia, she developed an astonishing degree of tenderness, but she could not love anything for any length of time. then, too, she was entirely unused to any regular life, and the dull routine at kosnitz soon bored her to death. at first it delighted her to revel in her husband's wealth, to have dress after dress made, to adorn herself with all sorts of trinkets; but she soon found it tiresome and monotonous. oh for a small room on the third floor of some hotel in paris with feistmantel, and poverty, and liberty, and a fresh conquest every day! how she longed for it all! at first in berlin, in honour of her husband, she had assumed the conventional air of a great lady; but of that she soon became desperately tired: it was the most wearisome of all the weariness in her new life. in spite of all that evil tongues might say of her, she was as yet perfectly innocent: of that her husband was convinced. "she is utterly unsusceptible,--utterly," he said to himself, as he tramped home through the mud and wet. and with this poor consolation he was obliged to be content. but, slow-witted as he was, he was aware that women unsusceptible to temptation are apt to be equally unsusceptible to the disgrace of a fall. the matter is simply of no importance to them. princess dorothea would never be led astray through passion; but at the thought of the devouring, degrading ennui which was continually dragging her downward, otto von sydow shuddered. suddenly his cheeks burned; he could have boxed his own ears for such thoughts with regard to his wife. chapter viii. a few days after the wicked fairy's successful thursday two fresh pieces of news were circulated in berlin: one was that goswyn von sydow had fought another duel in his sister-in-law's behalf, and the other stated that countess lenzdorff had given the fashionable artist riedel permission to paint her grand-daughter as "heather blossom." the truth as to the duel was never fully discovered. goswyn von sydow certainly appeared for a while with his arm in a sling, but, as he stoutly maintained that he had sprained his wrist in a fall from his horse, people were forced to be satisfied with this explanation. if some very sharp-sighted men added that in certain cases it was a man's duty to lie, no matter how strict might be his ideas of truth,--why, that was their affair. as for the portrait, it was true that the old countess had acceded to riedel's request to be allowed to paint erika as "heather blossom," of course not in the artist's studio, but in the countess lenzdorff's drawing-room, where riedel worked away for a week, three hours daily, seated before a large easel, with colour-boxes beside him. the result of his well-meant efforts was a commonplace affair, something between ary scheffer's mignon and gabriel max's "gretchen at her wheel." naturally the countess lenzdorff was in no wise charmed by this picture, although in view of the ability of the artist in question she had not expected anything better. "a 'book of beauty' painter, that riedel," she said of him: "he flatters every one alike, and is blind to wrinkles, scars, and what he calls defects of all kinds. such fellows as he are sure to be a success in the present day, when truth is at a discount. they never dissipate a single illusion, and the world--the world of society--delights in them." she certainly took no pains not to dissipate illusions for the world to which she belonged: on the contrary, she delighted to destroy them, jeering _coram publico_ at the beautifying salve which the model members of society as well as her favourite artists and literary men plastered over every peculiarity of humanity, and which in life passes for 'kindly criticism' and in art for 'idealistic conception.' she spent her time in tearing down the rose-coloured curtains from the windows of her acquaintances, and naturally her acquaintances did not like it; they loved their rose-coloured curtains, which excluded the pitiless garish daylight, admitting only a becoming twilight in which all the sharp edges and dark stains of life faded into indistinctness. the countess's rage for broad daylight seemed cruel to her acquaintances, while she in her turn called their love of twilight cowardly and when she alluded to the fashionable world usually designated it briefly as "kapilavastu." erika asked her grandmother the meaning of this word. upon which the old lady shrugged her shoulders and replied, "kapilavastu is the name of the town in which buddha grew up, the town where his parents hoped to shield him forever from the sight of old age, death, and disease!" then, with a quiet laugh, she added, as if to herself, "oh, what a world it is!" all her life long she had sneered at the 'world of fashion,' which did not at all interfere with the fact that she would have greatly disliked being aught but 'a great lady.' when riedel had completed his picture of "heather blossom" to his own satisfaction, and enriched it with his valuable signature, he laid it as a tribute at the feet of the countess lenzdorff, begging permission to exhibit his masterpiece at schulte's, 'unter den linden.' permission was accorded him,--of course with the proviso that the name of the model should be strictly concealed. whether the picture were the 'sentimental daub' which the old countess dubbed it, or the exquisite work of art which riedel's numerous admirers pronounced it, certain it is that it attracted a great deal of attention,--so much, indeed, that the countess anna was one day seized with a desire to witness for herself the effect produced by it upon a gaping public. it was a fair, sunshiny day in march when she walked to the end of the thiergarten with erika, slowly followed by her carriage. it was a pleasure to her to observe the undisguised admiration excited by her grand-daughter. and the girl was worthy of it. tall, distinguished in air and bearing, faultlessly dressed in dark-gray cloth with a long boa of blue-fox fur and a black hat and feathers, she walked with an air and a bearing that a young queen might have envied. "every one looks after you, as if you were the empress herself," said her grandmother, with a laugh, as she espied a young officer of dragoons, who with his hand at his cap saluted the grandmother but looked at the grand-daughter. "goswyn! this is lucky," she exclaimed, beckoning to him. "we are on our way to schulte's to look at erika's portrait. will you come with us?" "if you will let me," he replied. "but you will probably not see the portrait," he went on, smiling,--"only a great crowd of people. at least that was almost all i could see the last time i was there." "oh, you have been there?" said the old countess, with a merry twinkle of her eye. "then, of course, you do not care to go again." "no, certainly not to see the picture; but you cannot get rid of me now, countess." beneath the lindens on one side of the way stood a crippled boy with a huge hump, playing the accordion. the squeaking tones of the miserable instrument were but little in harmony with the splendour of the thiergarten at this hour. a lady, as she passed the child, turned away with a shudder, and tears started in the boy's eyes and rolled down his pale, precocious face, as he retreated into still deeper shade. without interrupting what he was saying to the old countess, goswyn gave the boy some money. on a sudden countess lenzdorff noticed that erika was not beside her. "where is the child?" she exclaimed, looking round. erika had fallen behind to stroke the little cripple's thin cheeks. when she perceived that she was observed, she hastily left the child. her own cheeks were flushed, and there were tears in her eyes. "why, erika!" her grandmother cried out, in dismay, "what are you about?" "i could not help it," the girl replied: "it was so hateful of that woman to show the boy her disgust at the sight of him." she could scarcely restrain her tears. "but, erika,"--her grandmother put her hand on the girl's arm, and spoke very gently,--"you might catch some disease." "and if i did," erika murmured, still under the influence of strong emotion, "i should not be half so wretched as that child. why should i have everything and he nothing?" to this no reply could be made; even the countess's talent for repartee failed her, and the three walked on together silently. the countess anna glanced towards goswyn. never before had she seen him so gravely impressed; and on a sudden the despair that had possessed her in view of the unjust arrangement of human affairs was converted into pride and joy. when they reached the picture-dealer's they found the portrait in an inner room, surrounded, in fact, by quite a crowd of people, although it was not great enough to satisfy the old countess's pride: it could hardly have been that, indeed. still, she did not express her disappointment in words, but ridiculed the assemblage. the words 'heather blossom' were carved in the very effective frame of the portrait, and on one side could be traced a coronet. "a beggar-girl and a coronet! nothing could appeal more strongly to these plebeians," the old lady exclaimed; and then she whispered to erika, "thank god, no one could recognize you from that daub, or we should have the whole rabble around us. what do you think of the picture, goswyn?" "miserable," goswyn replied, with a frown. "between ourselves, i cannot understand your allowing the fellow to exhibit it." "what could i do?" said the countess, shrugging her shoulders: "he talked of the effect it would produce upon people generally, and in fact he seems to have been right. the archduchess geroldstein has already ordered her portrait of him. i cannot understand it. to me riedel is absolutely uninteresting. if he has a really fine model he seems to lose even the power to flatter, upon which his reputation is chiefly based. erika is ten times more beautiful than that picture." this was goswyn's opinion also, but he remained silent, asking himself whether it could be that the absent old countess had actually forgotten her granddaughter's presence. such, however, was not the case. it simply had never occurred to her to regard erika's beauty as a secret to be confided to all the world except to the girl herself: she would as soon have thought of concealing from her the amount of her yearly income. "i want you to look at a picture which has charmed me," goswyn said, after a pause, desirous to change the subject, and as he spoke he pointed to a picture at sight of which the old lady uttered an exclamation of admiration, while erika gazed at it pale and mute. the picture was called 'the seeress,' and represented a peasant-girl standing wan and rapt, her eyes gazing into the unseen, her hand stretched out as if groping. on the right of the girl were a couple of willows in the midst of the level landscape, their trunks rugged and scarred and here and there tufted with wild flowers, while in the background a little trickling stream was spanned by a huge stone bridge, through the arches of which could be seen glimpses of a miserable village half obscured by rising mists. the berlin public were too much spoiled by the mediocre artistic euphemism of the day to have the taste to appreciate this masterpiece. a couple of art critics passed it by with a shake of the head, muttering, "unripe fruit." countess lenzdorff repeated the phrase as the wise-acres disappeared. "unripe fruit!--quite right, but a most noble specimen. i only trust it may ripen under favourable conditions. the thing is full of talent. 'a seeress.' apparently a jeanne d'arc." "probably," said goswyn. "it certainly is original in conception: there is nothing conventional in it. what inspiration there is in the pale face! what maidenly grace in the noble and yet almost emaciated figure! it is a most attractive picture." "the strange thing about it is that this seeress in reality looks far more like erika than does riedel's 'heather blossom,'" exclaimed the old lady. "i must have this picture!" "you are too late, countess," rejoined goswyn. "is it sold already? what was the price?" "it was very reasonable,--a beginner's price," goswyn replied, with a slight blush. the old countess laughed: she had no objection that goswyn, with his limited means, should buy a picture just because it resembled her grand-daughter. meanwhile, erika was trembling in every limb. who but _he_ could have painted the picture?--who else had seen luzano,--luzano, and herself? she felt proud of her _protégé_. in the corner of the picture she read 'lozoncyi.' it pleased her that he had so fine-sounding a foreign name. "you shall find out for me where the young man lives," countess lenzdorff cried, eagerly: "he must paint erika for me while his prices are still reasonable." goswyn cleared his throat. "much as i admire this young artist," he observed, "if i were you i would not have him paint countess erika." "why not?" "because he has another picture on exhibition here, to see which an extra price of admission is asked." "indeed!" cried the old lady. "is it so very bad?" "the worst of it is the curtain that hides it from the public, and the extra price paid to look at it," goswyn replied, half laughing. "it certainly is a powerful thing,--painted later than 'the seeress,' and under a different inspiration. if you would like to see it, let me play the part of countess erika's chaperon for a few minutes: you go behind that curtain." the countess anna could not let such an opportunity slip. she was an old woman; no one--not even the over-scrupulous goswyn--could object to her looking at the picture. so she blithely went her way. meanwhile, erika had grown very pale. she felt as if some dear old plaything, to which she had attached all sorts of pathetic memories, had fallen into the mire! it was gone; let it lie there: she would not stoop to pick it up and wipe it off. goswyn, who was observing her narrowly, could not understand the sudden change in her face. he had often had occasion to notice the sensitiveness of her moral nature, but to-day the key to the riddle was lacking. what could it possibly matter to her whether or not an obscure artist painted an improper picture? he tried to begin a conversation with her, but had hardly done so when countess lenzdorff returned, walking slowly, with her head held haughtily erect, a sign with her of extreme indignation. "you seem more shocked, countess, than i expected you to be," goswyn remarked, as she appeared. "do you think the picture so very bad?" "nonsense!" the old lady replied, impatiently. "it was not painted for school-girls and boys: it did not shock me. it is not the picture that has made me angry, but--whom do you think i found in the room with her cousin nimbsch and two or three other young men? your sister-in-law dorothea! so young a woman had better not look at a picture before which it is thought necessary to hang a curtain, but it is beyond a jest when she takes a train of young men with her to see it. if one is without principles,--good heavens! it is hard enough to hold on to principles in this philosophic age, when one is puzzled to know upon what to base them,--one ought at least to have some feeling of decency, some æsthetic sentiment." chapter ix. for some time of late the loungers in bellevue street had enjoyed an interesting morning spectacle. before the hotel the first story of which was occupied by countess anna lenzdorff, three beautiful thoroughbred horses pawed the ground impatiently between the hours of eight and nine. a stable-boy in velveteens held two of the horses, while a groom in a tall hat and buckskin breeches reverently held the bridle of the third steed, which was provided with a lady's saddle. the groom was bow-legged and red-faced, very english in appearance,--in fact, an ideal groom. before long a young lady would appear at the tall door of the house, a young lady in a close-fitting dark-blue riding-habit and a tall silk hat beneath which the knot of her gleaming hair showed in almost too great luxuriance, and close behind her would come a fair-haired officer of dragoons. after stroking her steed and feeding it with sugar, the young lady would place her foot in the willing hand of her tall escort and lightly leap into the saddle. then there would be a slight arrangement of skirt and stirrup, and "is it all right, countess erika?" "yes, herr von sydow." and in an instant the officer and his groom would mount and the little cavalcade would wend its way with clattering hoofs to the adjacent thiergarten. at the close of the season countess lenzdorff had declared that her grand-daughter looked ill and needed exercise. at first she prescribed a course of riding-lessons in the imperial school; but erika found this very irksome, and goswyn was intrusted with the task of procuring her a riding horse and of teaching her to ride. under his guidance she made astonishing progress, and then--she looked so lovely on horseback. when she began, the thiergarten was cold and bare,--it was towards the end of march: now it was the end of april, and there was spring everywhere. on the tall old trees the foliage, young and tender, drenched with sunlight, showed golden green, gleaming brown, and rosy red, shading off into transparency in the gradations of colour native to early spring, and in the midst of this harmonious variety here and there a grave dark fir would show its dark boughs not yet decorated with the slender green fingers in the gift of may. among the trees the smooth surface of a pond would reflect the myriad tones of colour of the spring; the long shadows of morning stretched dark across the level sunlit sward of the openings in the woodland. the air was fresh and filled with the fragrance of cool moist earth and young vegetation, but mingling with its invigorating breath there was suddenly wafted a languid odour, intoxicatingly sweet, but with something sickening in its essence, and as the riders looked for its source they perceived among the spring greenery, covered to the tip of every bough with gleaming white blossoms, the luxuriant wild cherry. erika inhaled its heavy breath with eager delight, while goswyn's dislike of it amounted almost to disgust. every day they rode thus together along the avenues of the thiergarten, until they became familiar with every pond, every statue,--yes, even with the appearance of every rider. at times they would meet a couple of cavalry officers and exchange greetings; or a few infantry officers, much-enduring warriors, who seemed to find riding the most difficult duty required of them; or some gentleman in trade testing upon a hired steed his skill in horsemanship and pale with terror if he happened to lose a stirrup. squadrons of young girls under the guardianship of a riding-master would come cantering along the smooth drive, some overflowing with youthful vitality, others evidently taking the exercise by order of a physician. of course countess lenzdorff had requested goswyn's supervision for only the few first efforts in horsemanship made by her grand-daughter, never dreaming that he would sacrifice two hours of each day in trotting about the thiergarten with the young girl. but week followed week and he was still riding daily with erika. in themselves there could have been but little pleasure in these excursions always along the same familiar avenues,--longer flights into the surrounding country with only a groom as escort would have been thought indecorous,--and yet the two morning hours thus passed were more to the young dragoon than the whole day beside. the girl was in such harmony with the early, fresh nature about them. she was still but a child; but just as she was, with her unblunted sensibilities, her eager warm-heartedness, he would fain have clasped her in his arms, and have claimed the right to cherish and nurture to their glorious development all the fine qualities now dormant within her, before she should be wounded and sore from the thorns that beset her pathway. that her sentiments towards him bore no comparison with those he cherished for her he was perfectly aware; but what of that? passion too easily aroused on her part would not have pleased him, and she frankly showed her preference for him among all the men of her acquaintance. the old countess did all that she could to further his wooing: if he had not been in love he would have thought that she did too much. it was foolish to delay. the leaves had lost their first tender beauty and were full-grown, strong, and shining, as they rode one day along one of the narrowest bridle-paths in the thiergarten,--a path where here and there a huge tree, which those who had laid out the park had not had the heart to sacrifice, almost obstructed the way. they trotted along briskly, like all beginners. erika preferred a very swift pace, at which goswyn sometimes demurred. on a sudden the girl's horse shied, violently startled by a wayfarer who had fallen asleep in the shade by the side of the path. very calmly, with no thought of danger, erika not only kept her seat in the saddle, but quickly succeeded in soothing her horse. all the more was goswyn terrified, and no sooner was he convinced that erika did not need his assistance than he turned angrily and soundly berated the unfortunate man, who was apparently intoxicated. then, somewhat ashamed of his outburst, he rejoined erika, who awaited him with a smile of surprise. he frowned; his cheeks were flushed. "pardon me, countess; i am very sorry," he said. "i could think of nothing but that you might have been thrown,---that tree--if you had lost your presence of mind----" he shuddered. she shrugged her shoulders. "and what if i had? you were by." at these words his face cleared. "do you really feel such confidence in me?" he asked. "i?" she looked at him in utter surprise. why should he ask a question to which the reply was so self-evident? his grave, manly face took on an expression of almost boyish embarrassment, and suddenly she became aware of his sentiments,--for the first time. she made a nervous effort to devise something that should hinder his confession, something that should spare him humiliation and herself pain: she could invent nothing. in vain did she search her mind for some, even the smallest, sensible evasive phrase, and at last she murmured, "the trees are very green for the time of year. do you not think so?" he smiled in spite of his agitation and confusion, and then said, in the slightly hoarse tone which always with him betokened intense earnestness, "countess erika, beyond a certain point twilight, lovely as it is, becomes intolerable; one longs for light." he paused, looked full in her face, and cleared his throat. "you must long have been aware of how i regard you?" but she interrupted him hurriedly: "no, no; i have been aware of nothing,--nothing at all." she trembled violently, and turned into a broad road, where a gay cavalcade came cantering towards her,--the princess dorothea and her train of several gentlemen. "turn to the right," called goswyn, and the cavalcade passed, the dust raised by their horses enveloping everything like a misty cloud. erika coughed slightly. "good heavens! perhaps he understood, and will save me from replying," she thought. but no, he did not save her from replying. "well, countess erika?" he began, after a short pause, gently, but very firmly. "wha--what?" she stammered. "will you be my wife?" she gasped for breath: never could she have believed that she should find it so hard to refuse an offer. but accept it--no; something within her rebelled against the thought--she could not. "n--no. i am very sorry," she stammered, every pulse throbbing wildly. she was terribly agitated as she glanced timidly up at him. not a muscle in his face moved. "i was prepared for this," he murmured. "thank god, he does not care very much!" she thought, taking a long breath; and the next moment--nay, even that very moment--she was vexed that he did 'not care very much.' they had reached the railway bridge, beneath which they were wont to turn into the grand avenue for a final gallop. for a moment she contemplated sacrificing to her rejected suitor this gallop, the crown and glory of their daily ride. she reined in her horse. "no gallop?" he asked, as if nothing had passed between them, except that his voice was still a little hoarse. "oh, if you will. i only thought----" she stammered. he replied with the chivalric courtesy with which he always treated her, "i am entirely at your service." for a moment she hesitated; then, with a touch of the whip on her steed's right shoulder, she started. "oh, how glorious!" she exclaimed, as they turned just before reaching the pavement. "shall we not have one more?" and so they rode twice up and down the grand avenue. the air was clear and cool, and there was in it the fragrance of freshly-planed wood, coming from a large shed that was being erected on one side of the avenue for an exhibition of horses. years afterwards erika could never recall that ride and her miserable cruelty without again perceiving that peculiar fragrance. the young man was in direful plight. whatever he might say, he had not been prepared for this. the last few days had been passed by him in a state of blissful agitation in which, try as he might, he could not torment himself with doubts. he had fallen from an immense height, and he was terribly bruised. in spite of all his self-control, he began to show it. erika grew more and more depressed, glancing sympathizingly aside at him from time to time. now she would far rather that he had not cared so much. evidently she did not herself know what she really wished. they trotted along side by side; then just as they turned into bellevue street he heard a low distressed voice say,-- "herr von sydow--i would not have you think that--that--i--intended to say that to you. i so value your friendship--i should be so very sorry to lose it--and--and----" she threw back her head slightly, and, looking him in the face from beneath the stiff brim of her riding-hat, she said, with a charming little smile, "tell me that all shall be just as it has been between us." "as you please, countess erika," he replied, unable to restrain a smile at this novel way of treating a rejected suitor. when he lifted her from her horse shortly afterwards, he just touched her gray riding-glove with his lips; she looked kindly at him, and as he gazed after her from the hall as she ascended the staircase she turned her head to give him a friendly little nod. his heart grew lighter; he would not take too seriously her rejection of his suit; it was not final. "after all," he thought, "in spite of her precocious intelligence she is but a charming, innocent child; and that is what makes her so bewitching." the sunlight gleamed on the gilded tops of the iron railings of the front gardens in bellevue street, upon the leaves of the trees, and upon the long line of red-painted watering-carts stretching away in perspective like the beads of a huge rosary. the heat was already rather oppressive in berlin. but goswyn was robust, and sensitive neither to heat nor to cold. his ride with erika was but the beginning of his daily exercise, and he trotted off to finish it. in the charlottenburg avenue he encountered the same cavalcade he had seen before in the thiergarten in the midst of his declaration to erika. thanks to her agitation, the girl had recognized none of the party, but he had bowed to his sister-in-law and her esquires. now she beckoned to him from a distance, and called, "goswyn!" she was considerably taller and more slender than erika, but she looked well in the saddle. her gray-green eyes sparkled with malicious mockery from beneath the brim of her tall hat. "goswyn," she cried, speaking with her accustomed rapidity in her high piercing voice and with her strange lisp, "you were just now made the subject of a wager." "but, thea," prince nimbsch interrupted his cousin, "we none of us agreed to wager with you." "what was it about?" asked goswyn, with a most uncomfortable presentiment that some annoyance threatened him. the three men with dorothea looked at one another; dorothea giggled. at last prince nimbsch said, "my cousin wished to wager that the countess erika would be wooed and won this spring." "oh, no," dorothea interrupted him; "that was not it at all. i wagered that you had been refused by erika this morning in the thiergarten, gos. helmy would not believe me; but i have sharp eyes." she said it still giggling, with the wayward insolence of a spoiled child, not consciously cruel, who for very wantonness pulls a beetle to pieces. "am i not right?" she persisted. the men turned away as men of feeling would turn away from beholding an execution. there was a red cloud before goswyn's eyes, but he maintained his outward composure perfectly. "yes, dorothea, i have been rejected," he said, and the words sounded oddly distinct in the midst of the absolute silence of the little group, surrounded as it was by the bustle and noise of the capital. "may i ask what possible interest this can have for you?" "oh," she laughed still more insolently, ready as she always was to exaggerate her ill-breeding when she was tempted to be ashamed of it,--"oh, i only wanted to make sure i was right. helmy contradicted me so positively, declaring that a man like you never could be rejected. aha, helmy! well, the other berlin men will be glad!" "and why?" goswyn asked, with the unfortunate persistence in pursuing a disagreeable subject often shown by strong men who would fain establish their lack of sensitiveness. "why? because you are a dangerous rival, goswyn," cried dorothea. "do you suppose that you are the only one to covet the hand of the heiress?" for a moment goswyn felt as if a naming torch had been hurled in his face. he grew giddy, but, still maintaining his self-control, he simply rejoined, "dorothea, there are circumstances in which your sex is an immense protection," and then, turning with a bow to the three men, he galloped off in an opposite direction. dorothea still giggled, but she turned very pale; her companions, on the other hand, were scarlet. "ride home with whomsoever you please: i am ashamed to be seen with you!" prince nimbsch said, angrily; and he hurried after sydow. but when he overtook him the two men looked at each other and were silent. at last nimbsch began, "i only wanted to say----" goswyn interrupted him: "there is nothing to be said;" and there was a hoarse tone in his voice that pained the young austrian. "i know you to be a gentleman, prince, and that you consider me one. there is nothing to be said." before the prince could say another word, goswyn was well-nigh out of sight. two hours afterwards goswyn von sydow might have been seen on a horse covered with foam galloping over the sandy hilly tracts of land by which berlin is surrounded. he had never bestowed a thought upon erika's wealth: now he felt that he never could forget it. he had been robbed of all ease in her society. it was all over. chapter x. if erika could have known anything of the unpleasant scene in charlottenburg avenue, her warm-hearted indignation would immediately have developed into vigour the germ of affection for goswyn that already, unknown to herself, slumbered in her heart. she would certainly have committed some exaggerated, irresponsible act, which would have overthrown at a blow goswyn's rudely-aroused, tormenting pride. she never could have borne to have another inflict upon him pain or humiliation. the entire disagreeable complication would have come to a crisis in a most touching scene, and in the end two people absolutely made for each other would have been sitting hand clasped in hand on the lounge beneath the fan-palms in countess lenzdorff's drawing-room, conversing in low tones, and erika would have arrived at the sensible and agreeable conviction that there could be nothing better in the world than to share the life of a strong, noble husband to whom she could implicitly confide her happiness. the problem of her life would have found its solution, and she would have been spared the perilous errors and hard trials awaiting her in the future. but the ugly story never reached her. the three men who had been auditors of dorothea's coarse cruelty would have considered as a breach of honour any report of it, and the princess dorothea contented herself with a giggling declaration to all who chose to listen that her brother-in-law goswyn had had the mitten from erika lenzdorff, without referring to the way in which her information had been procured. thus erika passed the rest of the day with a rather sore, compassionate feeling in her heart, never doubting that she should have her usual ride with goswyn the next morning, when she promised herself to be particularly amiable. all would come right, she said to herself. but that same evening, when she was taking tea with her grandmother, old lüdecke brought his mistress a letter which she read with evident surprise and then laid down beside her plate. she did not eat another morsel, and scarcely spoke during the meal. observing that erika, distressed by her silence, had also ceased eating and was anxiously glancing towards her grandmother from time to time, she asked, "have you finished?" her voice was unusually stern. erika was startled. "yes," she stammered, and, trembling in every limb, she followed her grandmother out of the dining-room and into the countess's cheerful, cosey boudoir. there the old lady began to pace thoughtfully to and fro: she looked very dignified and awe-inspiring. erika had never before seen her thus, walking with short impatient steps, frowning brow, and a face that seemed hewn out of marble. she began to be frightfully uncomfortable in the presence of the angry old woman, and was trying to slip away unobserved, when her grandmother barred her way and said, harshly, "stay here: i have something to say to you, erika." "yes, grandmother." "sit down." erika obeyed. the room looked very pleasant, with its light furniture revealed in the shaded brilliancy of coloured hanging lamps. one window was open; a low rustle of leaves was wafted in through the pale-green silken curtains upon the warm languorous breath of the spring night. her grandmother seated herself in her favourite arm-chair beside her reading-table, with erika opposite her on a frail-looking little chair, bolt upright, with her hands in her lap, and a very distressed expression of countenance. "this letter is from goswyn," the old lady began, tapping the letter in her lap. "yes, grandmother," murmured erika. "you guessed it?" the old lady asked, in a hard, unnatural voice, and with an exaggerated distinctness of utterance, which were very strange to her granddaughter. "i know his handwriting." "h'm! you know what is in the letter?" "how should i?" erika's pale cheeks flushed crimson. "how should you? well, then, i must tell you"--she smoothed down her dress with an impatient gesture--"that you refused his offer to-day: that is what the letter contains. surely you should know it. such things are not done in sleep." "ah, yes, i know that," erika murmured, beginning to be irritated in her turn; "but how was i to suppose that he would write it to you? i cannot see what he does it for?" "what for? he informs me that he must deprive himself of all intercourse with us for a time, that he has obtained leave of absence and is going away from berlin." "but why?" exclaimed erika. "this is perfect nonsense! it was settled that we should ride together to-morrow as usual." "indeed! you expected him to ride with you after you had rejected him?" "he was perfectly agreed," erika eagerly declared: "we parted the best of friends. i do not want to marry him, but i prize his friendship immensely. i told him so. he has surely put that in the letter. he is never unjust; he must have told you that i was nice to him. how could i help being so, when i pitied him so much?" the girl's voice trembled. "you have missed something in the letter; you must have missed something," she persisted. her grandmother opened the letter again, and read, first in an undertone, then aloud: "yes, here it is: 'never was man rejected more charmingly, with greater sweetness, than i by the countess erika; but it did me no good. i only thought her more bewitching than ever before in her tender kindliness,--yes, even in all her dear, child-like, awkward attempts to reconcile what in the very nature of things is irreconcilable. "'for a while i shall be very wretched; but you know me well enough to feel sure that i shall not go through life hanging my head, any more than i shall now butt that same head against the wall. i trust that the time will come when i shall be of some use to you, my dear old friend, and, it may be, to _her_; but at present i am good for nothing. "'it is best that i should retire into the background. to-morrow i leave berlin. forgive me for finding it impossible to take leave of you in person, and believe in the faithful devotion of yours always, "'g. von sydow.'" after the old lady had finished the reading of the letter, not without a certain pathetic emphasis, she looked up. erika's face was bathed in tears. her grandmother was dismayed, and after a pause began again, but in a very different and a very gentle tone. "this affair annoys me excessively, erika." the girl nodded. "the fact is,"--the grandmother laid her hand on erika's arm,--"you are very inexperienced in such affairs. another time you must not let matters go so far. one must do everything in one's power to spare an honourable gentleman such a humiliation. your conduct would have given the most modest of men reason to suppose you cared for him. you misled me completely." "misled!--cared for him!" erika repeated, tapping the carpet nervously with her foot. "but i do like him very much." her grandmother all but smiled. "my dear child, i do not quite understand you. consider! shall i write and tell goswyn that you were a little unprepared, and that you are sorry,--there's no disgrace in admitting that,--and--heaven knows i shall be glad enough to write the letter!" she rose to go to her writing-table, but erika detained her, nervously clutching at her skirts. "no! no! oh, no, grandmother!" she almost screamed. "i do like him; i know how good he is; but i do not want to marry him, i am still so young. for god's sake do not force me to do so!" she had grown deadly pale, as she clasped her hands in entreaty. her grandmother looked at her with a grave shake of the head. "as you please," she said, no longer stern, but depressed, worried,--a mood very rare with her. "now go and lie down: rest will do you good; and i should like to be alone for a while." far into the night did the old countess pace restlessly to and fro in her boudoir, amidst all the graceful works of art which she had collected about her with such satisfaction and which gave her none at present. at last she seated herself at her writing-table, and before goswyn left berlin the next day he received the following letter: "my dear boy,-- "this matter affects me more than you would think. i was so sure of my case. at first i was disposed to scold the girl; but there turned out to be no reason for doing so. not a trace did she show of vulgar love of admiration, nor even of heartless thoughtlessness. everything that she said to you is true: she likes you very much. i tried to set her right,--in vain! for the present there is nothing to be done with her. "in the course of conversation i perceived that there was nothing for which the child was to blame; the fault was all mine. can you forgive me? "but that is a mere phrase. i know that it never will occur to you to blame me. "my words will not come as readily as usual, and i am very uncomfortable. i am writing to you not only to tell you how much i pity you, but also to relieve my anxiety somewhat by talking it over with you. "i have come to see that my grandchild, whom i so wrongly neglected--the words are not a mere phrase--for so long, and for whom i now have an affection such as i have never felt for any one in my life hitherto, will give me many an unhappy hour. "her sad, dreary youth has left its shadow on her soul, and has exaggerated in her a perilous inborn sensitiveness. "there are depths in her character which i cannot fathom. she is good, tender-hearted, noble, beautiful, and rarely gifted; but there is with her in everything a tendency to exaggeration that frightens me. i forebode now that my long neglect of the child from mere selfish love of ease will be bitterly avenged upon me. "if i had watched her from childhood, i should now know her; but, fondly as i love her, i cannot but feel that i do not understand her, and the great difference in our ages makes any perfect intimacy between us impossible. moreover, in spite of my trifle of sagacity, of which i have availed myself for my own pleasure and never for the benefit of others, i am an unpractical person, and shall make many a stupid mistake in my treatment of the child. and it is a pity; for i do not over-estimate her: she is bewitching! "yet, withal, i cannot help thinking that you have not acted as wisely as i should have expected you to,--that with a little more heartfelt insistence you might have prevailed where my persuasion failed. in especial your sudden flight is a perfect riddle to me. i looked for more perseverance from you. but this is your affair. "i am very sorry not to see you again before your hurried departure. i shall miss you terribly, my dear boy, i have become so accustomed to refer to you in all my small perplexities. still hoping, in spite of everything, that sooner or later all may be as it should be between erika and yourself, i am your affectionate old friend, "anna lenzdorff." chafed and sore in heart as goswyn was at the time, this letter did him good. after reading it through he murmured, "when she thus reveals her inmost soul, it is easy to understand how, with all her faults and follies, one cannot help loving the old countess." chapter xi. a thread in the web of erika's existence snapped with goswyn's departure. the sudden separation from him without even a farewell she felt to be very sad, and long after he had gone the mere mention of his name would thrill her with a vague, restless pain, a nervous dissatisfaction with herself, with the world, with him, a dim sense that some error had crept into her life's reckoning and that the story ought to have turned out otherwise. in the depths of her heart she was bitterly disappointed when after a rather gay summer and autumn she heard upon her return to berlin that young sydow had been transferred to breslau. soon, indeed, she lacked the time for occupying her thoughts with her dear good friend but unwelcome suitor. existence developed brilliantly for her, and the world's incense mounted to her head, and bewildered her, as it bewilders all, even the wisest and gravest, if they are exposed to its influence. she was presented at court, where she produced the most favourable impression, and was distinguished by the highest personages in the land in a manner to excite much envy. of course she went out a great deal,--so much that her grandmother, who had always been characterized by a certain social indolence, grew weary of accompanying her, and, whenever she could, intrusted her to the chaperonage of her oldest friend, frau von norbin. but when erika reached home at midnight or after it she had to recount her triumphs at her grandmother's bedside. the old countess would scrutinize her closely, as she would have done a work of art, and once she said, "yes, you are a rare creature, it cannot be denied: you are more lovely after a ball than before it. how life thrills through you! but i do not understand you. i know your mind, and your nerves, but i have never proved the depths of your heart." then she shook her head, sighed, kissed the youthful beauty upon her eyelids, and sent her to bed. yes, there was no end to the homage paid her. no young girl had ever been so admired and caressed as was erika lenzdorff in the first two years after her presentation. it fairly rained adorers and suitors. then--not because her beauty began to fade; no, she had never been more beautiful, she had developed magnificently--her conquests decreased. her admirers were capricious, returning to her at times, and then holding aloof again; and as for suitors, they entirely disappeared. one fact was too patent not to be acknowledged by even the girl's adoring grandmother. to the usual society man erika was duller and more uninteresting than the rawest pink-and-white village girl whose natural coquetry taught her how to flatter his vanity and emphasize his superiority. she did not know how to talk to her admirers, and her admirers did not know how to talk to her. the men thought her 'queer.' she passed for a blue-stocking because she read serious books, and for 'highfalutin' because she speculated upon matters quite uninteresting to young girls in general. since with all her feminine refinement of mind she combined not an iota of worldly wisdom, she harboured the conviction that every one regarded life from her own serious stand-point, and would fearlessly propound the problems that occupied her to the most superficial dandy who happened to be her partner in the german. her grandmother once said to her, "you scare away your admirers with your attempts to teach them to fly. men do not wish to learn to fly: you would succeed far better if you should try to teach them to crawl on all fours. most of them have a decided predilection for doing so, and those women who can furnish them with a plausible pretext for it--for crawling on all fours, i mean--are sure to be the most popular with them." in reply to such a declaration erika would gaze at her grandmother with an expression 'so pathetically stupid' that the old countess could not help drawing the girl towards her and kissing her. "it is a pity you would not have goswyn," the old countess generally concluded, with a sigh: "you are caviare for people in general, and goswyn was the only one who knew how to value you. i cannot comprehend you, erika. goswyn is the very ideal of a husband; warm-hearted, brave, and true, there is real support in his stout arm, and his broad shoulders are just fitted to bear a burden that another would find too heavy. he is no genius, but instead is brimful of the noblest kind of sense. understand me, erika; there is a great difference between the noblest kind and the inferior article." but by the time she had reached this point in her eulogy of goswyn, erika was standing with her hand on the latch of the door, stammering, "yes, yes, grandmother; but i--i have a letter to write." she liked to avoid any discussion of goswyn: a sensation of unrest, always the same, never developing into any distinct desire, was sure to assail her heart at the mention of his name. the girls who had made their _débuts_ with her were now almost all married. very commonplace girls, whom she had treated with condescending kindness, married her own former admirers: she was no longer wooed. at first she laughed at the airs of superiority which the young wives took on in her society; but the second winter she was annoyed by them. meanwhile, a fresh bevy of beauties made their appearance, and many a girl was admired and fêted, simply because she had not been seen as often as the countess erika. in the depths of her heart, she had no desire whatever to marry. in her thoughts marriage was simply a clumsy, inconvenient requirement of our social organization, compliance with which she would postpone as long as possible. against 'all for love' her inmost being rebelled, and yet her lack of suitors vexed her. then, when the first social feminine authorities of berlin began to shake their heads over her as a 'critical case,' she suddenly startled society by the announcement of her betrothal to a very wealthy english peer, percy, earl of langley. she became acquainted with him at carlsbad, whither her grandmother had gone for the waters. for several days she noticed that an elderly, distinguished-looking man followed her with his eyes whenever she appeared. at last, one morning he approached the old countess, and with a smile asked whether she had really forgotten him or whether it was her deliberate intention persistently to cut him. she offered him her hand courteously, and replied, "lord langley, on the continent a gentleman is supposed to speak first to a lady. moreover, if i had been willing to comply with your national custom, i should hardly have known whether it were well to present myself to you." he laughed, with half-closed eyes, and rejoined that her remark could bear reference only to a period of his life long since past; now he was an old man, etc. "i have sown my wild oats," he declared, adding, "i've taken a long time to sow them, haven't i? but it's all over now!" whereupon he requested an introduction to the countess's companion. from that time he devoted himself to the two ladies. erika was flattered by his respectful admiration, and liked to talk with him. in fact, she had never conversed with so much pleasure with any other man. he had formerly belonged to the diplomatic corps, and had known personally all the people mentioned by lord malmesbury in his memoirs,--in short, everybody who during the past forty years had been either famous or notorious, from the emperor nicholas, for whom he had an enthusiasm, to cora pearl, concerning whom he whispered anecdotes in the old countess's ear, and whose career he declared, with a shrug, was a riddle to him. he was the keenest observer and cleverest talker imaginable, distinguished in appearance, always well dressed, a perfect type of the englishman who, casting aside british cant, leads a gay life on the continent, without faith, without any moral ideal, saturated through and through with a refined, cynical, witty epicureanism, gently suppressed when in the society of ladies, although from indolence he did not entirely disguise it. two weeks after recalling himself to the countess lenzdorff's memory, he wrote her a letter asking for her grand-daughter's hand. the old lady, not without embarrassment, informed the young girl of his proposal. "it certainly is trying," she began. "i cannot see how it ever entered his head to think of you. a blooming young creature like you, and his sixty years! what shall i say to him?" erika stood speechless for a moment. the old englishman's proposal was an utter surprise to her, but, oddly enough, it did not produce so disagreeable an impression upon her as upon her grandmother. she had always wished to mingle in english society. wealthy as she was, she was aware that her wealth bore no comparison to that of lord langley. and then the position of the wife of an english peer was very different from that of the wife of any prussian nobleman. her fatal inheritance of romantic enthusiasm had latterly found expression with her in a certain craving for distinction. what a field opened before her! she saw herself fêted, admired, besieged with petitions, one of the political influences of europe. "well?" asked countess lenzdorff, who had meanwhile taken her seat at her writing-table. "well?" erika repeated, in some confusion. "what shall i say? that you will not have him, of course; but how shall i courteously give him to understand---- it is intolerable! do not get me into such a scrape again. although, poor child, you cannot help it." erika was silent. her grandmother had begun to write, when she heard a very low, rather timid voice just behind her say,-- "grandmother!" she turned round. "what is it, child?" "you see--if i must marry----" her grandmother stared, then exclaimed, sharply, "you could be induced----?" erika nodded. the old lady fairly bounded from her chair, tore up the letter she had begun, threw the pieces on the floor, and left the room. the door was closed behind her, when she opened it again to say, curtly, "write to him yourself!" two days after his betrothal, lord langley left carlsbad to superintend the preparations at eyre castle for the reception of his bride, whom he hoped to take to england at the end of august. the lovers shed no tears at parting, and there was no other display of tenderness than a reverential kiss imprinted by lord langley upon his betrothed's hand. this respectful homage appeared to erika highly satisfactory. after the old countess had taken the cure at carlsbad she betook herself with erika to franzensbad to complete it. at that time a great deal was said, in the sleepy, lounging life of franzensbad, of the bayreuth performances. 'parsifal' was the topic of universal interest. the old countess at first absolutely refused to listen to erika's earnest request to go to bayreuth; in fact, she had been in a bad humour ever since the betrothal, and her tenderness towards erika had ostensibly diminished. she contradicted her frequently, was quite irritable, and would often reply to some perfectly innocent proposal of her grand-daughter's, "wait until you are married." she would not hear of going to bayreuth, maintaining that the bits of 'parsifal' which she had heard played as duets had been quite enough for her,--she had no desire to hear the whole performance; moreover, she had had a headache--ever since erika's betrothal. her opposition lasted a good while, but at last curiosity triumphed, and she announced herself ready to sacrifice herself and go to bayreuth with her granddaughter. lord langley's last letter had come from munich, where one of his daughters (he was a widower, and had no son) was married to a young english diplomat. grandmother and grand-daughter were to meet him there, and then all were to proceed to castle wetterstein in westphalia, the family seat of count lenzdorff, a great-uncle of erika's, where the marriage was to take place. highly delighted at her grandmother's consent to her wishes, erika wrote to lord langley asking him to meet them at bayreuth instead of waiting for them at munich, although, she added, he was to feel quite free to do as he pleased. lüdecke, the faithful, was sent to bayreuth to arrange for lodgings and tickets, and a few days afterwards the old countess, with erika and her maid marianne, left franzensbad, with its waving white birches, its good bread and weak coffee, its symphony concerts, and its languishing, pale, consumptive beauties. the dew glistened on leaves and flowers as they drove to the station. after they had reached it, marianne, the maid, was sent back to the hotel for a volume of 'opera and drama,' and a pamphlet upon 'the psychological significance of kundry,' in the former of which the old countess was absorbed during the journey to bayreuth. they were received with genial enthusiasm by the fair, fresh wife of the baker, in whose house lüdecke had procured them lodgings, and they followed her up a bare damp staircase to the tile-paved landing upon which their rooms opened. they consisted of a spacious, low-ceilinged apartment, with a small island of carpet before the sofa in a sea of yellow varnished board floor, furnished with red plush chairs, two india-rubber trees, a bird in a painted cage, and a cupboard with glass doors, on either side of which were doors opening into the bedrooms,--everything comfortable, clean, and old-fashioned. after some refreshment the two ladies drove about the town, and out into the trim open country through beautiful, shady avenues, avenues such as usually lead to princely residences, and into the quiet deserted park, where there were few strangers besides themselves to be seen. returning, they dined at 'the sun,' at the same table with austrian aristocrats, berlin councillors of commerce, and numerous pilgrims to the festival from known and unknown lands. then they sauntered about the dear old town, with its many-gabled architecture, and visited the master's grave and the old theatre. the old countess lost herself in speculations as to what the margravine would have thought of the great german show that now wakes the lethargic old capital from its repose at least every other year; and erika, laughing, called her grandmother's attention to the 'parsifal slippers' and the 'nibelungen bonbons' in the unpretentious shop-windows. the sun was very low, and the shadows were creeping across the broad squares and down the narrow streets, when the old countess proposed to go back to their rooms to refresh herself with a cup of tea. erika accompanied her to the door of their lodgings, and then said, "i should like to look about for a volume of tauchnitz. may i not go alone? this seems little more than a village." "if you choose," her grandmother, already halfway up the staircase, replied. with no thought of ill, erika turned the corner of the nearest street. she walked slowly, gazing up at the antique house-fronts on either side of her. suddenly she heard a voice behind her call "rika! rika!" she turned, and started as if stunned by a flash of lightning. before her, his whiskers brushed straight out from his cheeks, rather more florid than of yore, in a very dandified plaid suit, with an eye-glass stuck in his eye, stood--strachinsky. "rika, my dear little rika!" he cried, holding out his hand. "what a surprise, and what a pleasure, to find you here, and without the cerberus who always has barred our meeting! fate will yet avenge it upon her." erika trembled with indignation, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. try as she might, she could not reply. a senseless, childish panic mastered her, as terrible as it would have been had this man still had power over her and been able to snatch her from her present surroundings and carry her back to the dreary life at luzano. "you are quite speechless," he went on, having meanwhile seized her hand and carried it to his lips. "no wonder, it is so long since we have seen each other. that jealous old drag----" "i must beg you not to allude to my grandmother in that way!" she exclaimed, conscious of a benumbing, nervous pain at the remembrance of her terrible, sordid existence with this man. "you are under the old woman's influence," strachinsky declared, "and nothing else was to be expected; but now all will be different: when you are once married, more cordial relations will be established between us. i bear no malice; i forgive everything: i was always too forgiving,--it was my only fault. my poor wife always called me an idealist, a don quixote,--my poor, idolized emma,--i never can forget her." and he passed his hand over his eyes. "i must go home: my grandmother is expecting me," erika murmured. "i should think you could consent to bestow a few minutes upon your old father, if only out of regard for your mother's memory," strachinsky observed, assuming his loftiest expression. regard for her mother's memory! certainly, she would not let him starve or suffer absolute want. "do you need anything?" she asked. "no," he replied, curtly, with a show of wounded feeling. then followed a pause. she looked round, ignorant of where she was, for during this most unwelcome interview she had continued to walk on without observing whither she was going. "will you show me the way to maximilian street?" she asked him. "to the left, here," he replied, laconically; then, with lifted eyebrows, he observed, "unpractical idealist that i am, i was disposed to forget and forgive the outrageous ingratitude with which you have treated me in these latter years,--nay, always. i had even resolved to call upon your betrothed; although that would have been to reverse the order of affairs. but i perceive that your arrogance and pride are greater than ever. no matter! i only hope you may not be punished for them too severely!" with these words, he touched his hat with grotesque dignity and was gone before she could collect herself to reply. chapter xii. meanwhile, the sky had become overcast; a keen wind began to blow, and large drops of rain were falling before erika reached the door of the lodgings in maximilian street. as she mounted the staircase she heard her grandmother's voice in the drawing-room and recognized the cordial tone which she used when speaking to the few people in the world with whom she was in genuine sympathy. nevertheless, agitated by her late interview, erika inwardly deplored the arrangement of their apartments which made it impossible that she should reach her bedroom without passing through the drawing-room. she opened the door: her grandmother was seated on the sofa, and near her, in an arm-chair, with his back to the casement window, was a man in civilian's dress. he arose, looking so tall that it seemed to erika he must strike his head against the low ceiling of the room. she did not instantly recognize him, as he stood with his back to the light, but before he had advanced a step she exclaimed, "goswyn!" and ran to him with both hands extended. when, with rather formal courtesy, he kissed one of the hands thus held out as if seeking succour, and then dropped it without any very cordial pressure, she was assailed by a certain embarrassment: she remembered that she should have called him herr von sydow, and that it became her to receive her rejected suitor with a more measured dignity. but she was not self-possessed today. the shock of meeting her step-father had unstrung her nerves; the numbness which had of late paralyzed sensation began to depart; her youthful heart throbbed almost as loudly as it had done when she had first ascended the thickly-carpeted staircase in bellevue street, as strongly as upon that brilliant thursday at the countess brock's, when, suddenly overcome by the memory of her unhappy mother, she had fled from the crowd of her admirers to sob out her misery in some lonely corner. lord langley's worldly-wise, self-possessed betrothed had vanished, and in her stead was a shy, emotional young person, oppressed by a sense of her exaggerated cordiality towards the guest. she now seated herself as far as possible from him in one of the red plush arm-chairs. "how long have you been in bayreuth, herr von sydow?" she asked, in a timid little voice, which thrilled the young officer's heart like an echo of by-gone times. erika, whose eyes had become accustomed to the darkened light of the room, noted that he smiled,--his old kind smile. his features looked more sharply chiselled than formerly; he had grown very thin, and had lost every trace of the slight clumsiness which had once characterized him. "i came several days ago: my musical feast is already a thing of the past," he replied. "indeed! and what then keeps you in bayreuth?" erika asked. he laughed a little forced laugh, and then blushed after his old fashion, but replied, very quietly, "i learned from your factotum lüdecke, whom i met the day before yesterday, that you were coming, and so i determined to await your arrival." she longed to say something cordial and kind to him, but the words would not come. instead her grandmother spoke. "it was kind of you to stay in this tiresome old hole just to see us. i call it very kind," she assured him, and erika added, meekly, "so do i." a pause ensued, broken finally by goswyn: "let me offer you my best wishes on the occasion of your betrothal, countess erika." he uttered the words very bravely, but erika could not respond: she suddenly felt that she had cause to be ashamed of herself, although what that cause was she did not know. "are you acquainted with lord langley, goswyn?" the old countess asked, in the icy tone which she always assumed when any allusion was made to her grand-daughter's engagement. "no. you can imagine how eager i am to hear about him." "he is one of the most entertaining englishmen i have ever met,--a very clever man," the countess declared, as if discussing some one in whom she took no personal interest. "it was not to be supposed that the countess erika would sacrifice her freedom to any ordinary individual," said goswyn, with admirable self-control. for all reply the countess raised the clumsy teacup before her to her lips. with every word thus spoken erika's sense of shame deepened, and she was seized with an intense desire to be frank with goswyn, and to dispel any illusion he might entertain as to her betrothal. "lord langley is no longer young," she said, hurriedly. "i will show you his photograph." she went into the adjoining room and brought thence the photograph in its case, which she opened herself before handing it to goswyn. he looked at the picture, then at her, and then again at the picture. his broad shoulders twitched; without a word he closed the case, and put it upon a table, beside which erika had taken her seat. an embarrassing silence ensued. the sound of rolling vehicles was heard distinctly from below, and one stopped before the dark door-way. soon afterwards the staircase creaked beneath a heavy tread. lüdecke opened the low door of the old-fashioned apartment, and announced, "frau countess brock." the 'wicked fairy' unconsciously had a novel experience: her appearance was a relief. as usual, she bowed and nodded on all sides, but, as she was unable for the moment to find her eye-glass, she saw nobody, and fell into the error of supposing a tall india-rubber tree in a tub before a window to be her particular friend the chamberlain langefeld. not until goswyn discovered the eye-glass hanging by its slender cord among the jet ornaments and fringes with which her mantle was trimmed and humanely handed it to her, did she find out her mistake. goswyn was about to withdraw after having rendered her this service, but she tapped him reproachfully on the shoulder and begged him to stay a moment with his old aunt. he might have resisted her request; but when countess lenzdorff added that he would please her by remaining, he complied, and seated himself again, although with something of the awkwardness apt to be shown by an officer when in civilian's dress. the 'wicked fairy' established herself beside the countess anna upon the sofa behind the round table, and accepted from erika's hand a cup of tea, which she drank in affected little sips. she was clad, as usual, in trailing mourning robes, although no one could have told for whom she wore them, and the countess anna's first question was, "do you not dislike wandering about bayreuth as the queen of night?" "on the contrary," replied the 'wicked fairy,' rubbing her hands, "i like it. awhile ago one of my friends declared that i appeared in bayreuth as the mourning ghost of classic music. was it not charming?--but not at all appropriate, for i adore wagner!" and she began to hum the air of the flower-girl scene, "trililili lilili----" "what do you think of 'parsifal'?" countess anna asked, turning to goswyn. "one of the greatest humbugs of the century, eh? they howl as if possessed by an evil spirit, and call it joy,--call it song!" "at the risk of falling greatly in your esteem, i must confess that 'parsifal' made a profound impression upon me, countess," goswyn replied. "et tu, brute!" his old friend exclaimed. "i do not entirely approve of it, if that is anything in my favour," he rejoined. "ah, there is nothing like wagner! there is but one god,--and one wagner!" the 'wicked fairy' went on humming, closing her eyes, and waving her hands affectedly in the air. "the scene containing the air which you are humming is not one of my favourites," goswyn remarked. "oh, it charmed us most of all,--dorothea and me," the 'wicked fairy' declared. "those hovering little temptresses, so seductive, and parsifal, the chaste, in their midst!" she clasped her hands in an ecstasy. "the other evening at frau wagner's we met van dyck. he is rather strong in his mode of speech. dorothea seemed much entertained by him, but afterwards she thought him shocking." "your niece seems to have a positive mania just now for thinking everything 'shocking,'" countess anna said, dryly. "she sings no more music-hall ditties, and casts down her eyes modestly when she sees a french novel in a book-shop. such a transformation is, to say the least, startling. oh, i beg pardon, goswyn; i always forget that dorothea is your sister-in-law." "no need to remember it while we are among ourselves," goswyn rejoined. "_coram publico_, i would beg you to modify your expressions, for my poor brother's sake." "he cannot endure thea," countess brock said, laughing, as she shook her forefinger at him; "but i know why that is so. look how he blushes!" in fact, goswyn had changed colour. "he fell in love with her in florence. she told me all about it--aha!" "does she really fancy so, or has she invented the story for her own amusement?" goswyn murmured, as if to himself. the 'fairy' continued to giggle and writhe about in the corner of the sofa. "you must have been much with dorothea of late," the countess anna remarked, quietly: "you have acquired all her airs and graces. is the lady in question in bayreuth at present?" "no; she left early this morning, for berlin, where she has various matters to attend to before she goes to heiligendamm. but we have been together for some time. we were in schlangenbad for six weeks. oh, we enjoyed ourselves excessively,--made all sorts of acquaintances whom we should never have spoken to at home. but--i came to see you, anna, for a special purpose,--two purposes, i might say. one concerns hedwig norbin's birthday,--her seventieth,--and the other--yes, the other--guess whom i met in schlangenbad?" she threw back her head and folded her arms across her breast, the very impersonation of anticipated enjoyment in a disagreeable announcement. "how can i?" "your grand-daughter's step-father: yes," nodding emphatically. erika started. countess lenzdorff said, calmly, "indeed! i pity you from my heart; but, since i had no share in bringing such a misfortune upon you, i owe you no further reparation." "h'm! you need not pity me. he interested me extremely. you and your grand-daughter have seen fit simply to ignore him; but you do not know what people say." "nor does it interest me in the least." "well, you may not care about the verdict of society, but it is comfortable to stand well with one's conscience, as dorothea said to me the other day." "indeed! did she say that to you?" countess anna murmured in an undertone. "yes, and she was indignant at the way in which you have treated the poor man." "is it any affair of hers?" countess lenzdorff asked, sharply. "oh, she is quite right; i am entirely of her opinion," the 'fairy' went on; then, turning to erika, "i cannot help remonstrating with you. he certainly cared for you like a father until you were seventeen. he was a man whom your mother loved passionately." erika sat as if turned to marble: every word spoken by the old 'fairy' was like a blow in the face to her. the countess lenzdorff's eyes flashed angrily. "do not meddle with what you do not in the least understand, elise!" she exclaimed. "as for my daughter-in-law's passion for that stupid weakling, it was made up of pity on the one hand for a man whom she came to know wounded and ill, and on the other hand of antagonism towards me. the fact is, i provoked her; the marriage would never have taken place if i had not most injudiciously set myself in opposition to emma's betrothal to the pole. her second marriage was a tragedy, the result of obstinacy, not of love." "my dearest anna, that is entirely your own idea," the countess brock asserted. "every one knows that you cannot appreciate any tenderness of affection because your own heart is clad in armour, but you can never convince me that your daughter-in-law did not love the pole passionately. in the first place, her passion for him was the only possible motive for her marriage; how else could it have occurred to her?--bah!--nonsense! and in the second place, strachinsky read me her letters,--letters written soon after their marriage. he carries these proofs everywhere with him: his devotion to his dead wife is most touching. poor man! he wept when he read the letters to us, and we wept too. i had invited a few friends, and he spent two evenings in reading them aloud to us. when he had finished he kissed the letters, and said, with a deep sigh, 'this is all that is left to me of my poor, adored emma,' and then he told us of the tender relations that had existed between himself and his step-daughter, until she, when a brilliant lot fell to her share, had cast him aside--like an old shoe-string, as he expressed it. i do not say that such a connection is the most desirable, but _on choisit ses amis, on subit ses parents_. certain duties must be conscientiously fulfilled, and, my dear erika, be sure that i advise you for your good when i beg you to be friends with your step-father: you owe him a certain amount of filial affection. he is here in bayreuth, and has requested me to effect a reconciliation between you and him." erika made no reply. she sat motionless, speechless. the 'fairy' played her last trump. "people are talking about your unjustifiable treatment of him," she said; "but that can all be arranged. may i tell him that you are ready to receive him, anna?" the countess lenzdorff rose to her feet. "indeed!" she exclaimed, with an outburst of indignation; "you wish me to receive a man who, for the sake of exciting sympathy, reads aloud to your invited guests the letters of his dead wife? what do you take me for? i will have him turned out of doors if he dares to show his face here! and i have no more time at present to listen to you, elise: i am going to pay a visit to hedwig norbin. will you come with me?" "with the greatest pleasure!" cried the 'wicked fairy,' decidedly cowed. "bring me my bonnet and gloves from my room, my child," her grandmother said to erika, and when the girl brought them to her she kissed her on the cheek. goswyn had risen to depart with the two ladies. erika looked after him dully as, after taking a formal leave of her, he had reached the door of the room. then she suddenly followed him. "goswyn," she murmured, "stay for one moment!" he stayed; the door closed after the others, and they were alone. what did she want of him? he did not know: she herself did not know. he would advise her, rid her of the weight upon her heart: her old habit of appealing to him in all difficulties returned to her in full force. the time was past for her when she could relieve herself in any distressing agitation by a burst of tears: she sat there white and silent, plucking at the folds of her black lace dress. at last, passing her hand across her forehead once or twice, she began in a forced monotone, "you know that i idolized my mother; i have told you about her; perhaps you remember----" "i do not think i have forgotten much that you have ever told me," he interrupted her. the words were kind, but something in his tone pained her. something interposed between them. it had seemed so natural to turn to him for sympathy, but she suddenly felt shy. what was her distress to him? "forgive me," she murmured. "i longed to pour out my heart to some one. i have no one to go to, and i suffer so! you cannot imagine what this last quarter of an hour has been to me. my poor mother's marriage was a tragedy; my grandmother was right. no one who did not live with her can dream of all that she suffered for years. her last request to me when she was dying was that i would not let him come to her. and now that wretch is boasting to strangers--oh, i cannot endure it! can you understand what it all is to me? can you understand?" the question was superfluous. she knew very well that he understood, but she repeated the words mechanically again and again. why did he sit there so straight and silent? she was pouring out her soul to him, revealing to him all that was most sacred, and he had not one word of sympathy for her. a kind of anger took possession of her, and, with all the self-control which she could summon up, she said, more calmly, "i know i have no right to burden you with my misery----" "countess erika!" he exclaimed, with a sudden unconscious movement of his hand, which chanced to strike the case containing lord langley's photograph. it fell on the floor; goswyn picked it up and tossed it contemptuously upon the table, while his face grew hard and stern. he was the first to break the silence that followed. "is this strachinsky staying in bayreuth?" "yes. i met him to-day." "do you know his address?" "no. why do you ask?" "for the simplest reason in the world: i wish to procure your mother's letters for you." "the letters!" she exclaimed. "oh, if that were possible! but upon what pretext could you demand them of him? they belong to him; we have no right to them." "might is right with such a fellow as that," goswyn said, as he rose to go. she offered him her hand; he took it courteously, but there was no cordial pressure on his part, nor did he carry it to his lips. in a moment he was gone. she stood gazing as if spell-bound at the door which closed behind him. she did not understand. he was the same, but in his eyes she was no longer what she had been. this conviction flashed upon her. he was, as ever, ready to help her, but the tender warmth of sympathy of former days had gone, as had the reverence with which the strong man had been wont to regard her weakness: she was neither so dear nor so sacred to him as she had been. in the midst of the pain caused her by the 'wicked fairy's' malicious speeches she was aware of a paralyzing consciousness that she had sunk in the esteem of the one human being in the world whom she prized most highly. when the countess lenzdorff returned at the end of an hour, her grand-daughter was still sitting where she had left her, in the dark. when erika heard her grandmother coming, she slipped into her own room. chapter xiii. the next forenoon erika was sitting in the low-ceilinged drawing-room. she was alone in the house. lord langley had announced his arrival during the forenoon, and the countess anna had gone out, to avoid being present at the meeting of the betrothed couple. the young girl's pulses throbbed to her fingertips; her eyes burned, her whole body felt sore and bruised, as if she had had a fall. for an hour she sat listening breathlessly. would goswyn come before lord langley arrived? should she have a moment in which to speak to him? ah, how she longed for it! she wanted to explain to him---- at last she heard a step on the stair: of course it was lord langley. no, no! lord langley's step was neither so quick nor so light: it was goswyn; she could hear him speaking with lüdecke, and the old servant, with the garrulous want of tact at which she had so often laughed, was explaining to him that her excellency had gone out, but that the countess erika had stayed at home to receive lord langley. erika listened, and heard goswyn say, in a clear, cold tone, "in that case i will not disturb the countess. tell her----" she could endure it no longer, but, opening the door, called, "goswyn!" "countess!" he bowed formally. "come in for one moment, i entreat you," she begged, involuntarily clasping her hands. of course he could not but obey. they confronted each other, she trembling in every limb, he erect and unbending as she had never before seen him. in his hand he held a small packet. "there, countess," he said, "i am convinced that these are all the letters which this herr von strachinsky ever received from your mother: some of the epistles with which he edified my amiable aunt and her guests were the productions of his own pen. but you may rest assured that while i live he will not be guilty of any further indiscretion in that direction." there was such a look of determination in his eyes as he spoke that erika easily guessed by what means he had contrived to intimidate strachinsky. she was filled with the warmest gratitude towards him, but there was something so repellent in his air that, instead of any extravagant expression of it, she stood before him without being able to utter a word of thanks. instead, she fingered in an embarrassed way the packet which he had given her, a very little packet, wrapped in a sheet of paper and sealed with a huge coat of arms. in her confusion she fixed her eyes upon this seal. "the arms of the barons von strachinsky," goswyn explained. "pray observe the delicacy with which the very letters read aloud for the entertainment of heaven only knows how many gossiping old women are sealed up carefully lest i should read them." erika smiled faintly. "it is hardly necessary that you should be understood by strachinsky," she said. "men always judge from their own point of view. you judged me by yourself, and consequently estimated me more highly than i deserved. sit down for a moment, i pray you." "i do not wish to intrude," he said, bluntly, almost discourteously. "how could you intrude? you never can intrude." "not even when you are expecting your betrothed?" he looked her full in the face. she blushed scarlet; a burning desire to regain his esteem took possession of her. "you take an entirely false view of my position," she exclaimed. "mine is not the betrothal of a sentimental school-girl. i--i" and she burst into a short, nervous laugh that shocked even herself--"i do not marry lord langley for love." there was a pause. goswyn bowed his head; then, suddenly raising it, he looked straight into erika's eyes in a way which made her very uncomfortable, and said, "i guessed that; but why, then, do you marry him,--you, a young, pure, gifted girl, and a man with such a past as lord langley's? i know that no man is worthy of such a girl as you are; but, good god, there is some difference---- why, why do you marry him?" "why? why?" she tried to collect herself and to answer him truly. "i marry him because the position he offers me suits me,--because one is condemned to marry at a certain age, if one would not be sneered at and ridiculed; i marry him because he is an old man and will not require of me any warmth of affection, and because i have determined that there shall be nothing romantic in my marriage. ah," with a glance at the small packet in her hand, "after all that you know of my wretched experience, you ought to understand why i do not choose to marry for love." a long silence followed. he looked at her as he had never hitherto done, searchingly, inquiringly. suddenly his glance grew tender: it expressed intense pity. "i understand that you talk of love and marriage as a blind man talks of colours," he said, slowly. "i understand that you unwittingly contemplate the commission of a crime against yourself, and that you should be prevented from it." he ceased speaking on a sudden, and bit his lip. a voice was heard in the hall,--the characteristic voice of an old english _bon viveur_ with a continental training. "is the countess at home?" "what am i doing here?" goswyn exclaimed, and, without touching the hand extended to him, he turned on his heel and was gone. outside the door stood an old gentleman with a tall white hat and a dark-blue cravat spotted with white. one glance of rage and curiosity goswyn darted at the correct florid profile and white whiskers, and then he rushed down-stairs like one possessed. yes, he had not been mistaken. it was the same englishman whom he had once seen at monaco with a most disreputable train. then he was travelling under an assumed name,--mr. steyne: his english regard for appearances forbade him in such society to profane his title and his social dignity. goswyn's blood fairly boiled in his veins. when, some time afterwards, countess lenzdorff entered the drawing-room, after her walk, lord langley, rather redder in the face than usual, and with a baffled, puzzled expression of countenance, was sitting in an arm-chair; erika, very pale, with sparkling eyes and very red lips, strikingly beautiful, and evidently tingling in every nerve, was in another on the other side of a table between the pair, upon which was an open jewel-case containing a diamond necklace. the countess suspected that some kind of disagreement had arisen between the couple, and, as soon as she had returned lord langley's greeting, asked, carelessly, what it had been. "oh, nothing to speak of," he replied. "my queen was a little ungracious; but even that has a charm. a perfectly docile woman is as tiresome as a quiet horse: there is no pleasure in either unless there is some caprice to subdue." erika's grandmother bestowed a keen, observant glance, first upon the speaker, and then upon her grand-daughter, after which she remarked, dryly, "if we wish for any dinner we had better betake ourselves to 'the sun.'" chapter xiv. the sleepy afternoon quiet is broken by a sudden stir and excitement. it is time to go to the theatre, and the lenzdorffs in a rattling, clumsy, four-seated hired carriage join the endless train of vehicles of all descriptions that wind through the narrow street of the little town and beyond it, until upon an eminence in the midst of a very green meadow they reach the ugly red structure looking something like a gasometer with various mysterious protuberances,--the temple of modern art. the lenzdorffs are among the last to arrive, but they are in time: unpunctuality is not tolerated at bayreuth. summoned by a blast of trumpets, the public ascend a steep short flight of steps to a large, undecorated auditorium. the countess lenzdorff and her granddaughter have seats on the bench farthest back, just in front of the royal boxes. at a given signal all the ladies present take off their hats. it suddenly grows dark,--so very dark that until the eye becomes accustomed to it nothing can be discovered in the gloom. gradually row upon row of human heads are perceived stretching away in what seems endless perspective: such is the auditorium of the theatre at bayreuth. the most brilliant toilette and the meanest attire are alike indistinguishable; here is positively no food for idle curiosity, nothing to distract the attention from the stage. agitated as erika already was, and consequently sensitively alive to impressions, the first sound of the trumpets thrilled her every nerve, and before the last note of the prelude had died away she had reached a condition of ecstasy closely allied to pain, and could with difficulty restrain her tears. all the woe of sinning humanity wailed in those tones,--the mortal anguish of that humanity which in its longings for the imperishable, the supernatural, beats and bruises itself against the barriers that it cannot pass,--that humanity which, dragged down by the burden of its animal nature, grovels on the earth when it would fain soar to the starry heavens. just when the music wailed the loudest, she suddenly started: some one in a seat in front of her turned round,--a handsome southern type of man, with sharply-cut features, short hair, and a pointed beard; in the gray twilight she encountered his glance, a strange searching look fixed upon her face, affecting her as did wagner's music. at the same time a tall, fair woman at his side also turned her head. "_voyons, qu'est-ce qu'il y a?_" she asked, discontentedly. "_ce n'est rien; une ressemblance qui me frappe_," he replied, in the weary tone of annoyance often to be observed in men who are under the domination of jealous women. a couple of young italian musicians blinding their eyes in the darkness by the study of an open score exclaimed, angrily, "hush!" and the stranger riveted his eyes upon the stage, where the curtain was just rolling up. erika shivered slightly: some secret chord of her soul--a chord of which she had hitherto been unaware--vibrated. where had she seen those dark, searching eyes before? the musical drama pursued its course, and at first it seemed as if the enthusiasm produced in erika's mind by the prelude was destined to fade utterly: the painted scenes were too much like other painted scenes; she had heard them extolled too highly not to be disappointed in them; the music, to her ignorant ears, was confused, inconsequent, a tangle of shrill involved discords, in the midst of which there were now and then musical phrases of noble and poetic beauty. the effect was not to be compared with the impression produced upon the girl by the prelude,--when suddenly she seemed to hear as from another world a voice calling her, arousing her,--something unearthly, mystical, interrupted by the same shuddering, alluring wail of anguish, and when the nerves, strung to the last degree of tension, seemed on the point of giving way, there came rippling from above like cooling dew upon sun-parched flowers with promise of redemption the mystic purity of the boy-chorus,-- "made wise by pity, the pure in heart----" "no one shall ever induce me to come again. i am fairly consumed with nervous fever. no one has a right under the pretence of art to stretch his fellow-creatures thus on the rack! parsifal is altogether too fat. wagner should have cut his parsifal out of donatello," exclaims countess lenzdorff, as she leaves the theatre at the close of the first act. "i don't quite understand the plot," lord langley confesses. "the leading idea seems to me unpractical. i must say i feel rather confused." he then speaks of kundry as 'a very unpleasant young woman,' and asks erika if she does not agree with him; but erika shrugs her shoulders and makes no reply. "she is very ungracious to-day," his lordship remarks, with a rather embarrassed laugh. "shall i take offence, countess?" (this to the countess anna.) "no, she is too beautiful ever to give offence. only look! she is creating quite a sensation.--every one is staring after you, erika." the theatre is empty. the audience is streaming across the grass towards the restaurant to refresh itself. close behind the lenzdorffs walks the russian princess b----, who hires an entire suite of rooms for every season and attends every representation. she is dressed in embroidered muslin, and from the broad brim of her white straw hat hangs a brussels lace veil partially concealing her face, which was once very handsome. she addresses the old countess: "_Êtes-vous touchée de la grâce, ma chère anne?_" countess anna shakes her head emphatically: "no; the music is too highly spiced and peppered for me. it bas made me quite thirsty. i long for a draught of prosaic beer and some mozart." the russian smiles, and immediately begins to tell of how she had once reproved rubinstein when he ventured to say something derogatory with regard to wagner. a stout tradesman, whose poetically-inclined wife has apparently brought him to bayreuth against his will, exclaims, "what a humbug it is!" to which his wife rejoins, "you cannot understand it the first time: you must hear 'parsifal' frequently." "very possibly," he declares; "but i shall never hear it again." the lenzdorffs and lord langley take their seats at a table in the airy balcony of the restaurant, to drink a cup of tea: table and tea have been reserved for them by lüdecke's watchful care. the greater part of the assemblage can scarcely find a chair upon which to sit down, or a glass of lemonade for refreshment. the consequence is that there is much unseemly pushing and crowding. erika eats nothing. lord langley complains, as do all englishmen, of the german food, and the old countess complains of the shrill music. meanwhile, a tall, striking woman advances to the table where the three are sitting, and where there is a fourth chair, unoccupied. "_vous pardonnez!_" she exclaims: "_je tombe de fatigue!_" erika gazes at her: it is the companion of the man who had turned to look at her in the theatre during the prelude. a disgust for which she cannot account possesses her: it is as if she were aware of the presence of something impure, repulsive; and yet she could not possibly explain why the stranger should excite such a sensation: she is undeniably handsome, well formed, with regularly-chiselled features, and fair hair dressed with great care and knotted behind beneath the brim of her broad leghorn hat. a red veil is tied tightly over her face. there is nothing else to excite disapproval in her dress, and inexperienced mortals would pronounce her age to be scarcely thirty. it would require great familiarity with parisian arts of the toilette to perceive that her whole face is painted and that she is at least forty years old. everything about her is exquisitely fresh and neat, and from her person is wafted the peculiar aroma of those women whose chief occupation in life is to take care of their bodies. her air is respectable, and somewhat affected. lord langley, to whom her unbidden presence seems especially annoying, is about to intimate this to her, when her escort approaches, and, hastily whispering to her, obliges her to leave her place, which she does unwillingly and even crossly. courteously lifting his hat, the young man utters an embarrassed "excuse me," and retires. she can be heard reproaching him petulantly as they walk away, and their places in the theatre remain unoccupied during the other acts of the drama. "disgusting!" mutters lord langley. "do you know who it was?" he asks, turning to the countess anna. "lozoncyi, the young artist who created such a sensation a couple of years ago. she was his mistress. i remember her in rome." although upon erika's account the words are spoken in an undertone, she hears them, and the blood rushes to her cheeks. and now 'parsifal' is over, the second act, with its fluttering flower-girl scene, in rather frivolous contrast with the serious motive of the work, its crude inharmonious decorations, and its wonderful dramatic finale; the third act too is over, with its sadly-sweet sunrise melody, its good friday spell resolving itself into the angelic music of the spheres. with the hovering harp-arpeggio of the final scene still thrilling in their souls, erika and her grandmother with lord langley drive back to town, leaving behind them the melancholy rustle of the forest, and hearing around them the rolling of wheels, the cracking of whips, and the footsteps of hundreds of pedestrians. life throbs in erika's veins more warmly than it is wont to do; she is filled with a vague foreboding unknown to her hitherto. she seems to herself to be confronting the solution of a great secret, beside which she has pursued her thoughtless way, and around which the entire world circles. at the door of their lodgings lord langley takes his leave of the ladies: with a lover's tenderness he slips down the glove from his betrothed's white wrist and imprints upon it two ardent kisses, as he whispers, "i trust that my charming erika will be in a more gracious mood to morrow." the disagreeable sensation caused by his warm breath upon her cheek was persistent; she could not rid herself of it. she sent away her maid, and whilst she was undressing took from her pocket the packet of letters which goswyn had left with her. she had carried it with her all day long, without finding a moment in which to destroy the papers. now she removed their outside envelope, merely to assure herself that they were her mother's letters. yes, she recognized the handwriting,--not the strong, almost masculine characters which had distinguished her mother's writing in the latter years of her life, but the long, slanting, faded hand which erika could remember in the old exercise-books of her school-days. nothing could have tempted the girl to read these letters: she kissed the poor yellow sheets twice, sadly and reverentially, and then she held them one by one in the flame of her candle. her heart was very heavy; a yearning for tenderness, for sympathy, possessed her, and she felt sore and discouraged. the wailing music, the shuddering alluring strains of sinful worldly desire, still haunted her soul with the glance of the stranger who seemed to her no stranger. she felt a choking sensation at the thought of his companion. never before had she come in contact with anything of the kind. she lay down, but could not sleep. how sultry, even stifling, was the atmosphere! the windows of the little room were wide open, but the air that came in from without was heavy and inodorous: it brought no refreshment. the tread of a belated pedestrian echoed in the street below, and there was the sound of laughter and song from some inn in the neighbourhood. suddenly the door opened, and the old countess entered, in a white dressing-gown and lace night-cap. she had a small lamp in her hand, which she put down on a table, and then, seating herself on the edge of the bed, she scanned the young girl with penetrating eyes. "is anything troubling you, my child?" she began, after a while. erika tried to say no, but the word would not pass her lips. instead of replying, she turned away her face. "what was the difficulty between lord langley and yourself to-day?" the grandmother went on to ask. erika was mute. "tell me the simple truth," the old countess insisted. "did you not have some dispute this morning?" "oh, it was nothing," erika replied, impatiently; "only--he attempted to play the lover, and i thought it quite unnecessary. such folly is very unbecoming in a man of his age; and, besides, i cannot endure anything of the kind." a strange expression appeared upon the grandmother's face,--the same that goswyn had worn when his indignation had suddenly been transformed into pity for the girl. she cleared her throat once or twice, and then remarked, dryly, "how then do you propose to live with lord langley?" erika stared at her in dismay. "good heavens! i have thought very little about it. you know well that i do not wish to marry for love. that is why i accepted an old man instead of a young one,--because i supposed he would refrain from all lover-like folly. you have always told me that you married my grandfather without love, and that it turned out very well." her grandmother was silent for a while before she rejoined, "in the first place, constituted as you are, i should wish for you a less prosaic companion for life than your grandfather; but, at the same time, the torture which, with your exaggerated sensitiveness, awaits you in marrying lord langley bears no comparison with the simple tedium of my married life. we married in compliance with a family arrangement; and if i did so with but a small amount of esteem for him, he for his part brought to the match no devouring passion for me,--which i should have found most annoying. but the case is entirely different with lord langley. he is as desperately in love with you as an old fool can be whose passion is stimulated by the consciousness of his age." something in the horrified face of the inexperienced young girl must have intensified the old countess's pity for her. "my poor child, i had no idea of your innocence and inexperience. i have lived on from day to day without in the least comprehending the young creature beside me." she kissed the girl with infinite tenderness, put out the light, and left her alone, her burning face buried in the pillows and sobbing convulsively, a picture of despair. the next day erika broke her engagement to lord langley. chapter xv. erika's betrothal to lord langley had produced a sensation in society, but it had been regarded as a very sensible arrangement. the girl had been envied, and all had declared that her ambition had achieved its aim in a marriage with an english peer. malice had not been silent: she had been credited with heartlessness,--but then she had done vastly well for herself. the announcement that the engagement was dissolved gave rise to all sorts of reports. no one knew the real reason of the breach, and had it been known it would not have been credited. the belief steadily gained ground that lord langley had been the first to withdraw, dismayed by the discovery of erika's objectionable relative strachinsky, and shocked by the girl's heartless treatment of him. countess brock furnished the material for this report, the princess dorothea detailed it with various additions, and in the eyes of berlin society erika was nothing more than an ambitious blunderer who had experienced a tremendous rebuff. it was edifying to hear dorothea descant upon this theme, winding up her remarks with, "i do not pity erika,--i never liked her,--but poor old countess lenzdorff. she has always been one of aunt brock's friends." there had been an apparent change in the princess dorothea from the day when she had publicly insulted goswyn von sydow in charlottenburg avenue. the story had been told greatly to her discredit, and not only had her cousin prince helmy forsworn his allegiance to her, but the other men who had been present at that memorable interview had since held aloof from her. she found herself compelled to attract a fresh circle of admirers,--which she did at the sacrifice of every remnant of good taste which she yet possessed. after this for a while she pursued her madly gay career; but for a year past there had been a change. the number of her admirers had greatly diminished,--was reduced, indeed, to a prince orbanoff, who was now her shadow. she boasted of her good resolutions, went to church every sunday, was shocked at the women who read french novels, and was altogether rather a prudish character. society held itself on the defensive, and did not put much faith in her boasted virtue. but when she calumniated erika society believed her; at least this was the case with the society of envious young beauties whom she met every friday at the 'wicked fairy's,' where they made clothes for the poor. when, late in the autumn, the lenzdorffs returned to berlin, supposing that the little episode of erika's betrothal was already forgotten by society, they were met on all sides by a malicious show of sympathy. erika regarded all this with utter indifference, and withdrew from all gaiety as far as she could, but the old countess fretted and fumed with indignation. she could not comprehend why all the world could not view erika from her own point of view; and her exaggerated defence of the girl contributed to make erika's position still more disagreeable. moreover, age was beginning to cast its first shadows over the countess's clear mind. she was especially annoyed, also, by goswyn's holding aloof. he had replied courteously, but with extreme reserve, to the countess's letter informing him, not without exultation, of the breaking of erika's engagement. this was as it should be; but when the answer to a second letter written much later was quite as reserved, the old countess was vexed and impatient. erika insisted upon reading this second epistle herself. her hands trembled as she held it, and when she had finished it she laid it on the table without a word, and left the room as pale as ashes. to the grandmother, whose heart was filled with tenderness, all the more intense because it had been first aroused in her old age, her grand-daughter's evident pain was intolerable. after a while she went to her in her room. the girl was sitting at the window, erect and pale. she had a book in her hand, and the countess observed that she held it upside down. "erika," she said, tenderly laying her hand on the girl's shoulder, "i only wanted to tell you----" erika arose, cold and courteous. "you wanted to tell me--what?" she asked, as she laid aside her book. "that--that----" erika's dry manner embarrassed her a little, but after a pause she went on: "i wanted to tell you not to take any fancies into your head with regard to goswyn." "fancies? of what kind?" erika asked, calmly, becoming absorbed in the contemplation of her almond-shaped nails. "you would do him great injustice by supposing that his regard for you is one whit less than it ever was." "indeed! i should do him injustice?" erika questioned in the same unnaturally quiet tone. "i think not. it is not my fashion to deceive myself. i know perfectly well that--that i have sunk in goswyn's esteem; it is a very unpleasant conviction, i confess; and, to be frank, i would rather you did not mention the subject again." "but, erika, if you would only listen," the old countess persisted. "he adores you. his pride alone keeps him from you: you are too wealthy; your social position is too brilliant." erika waved aside this explanation of affairs. "say no more," she cried. "i know what i know! but you must not waste your pity upon me: my vanity is wounded, not my heart. i value goswyn highly, and it troubles me that he no longer admires me as he did, but, i assure you, i have not the slightest desire to marry him. i pray you to believe this: at least it may prevent you, perhaps, from throwing me at his head a second time, without my knowledge. if you do it, i declare to you, i will reject him." as she uttered the last words, the girl's self-command forsook her, her voice had a hard metallic ring in it, and her eyes flashed angrily. her grandmother turned and left the room with bowed head. scarcely had the sound of her footsteps died away when erika locked her door, threw herself upon her bed, buried her face in the pillows, and burst into tears. what she had declared to her grandmother was in a measure true: she herself supposed it to be entirely true. she really had no wish to marry, and there was in her heart no trace of passionate sentiment for goswyn, but she was bruised and sore, and she longed for the tender sympathy he had always shown her. at times she would fain have fled to him from the cold judgment and scrutiny of the world. after she had relieved herself by tears, she understood herself more clearly. sitting on the edge of her bed, her handkerchief crushed into a ball in her hand, she said, half aloud, "i have lied to my grandmother. if he had come i would have married him,--yes, without loving him; but it would have been wrong: no one has a right to marry such a man as goswyn out of sheer despair because one does not know in what direction to throw away one's life. but why think of it? he does not care for me. why, why did my grandmother write to him? i cannot bear it!" chapter xvi. a few days afterwards the lenzdorffs left berlin, to spend the winter in rome, where erika, incited thereto by her grandmother, went into society perpetually, without taking the least pleasure in it. and she made no secret of her indifference, her discontent. the bark of her existence, once so safe and sure in its course, seemed to have lost its bearings: she saw no aim in life worthy the effort to pursue it. she indulged in fits of causeless melancholy; yet all the while her beauty bloomed out into fuller perfection, and all unconsciously to herself life throbbed within her and demanded its right. the old countess, who did not understand her condition, looked upon it as a morbid crisis in the girl's life; but she never dreamed how fraught with danger the crisis was. thus she utterly failed to appreciate or to sympathize with her grand-daughter; and, whether because of her exaggerated admiration for her, or because her age was beginning to tell upon her powers of perception, she did not suspect the slow approach of the fever which had begun to undermine the young creature's existence. towards the end of february, just at the close of the carnival, erika told her grandmother that she was heartily tired of rome, and wished to see italy from some other point of view. after much deliberation, venice was chosen for their next abode; and here the old countess refused to follow the usual custom of foreigners and rent a palazzo: she declared that in venice true comfort was to be found only in a hotel. so a suite of rooms was hired in the hotel britannia,--four airy apartments, in which their predecessor had been a crowned head, and two of which looked out upon the church of santa maria della salute, whilst the other two had a view of the small garden of the hotel, and, across its low wall, of the grand canal. of course they had a gondola for their own private use; but erika was not fond of availing herself of it. the rocking motion, the monotonous plash of the water, excited still further her irritated nerves; she preferred taking long walks,--at first, out of deference to her grandmother's wishes, accompanied by the maid marianne. she soon tired, however, of such uncongenial companionship, and induced her grandmother to allow her to pursue alone her investigations of the corners and by-ways of venice. she explored the curiosity-shops, spent whole days in the galleries, and made wonderful discoveries in the way of bargains in old stuffs and artistic antiquities, until her little salon became a museum of such treasures. in one corner stood a grand piano, seated at which at times she poured out her soul in all that is most beautiful and most tragic in music. the old countess left her to pursue her own path, and occupied herself very differently. in spite of her original and independent view of life, and her readiness to criticise frankly all that was artificial and conventional, she loved _les chemins battus_. she went the way of the multitude,--saw nothing of venetian by-ways, but devoted her time to museums and works of art, being indefatigable in her daily round of sight-seeing. and yet, although her health seemed as robust as ever, and she could apparently endure far more fatigue than her grand-daughter, she was no longer what she had been. her extraordinary memory began to fail, and the interest which formerly had been excited only by affairs of some moment was now ready to be aroused in petty concerns. she took pleasure in gossip, allowed marianne to detail to her scraps of the venetian _chronique scandaleuse_ picked up from the couriers in the hotel, and, worst of all, the fine edge of her moral sentiment seemed in a degree blunted. she would repeat to erika, without the slightest idea of the pain she was inflicting, stories and reports of a nature to offend the girl's sense of morality and delicacy. nothing any longer shocked her: love and hatred of her kind seemed blunted under the influence of a low estimate of human nature which she called a philosophic view of life. she simply never observed how erika's cheeks burned when she suddenly disclosed to her the lapse from virtue, hidden from the superficial world, of some woman whom they had met in society; she never perceived the girl's feverish agitation upon hearing her grandmother calmly advance all sorts of excuses for the so-called indiscretion. she did not suppose her revelations could affect erika disagreeably; although erika did not always allow her to talk on without interruption; she would sometimes bluntly declare that she could not believe what her grandmother thus told her. then the old countess would reply, "i really cannot see what reason you have to disbelieve it. you cannot alter human nature by shutting your eyes to its defects." whereupon erika would say, with annihilating emphasis, "if human nature really is what you describe it, i cannot understand your pleasure in frequenting society, since you must despise unutterably those who compose it." "despise!" her grandmother repeated, shaking her head. "i despise no one. knowing, as i do, how mankind struggles under the burden of animal instincts, i wonder to see it ever rise above them, and i am forced to esteem men in spite of everything." erika only repeated, angrily, "esteem! esteem!" her grandmother's mode of esteeming mankind was certainly extraordinary. chapter xvii. the princess dorothea was pacing her salon restlessly to and fro. from time to time she gazed out of the window into the dreary berlin march weather, upon the heaps of dirty snow shovelled up on each side of the street and slowly melting beneath the falling rain. the princess was annoyed. she had been left out in the invitation to a court ball. usually she would have ascribed the omission to an oversight of the authorities, but to-day the matter disturbed her: instead of an oversight she suspected the omission to have been an intentional slight, and her steps as she walked to and fro were short and impatient. why were they so frightfully moral in berlin, so aggressively moral? she asked herself. everywhere else people might do as they chose, if only appearances were preserved. what had she done, after all? long ago in florence feistmantel had explained to her that marriage, as arranged in civilized countries, was entirely unnatural. the princess, still pure, in spite of the degradation about her, had laughed aloud at the philosophic view thus advanced by her companion and guide. years afterwards she had recalled this theory that it might serve to justify herself to herself; and lately--only yesterday--feistmantel, who was established in berlin and gave music-lessons in the most aristocratic circles, had enunciated the same views at a breakfast to which dorothea had invited her, and the princess had contradicted her positively, had been rude to her, had nearly turned her out of doors, but at the last moment had apologized almost humbly and had finally dismissed her with a handsome present. she had suspected behind feistmantel's assertion of her philosophic view a mean attempt to ingratiate herself with her hostess. "as if feistmantel could suspect anything! no human being can suspect anything," she repeated several times. "and, after all, there is scarcely a woman, beautiful and admired, who is not worse than i." in the midst of all her superficiality and moral recklessness, she had always been characterized by a certain frankness, which at times had passed the bounds of decorum; now she writhed under a burden of hypocrisy which weighed most heavily upon her. and why was this so? it had all been the gradual result of the tedium of the life she led. a man more coarse and rough than any of her other admirers had paid court to her in a way that flattered her vanity; he amused her, he brought some variety into her life; his lavishness was astounding. once when he had lost a wager to her he brought her a diamond necklace in an easter egg. she knew that this was wrong, but she had been wont as a girl to accept presents from men, and then she had an almost morbid delight in diamonds. and what stones these were!--a chain of dew-drops glittering in the morning sun! and he had so careless a way of throwing the costly gift into her lap, as if it had been the merest trifle. she could not resist wearing the necklace once at the next court ball,--explaining to her husband, who understood nothing of such things, that she had purchased it for a mere song at a sale of old jewelry. she intended to return it; but she did not return it. from that moment he had her in his power. he lured her on as a serpent lures a bird, extorting from her one innocent concession after another, until one day---- good god! if she could but obliterate the memory of that day! to call the torment which she suffered from that time stings of conscience would be to invest it with ideality. no, she felt no stings of conscience; her moral sense was entirely blunted; but she was enraged with herself for having fallen into the snare; her pride was humbled in the dust, and she was in mortal dread of discovery. she was a coward to the core. what would she not have given to be free? she would have broken with her lover ten times, but that she feared him more than she did her husband. he was a russian, fabulously wealthy, and notorious in the parisian demi-monde which he habitually frequented. orbanoff was his name, and outside of his own country he was credited with princely rank to which he had no title,--a man with no moral sense, brutal on occasion, with no idea of the laws of honour prevailing in western europe, but of an undoubted physical courage, which helped him to maintain his present position. princess dorothea was convinced that should she break with him he would commit some reckless, impossible crime. oh, if he would only release her! she began to build castles in the air. never, never again would she be concerned in such an adventure. all the romances that she had read were lies: there was nothing in the world more hateful than just this. only once in her life had she been conscious of any real preference for a man, and that had been for her cousin helmy; now of all men her own clumsy, thoroughly honourable and intensely good-natured husband was the dearest. he was at present on his estate in silesia, where he was much happier than in the society of the capital. dorothea had made him so uncomfortable in berlin that he always stayed as long as possible in silesia. to-day she longed for him; she wanted him to take her on his knee and soothe her like a tired child, and then to have him carry her in his strong arms down the broad staircase of his old castle in kossnitz, as he used to do when they were first married. yes, she longed for his strong supporting arm. ah, if she were only free! she would turn her back on berlin and go with him to kossnitz. she positively hungered for kossnitz,--for the odour of stone and whitewash in the broad corridors, for the airy, bare rooms, for the farm-yard with the brown farm-buildings. how picturesque it must all look now in the snow!--for the snow was still deep in silesia. they would go sleighing: oh, how delicious it would be to rush along, warmly wrapped up, with only her face exposed to the fresh wintry breeze, the sleigh-bells ringing merrily, the horses mad with their exciting gallop, the snow-clad forest gleaming silvery white around them! and how delicious would be the supper when they got home!--she would have done with all fashionable division of the day: they would dine at one, and she would have potatoes in their skins at supper-time,--she had not had them since she was a child,--and black bread, and sour milk:--how she liked sour milk! one hope she had. was it not orbanoff whom she had seen last night in the background of the box of a young actress? it was not his habit to conceal himself on such occasions: probably he had been thus discreet on her account. an idea suddenly occurred to her. what an opportunity this might afford her to recover her freedom! all she had to do was to feign furious jealousy, and break with her dangerous lover without wounding his vanity. on the instant she felt relieved, and even gay, in the light of this hope. the clock struck five,--the hour of her appointment with orbanoff. without ringing for her maid, she dressed herself in the plainest of walking-costumes and left the house. she walked for some distance, then hired a droschky and was driven to a shop in potsdam street, where she dismissed the vehicle, bought some trifle, and walked on still farther before hiring another conveyance. at about eight o'clock of the same day, goswyn von sydow, who had lately been transferred to berlin, where he was acting as adjutant to an exalted personage, issued from the low door of a small house in a side-street where he had attended the baptism of the first-born son of one of his early friends, a young fellow of decided talent, who had married a girl without a fortune, and who did not at all regret his choice. the home was modest enough, but was so unmistakably the abode of the truest happiness that sydow could not but envy his friend his lot in life. how pleasant it had all been! he lighted a cigar, but held it idly between his fingers without smoking it, and reflected upon his own requirements in a wife,--requirements which one woman alone could fulfil, and she---- could he forget his pride, and try his fortune once more? his heart throbbed. no! under the circumstances, he could not. he never could forget that he had been taunted with erika's wealth. even if he could win her love, their marriage would begin with a discord. if she were but poor! the blood tingled rapturously in his veins at the thought of how, if trial or misfortune should befall her, he might take her to his arms and soothe and cheer her, making her rich with his devotion and tenderness. he suddenly stood still, as if some obstacle lay in his path. had he really been capable of selfishly invoking trouble and trial upon erika's head? he looked about him like one awaking from a dream. just at his elbow a young woman glided out of a large house with several doors. he scarcely noticed her at first, but all at once he drew a long breath. how strange that he should perceive that peculiar fragrance, the rare perfume used by his sister-in-law, dorothea! he could have sworn that dorothea was near. he looked around: there was no one to be seen save the girl who had just slipped by him, a poorly-clad girl carrying a bundle. he had not fairly looked at her before, but now--it was strange--in the distance she resembled his sister-in-law: it was certainly she. he was on the point of hurrying after her to make sure, but second thoughts told him that it really mattered nothing to him whether it were she or not: it was not his part to play the spy upon her. he turned and walked back in the opposite direction, that he might not see her. as he passed the house whence she had come, a man muffled in furs issued from the same door-way. the two men looked each other in the face. goswyn recognized orbanoff. for a moment each maintained what seemed an embarrassed silence. the russian was the first to recover himself. "_mais bon soir_," he exclaimed, with great cordiality. "_je ne vous remettais pas_." goswyn touched his cap and passed on. he no longer doubted. the next morning dorothea von sydow awaked, after a sound refreshing sleep, with a very light heart. she was free! all had gone well. she had first regaled orbanoff with a frightfully jealous scene to spare his vanity, but in the end they had resolved upon a separation _à l'aimable_, and the princess dorothea had then made merry, declaring that their love should have a gay funeral; whereupon she had partaken of the champagne supper that had been prepared for her, had chatted gaily with orbanoff, had listened to his stories, and they had parted forever with a laugh. now she was sitting by the fire in her dressing-room, comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair, dressed in a gray dressing-gown trimmed with fur, looking excessively pretty, and sipping chocolate from an exquisite cup of berlin porcelain. "thank god, it is over!" she said to herself again and again. but, superficial as she was, she could not quite convince herself that her relations with orbanoff were of no more consequence than a bad dream. she felt no remorse, but a gnawing discontent: she would have given much to be able to obliterate her worse than folly. she sighed; then she yawned. she still longed for her husband and kossnitz: she would leave berlin this very evening for silesia and surprise him. how delighted he would be! she clapped her hands like a child. suddenly--it was intolerable--again she was conscious of that gnawing discontent. could she never forget? and all for what she had never cared for in the least. she thrust both her hands among her short curls and began to sob violently. just then the door of the room opened; a tall, broad-shouldered man with a kindly, florid face entered. she looked up, startled as by a thunderclap. the new arrival gazed at her tearful face, and, hastening towards her, exclaimed, "my dear little thea, what in heaven's name is the matter?" she clasped her arms about his neck as she had never done before. he pressed his lips to hers. goswyn was sitting at his writing-table,--an enormous piece of furniture, somewhat in disarray,--trying to read. but it would not do; and at last he gave it up. he was distressed, disgusted beyond measure, at his discovery with regard to dorothea. the sydows had hitherto prided themselves upon the purity of their women as upon the honour of their men. nothing like that which he had discovered had ever happened in the family. he had suspected the mischief before; since yesterday he had been sure. must he look calmly on? what else could he do? to open his brother's eyes, to play the accuser, was impossible. yes, he must look on calmly. he clinched his fist. at that moment he heard a familiar deep voice outside the room, questioning his servant. "otto! what is he doing in berlin?" he asked himself; "and he seems in a merry mood." he sprang up. the door opened, and otto rushed in, rough, clumsy as usual, but beaming with happiness. he laid his broad hand upon his brother's shoulder, and cried,-- "how are you, old fellow? why, you look down in the dumps. anything gone wrong?" "nothing," goswyn declared, doing his best to look delighted. "is everything all right?" "everything." "that's as it should be. i suppose you are surprised to see me drop down from the skies in this fashion." "i am indeed." "'tis quite a story. but i say, gos, how comfortable you are here!" and he began to stride to and fro in the bachelor apartment; "although you don't waste much time or money in decoration, old fellow: not a pretty woman on the walls. h'm! my room looked rather different in my bachelor days. what have you done with your gallery of beauties, gos?" "i bequeathed all my youthful follies to my cousin brock, who got his lieutenancy six weeks ago," said goswyn, to whom his brother's chatter was especially distasteful to-day. "h'm! h'm! you're right: you're getting quite too old for such nonsense." and otto stooped to examine two or three photographs that adorned his brother's writing-table. "that's a capital picture of old countess lenzdorff," he exclaimed,--"capital! here is our father when he was young,--i look like him,--and here is uncle goswyn, our famous hero, killed in a duel at thirty years of age. they say old countess lenzdorff was in love with him. as if she could ever have been in love! and you look like him: our mother always said so. oh, here is our mother!" he took the faded picture, in its old-fashioned frame, to the window to examine it. "this is the best picture there is of her," he said. "think of your ever being that pretty little rogue in a white frock in her arms, and i that boy in breeches by her side! comical, but very attractive, such a picture of a young mother with her children. how she clasps you in her arms! she always loved you best. where did you get this picture?" "my mother gave it to me when i was quite young. she brought it to me when she came to see me in my first garrison, shortly before her death," said goswyn. "i remember; you had been wounded in your first duel." "yes; she came to nurse me." "ah, you've a deal on your conscience. no one would believe you were worse than i; but"--with a look at the picture--"i'd give a great deal for such a little fellow as that." and he put the picture back in its place with a care that was unlike him, and that touched goswyn. with his usual want of tact, otto proceeded to efface the pleasant impression he had produced. "have you no picture of the lenzdorff girl?" he asked, looking round the room. "i may have one somewhere," goswyn replied, evasively. indeed, he had a charming picture of her in the first bloom of her maiden loveliness; but he kept it behind lock and key, that no profane eye might rest upon his treasure. "what a tone you take!" otto rejoined. "why, she was a flame of yours. a capital girl, only rather too full of crotchets: she was always a little too high up in the sky for me, but she would have suited you. i cannot understand why you did not seize your chance----" "now you are going too far," goswyn said, with some irritation. "do not pretend that you do not know that erika lenzdorff rejected me." "what!" exclaimed otto, in some dismay. "true, i remember hearing something of the kind; but that was a hundred years ago. forgive me, gos: the 'no' of a girl of eighteen who looks at one as the young countess looked at you ought not to be taken seriously. why don't you try your luck a second time? you cannot attach any importance to that intermezzo with the englishman! why, you are made for each other; and she is quite wealthy, too----" "otto, for god's sake stop marching up and down the room like a lion in a cage," cried goswyn, unable to bear it any longer; "do sit down like a reasonable creature and tell me how you come to appear so unexpectedly in berlin." otto lit a cigar and obediently seated himself in an arm-chair opposite his brother. "'tis quite a story," he began, just as he had a quarter of an hour before. "you've told me that already." "now, don't be so impatient. i know i am rather slow at explanations. you see, gos, of late matters have not gone quite right between thea and myself. there is sure to be fault on both sides in such cases: i could not be satisfied with the stupid life here in town, and she did not care for silesia, so we agreed that i should stay at home, while she diverted herself for a while in town, and perhaps she would come back to me and be more contented in the end. i know that certain people disapproved of my course; but i had my reasons. there's no good in fretting a nervous horse: better give it the rein. but the time seemed long to me, she wrote so seldom and her letters were so incoherent. in short,"--he suddenly began to be embarrassed,--"i got some foolish notions into my head, and so, without letting her know, i appeared in berlin this morning. and how do you think i found poor thea? sitting crying by the fire. just think of it, gos! of course i was frightened, and did all that i could to comfort her, and when she was calm i asked her what was the matter. homesickness, gos! yes, a longing for the old home and for the clumsy bear who is, after all, nearer to her than any other human being. she reproached me for neglecting her,--said i had not even expressed a wish in my letters to see her, and she was just on the point of starting for kossnitz; and she was jealous too,--poor little goose! in short, there were all sorts of a misunderstanding, and the end of it all was that she begged me--begged me like a child--to carry her back to kossnitz. i wish you could have heard her describe our life together there! she would not hear of my going a few days before to make ready for her, but clung to me as if we had been but just married. what is the matter with you, gos?" for his brother had walked to a window, where he stood with his back turned to otto, looking out. "what could be the matter?" goswyn forced himself to reply. "then why do you stand looking out of the window as if you took not the least interest in what i am telling you?" "forgive me: there is a crowd in the street about a horse that has fallen down." "very well: if every broken-down hack in the street can interest you more than what is next my heart, there is no use in my talking. but i know what it is; you were always unjust to thea; you never understood her. adieu!" and otto took his hat and walked towards the door. goswyn conquered himself. what affair was it of his if his brother was happy in an illusion? he ought to do all that he could to prevent his eyes from being opened. he laid his hand upon otto's arm and said, kindly, "forgive me, otto; you must not take it ill if such a confirmed old bachelor as i does not share as he should in your happiness; it all seems so foreign to such a life as mine." otto's brow cleared. "i was silly," he confessed. "i ought not to have been so irritable. poor gos! but indeed i should rejoice from my heart if you could marry. there is nothing like it in the world. you need not frown: i never will mention the subject to any one else." "yes, yes, otto. and when are you going home?" "to-morrow. we are going to spend a few weeks at kossnitz, and then we are to take a trip together. i came to ask you if you would not lunch with us to-day, that we might see something of you in comfort. this room of yours is decidedly cold. do you never have it any warmer? dorothea especially begs you to come,--at one o'clock." "indeed! does dorothea want me?" "gos!" "i will come. i have one or two things to attend to, but i will be with you in half an hour." and the brothers parted. a few hours have passed. goswyn had appeared punctually at lunch, and had done his best not to be a spoil-sport. they were now sitting by the fire in the little _salon_ in which they had taken coffee, goswyn and his brother. the early twilight began to make itself felt, but no object was as yet indistinct. dorothea had gone out to inform her aunt brock of her projected departure and to ask her to make a few farewell calls for her. she had met goswyn with such gay indifference that he had been puzzled indeed, and had finally begun to believe that he had been mistaken,--that the person whom he had supposed to be dorothea sydow was not she at all. something had happened in her life, however; of that he was convinced. never had dorothea been so simply charming. she gave him her hand in token of reconciliation, alluded, not without regret, to her defective education, told an anecdote or two with much grace and in a softened tone of voice, and clung to otto like an ailing child. "we are going to begin all over again,--all over again," she repeated, adding, "and when gos has forgotten what a bad creature i used to be, and that he could not bear me, he will come and see us at kossnitz: won't you, gos? you shall see how pleasant i will make it for you there. you have absolutely hated me; or perhaps you thought me not worth hating,--you only detested me as one detests a caterpillar or a spider. i confess, i hated you. i always felt as if i ought to be ashamed in your presence; and that is not a pleasant sensation." she laughed, the old giggling silvery laugh, but there was a pathetic tone in it as she brushed away the tears from her eyes, and left the room, to return in a few moments, fresh and smiling, equipped for her walk. she kissed her husband by way of farewell, and held out her hand to goswyn. "shall i find you here when i return, gos?" she asked, just before the door closed behind her. "there is no one like her!" murmured otto. "and to think that i could ever fancy a bachelor existence a pleasant one! but all is different now." the good fellow's eyes were moist as he passed his hand over them. shortly afterwards they heard a ring at the outside door. "some visitor,--the deuce!" growled otto. goswyn looked about for his sabre, which he had stood in a corner. but it was no visitor. dorothea's maid entered. "a package has come for her excellency," she announced. "perhaps the herr baron will sign the receipt." "give it to me, jenny." sydow signed it, and then said, "and give me the package. i will hand it to your mistress." the maid gave it to him: it was a thick sealed envelope. a dreadful suspicion flashed upon goswyn's mind: in an instant he guessed the truth. what if it should occur to his brother to open the envelope? apparently he had no thought of doing so: he simply laid it upon dorothea's writing-table, a pretty, useless piece of furniture, much carved and decorated. goswyn felt relieved. he suddenly became garrulous, talked of the latest political complication, told the last story of the intense piety of the countess waldersee, as narrated by the prince at a recent supper-party, and described the four magnificent horses sent by the sultan to the emperor. otto sat with his back to the ominous packet. it did not escape goswyn that he became very monosyllabic and did not show much interest in his brother's conversation. "if she would only return!" goswyn thought to himself. he was convinced that the packet contained dorothea's letters to orbanoff. he had not been mistaken the previous evening: it had been dorothea who had passed him, evidently returning to her home from a last interview. the affair, odious as it was, was at an end: dorothea was relieved that it was so. she was not fitted to engage in a dangerous intrigue. suddenly otto began to sniff, as if perceiving some odour in the air. "'tis odd," he said. "don't you perceive a peculiar fragrance? if it were not too silly, i should say that it smells like dorothea." "that would not be odd," his brother rejoined, "since she left the room only half an hour ago." "but i did not perceive it before," otto said; and then, with sudden irritability, turning towards the writing-table, he added, "it is that confounded packet!" "it probably contains something of dorothea's which she has accidentally left at a friend's." but otto had taken the packet from the table. he turned it over. "i know the seal,--a die with the motto _va banque_: it is orbanoff's seal!" his breath came quick. "what can orbanoff have sent her?" "probably some political treatise. i do not see how it can interest you," said goswyn. once more otto turned the packet over in his hands. he seemed about to lay it down on the writing-table again; then, at the last moment, before goswyn could bethink himself, he opened it hastily. about a dozen short notes, in dorothea's childish handwriting, fell out, then a note of orbanoff's. otto's eyes were riveted upon it with a glassy stare; he could not yet comprehend. then with a sudden cry he crushed the note together, tossed it to goswyn, and buried his face in his hands. a dull, brooding silence followed. goswyn held the note in his hand, without reading it: it was not for him to pry curiously into his brother's anguish and disgrace. after a while otto raised his head. "what have you to say?" he exclaimed, bitterly. "that such another idiot as i does not live upon the earth? say it! ah, you have not read the note, goswyn. why do you look at me so? could you have known---- oh, my god! my god!" the strong man buried his face in his hands again, and sobbed hoarsely. goswyn was terribly distressed. he had never known his brother to weep since his childhood. he would far rather have had him fall into a fury. but no; he was weeping: the sense of disgrace was drowned in agony. before long he collected himself, ashamed of his weakness, and there was the quiet of despair in the face he lifted to goswyn. "you knew it--since when?" "i know nothing," goswyn replied. "no, you know nothing,--good god! who ever knows anything in such affairs?--but you suspected, did you not?" goswyn was silent. "perhaps you can tell me how many people in berlin--suspect it?" goswyn bit his lip. what reply could he make? after a while he began: "otto, i would have given anything in the world to prevent you from learning it." "indeed!" otto interrupted him. "you would have let me go through life grinning amiably, ridiculously, with a stain on my name at which people would point contemptuously, and you never would have told me of that stain? goswyn!" he started up; goswyn also arose, and the brothers confronted each other beside the hearth, upon which the fire had fallen into glowing embers and ashes. "i ought certainly to have given dorothea opportunity to expiate her fault. she was in the right path," said goswyn. "the result of her frivolity had caused her a panic of terror: the entire affair had been a burden to her from the beginning, as you can see by her relief that it is at an end. one must take her as she is. all this has less significance for dorothea than for any other woman whom i know. it has not entered into her soul. it has left nothing behind it but a horror of it all from beginning to end." otto looked suspiciously at his brother. was this goswyn who talked thus?--goswyn the strict,--goswyn, so uncompromising where honour was concerned? yes, it was goswyn; there was no denying it. "and you think that i should--i should--forgive?" murmured otto, hoarsely, as if ashamed to utter the words. "if you can so far conquer yourself." otto stooped and picked up the letters that had fallen upon the floor. he glanced through one of them. "there is not much tenderness in these lines, i must say." and he dropped at his side the hand holding the packet. "one piece of advice i must give you," said goswyn, with a coldness in his tone which he could not quite disguise. "if you forgive, you must have the strength of soul to forgive absolutely. if you forgive, throw those letters into the fire: dorothea must never learn that you know anything." "yes," otto said, dully. suddenly he went close to goswyn, and, looking him full in the eye, said, between his teeth, "would you forgive?" goswyn started. he had no answer ready. "i--i never should have married dorothea," he said, evasively. "i understand," otto said, in the same hoarse whisper. "you never would have forgiven; but it is all right for stupid otto." again there was a distressing pause. otto had turned away from his brother, with an inarticulate exclamation of pain. goswyn gave him some moments in which to recover himself; then, laying his hand on his brother's arm, he said, "do not take it so ill of me, otto; i have no doubt i talk foolishly. i cannot decide; i am confused." "no wonder," groaned otto. "the position is a novel one for you: there has never been anything like it in our family. oh, god!" he struck his forehead with his clinched fist; "i cannot believe it! i used to be jealous at times, but of no special person. never, never could i have believed,--never!" "otto." "what?" "since you cannot bring yourself to forgive----" "since i cannot bring myself to forgive----" otto repeated, with bowed head. "you must at least look the matter boldly in the face and decide what to do." "decide--what--to do----" "are you going to procure a divorce?" otto stood motionless. goswyn laid his hand upon his shoulder; otto shrank from his touch. "leave me, gos!" he gasped. "i beg you, go!" the clock on dorothea's writing-table struck: the tone was almost like that of dorothea's voice. goswyn looked round. six o'clock. at seven he was invited to dine with a great personage,--an invitation tantamount to a command: he could not be absent. it was high time for him to go home to dress, but he could not bear to leave otto alone. "i must go," he said, "but i entreat you to come with me; you must not see dorothea just now, and the fresh air will do you good and clear your thoughts." "why should they be clearer than they are?" otto said, wearily and with intense bitterness. "i see more than you think. but go,--go: in a few minutes she will be here, and it would be more terrible to me than i can tell you to see her before you. no need to say more: i know that you will stand by me through thick and thin! there, give me your hand. i will do nothing unworthy of us, i promise you. now go!" goswyn had gone, but dorothea had not yet returned. otto sat alone beside the dying fire. he could not comprehend what had befallen him. he must rid himself of this terrible oppression, but how? some way must be found,--some solution of the problem: he sought for it in vain. "forgive!" the word rang in his ears, and his cheeks burned. how had goswyn dared to suggest such a thing? no, it was impossible. be divorced,--have her name dragged in the mire, and his shame published in all the newspapers? he stamped his foot. "no! no!" what then? he could challenge orbanoff, and send dorothea adrift in the world, a wife, not divorced, but separated from her husband. this was what the world would expect of him. he shivered as with fever. send her adrift into the world without protection, without support, without moral strength, beautiful as she was,--expose her to insult from women, to sneering homage from men: she would sink to the lowest depths, not from depravity, but from despair. he wiped the moisture from his forehead. that would be the correct thing to do,--only---- suddenly a sound that was half laughter, half sob, burst from his lips: he knew perfectly well that, while she lived, sooner or later the moment would come when he could no longer endure life without her; and then--then he should follow her, heaven only knew whither, and take her in his arms, even were she far, far more lost than now. and again there rang through his soul, "forgive!" and again his whole being revolted. the packet of letters which he had thrust into his breast weighed him down. it was all very well for goswyn to say that dorothea must never know that the packet had fallen into his hands. why, she would ask for it. ah,--he bit his lip,--he could not think of it! he could not forgive! his burden grew heavier every moment. on a sudden he felt very tired,--overcome with drowsiness. what was that? the rustle of a gown. the door opened. framed by the folds of the portière, indistinct in the gathering twilight, appeared dorothea's tall, lithe figure. she had come, and he had determined upon nothing,--nothing. he did not stir. "gos not here?" she asked, in her high, twittering voice. he tried to summon up his anger against her; he told himself that he ought to strike her,--kill her. but he was as if paralyzed; he could not stir; he trembled in every limb. she did not perceive it, and she could not distinguish his features in the darkness. "so much the better!" she exclaimed. "i am so glad of a quiet cosy evening with you. do you want to please me, otto? come with me now to uhl's and dine, and then let us go to the theatre. will you?" she came up to him. he had arisen, and the fresh sweetness of her feminine nature seemed to envelop him. she put both her hands on his shoulders and nestled close to him. "will you?" she murmured again. he put his arms around her and kissed her twice as he never had kissed her before, with a tenderness in which there was a mixture of rage and glowing, frantic passion. twice he kissed her, and then he suddenly became aware of what he was doing. he thrust her away. "what is the matter?" she asked, startled. "nothing." "but something is the matter." "i tell you no!" he hurled the words in her face as it were, and stamped his foot. "go--get ready!" she lingered for a moment, and then left the room. he looked after her. goswyn's state of mind was indescribable. he hastily changed his uniform and made ready for the dinner. his nerves were quivering with a dread that he could not explain. "he never can bring himself to get a divorce," he said to himself; "and if he forgives----" disgust seemed fairly to choke him; he took shame to himself for having suggested such a course to otto for a moment. he had no right to despise otto. the old family affection for his brother revived in him in full force. as soon as he was dressed he belied his usual spartan habits by sending for a droschky. it would give him time to stop for a moment at dorothea's lodgings to see what was going on there. the monotonous jogging of the vehicle soothed his nerves: his thoughts began to stray. as it turned into moltke street the droschky moderated its speed, and at the same instant a dull sound as of the excited voices of a crowd struck upon his ear. he looked out of the carriage window, upon a close throng of human beings. the vehicle stopped; he sprang out. there was a crowd before the house occupied by his sister-in-law. shoulder to shoulder men were pushing eagerly forward. a smothered murmur made itself heard; now and then a cynical speech fell distinctly on the ear, or a burst of laughter that died away without an echo, mingled with the curses of coachmen who could not make their way through the mass of humanity crowding there in the pale march twilight, through which the glare of the lanterns shone yellow and dreary. at first he could not get to the house; but the crowd soon made way for his officer's uniform. he rang the bell loudly. some time passed before the door was opened for him. measures had evidently been taken to baffle the curiosity of the crowd. the door of dorothea's apartments, however, was open. he hurried onward, finding at first no one to detain him or to give him any information. in the cosy little room, now brilliantly lighted, where he had left his brother, stood dorothea, evidently dressed to go out, in a gray gown, and a bonnet trimmed with pale pink roses, her cheeks ashy pale, her face hard and set in a frightful, unnatural smile. "what has happened?" cried goswyn. she tried to reply, but the words would not come. the smile grew broader, and her eyes glowed. her face recalled to him the evening at the countess brock's, when she looked around after her song and found herself the only woman in the room. one or two persons had made their way into the room. goswyn ordered them out, with an imperious air of command. "where is he?" he asked, hoarsely. she pointed mutely to a door. he entered. it was her sleeping-room, airy, bright, luxurious; and there, at the foot of the bed, lay a dark figure, face downward, with outstretched arms. two officials, one of whom was writing something in a note-book, were in the room. the servant told him it had been entirely unexpected. when her excellency came home, she had exchanged a few words with the herr baron, and had then gone to dress for the theatre. the herr baron had gone into the other room to write a note, and then--while her excellency was in the _salon_ putting on her gloves they had heard--a shot. her excellency had been the first to find him. on the table lay two notes, one to goswyn, the other to dorothea. the contents of dorothea's goswyn never knew: in his own note there was nothing save "dear gos,-- "i have forgiven. "otto." yes, he had forgiven, but his life had paid the forfeit. chapter xviii. the news of otto von sydow's sudden tragic death produced a profound impression upon old countess lenzdorff. she immediately wrote a long letter to goswyn,--eight pages of affectionate and sincere sympathy. erika said very little about the matter, but she looked forward eagerly to goswyn's reply. when it came it was dry, almost formal,--the reply of a man crushed to the earth, who is not wont to discourse about his emotions and is shy of expressing himself with regard to them. thus the countess lenzdorff understood it. her sympathy for the young officer increased after reading his brief note. erika, on the other hand, after perusing the epistle, which her grandmother handed to her with a sigh, showed an unaccountable degree of irritability. "surely he might have written you more cordially!" she exclaimed. "such a letter as this means nothing! it is simply a receipt for your sympathy,--nothing more." her grandmother shook her head, and tried to set her right. but erika would not listen. she had greatly changed of late: her state of mind was growing more and more distressing. she ate and slept but little. her sentiment was searching for a new stay; her life lacked a purpose. at any risk she would gladly have fled from the chill brilliance which characterized her grandmother's philosophy of life to take refuge in some inspiration of the heart, even although it might perhaps lead her astray. religion had been taken from her, and even the sacred nimbus of morality had been frayed by her grandmother's cynicism. when her god had been taken from her she had at first wept hot, bitter tears, but she had aroused herself anew, and faith had been born within her in a transfigured form: it was no longer the conventional belief, expressed in worn-out formulas, with which the multitude satisfy themselves in view of the mysteries of creation, but an apprehension, however faulty, of an order of affairs, incomprehensible to her finite intellect, lifting her above that part of us which is of the earth, earthy,--a faith which may bring with it but little consolation, but which is certainly elevating. when her grandmother first attacked in her presence what she called the 'by god's grace principle' of morality, and coldly proved that all morals culminated in a number of laws not founded in nature,--nay, even at variance with nature,--which had been illogically framed by society for its preservation, she did not weep, but her whole being was poisoned by a discontent which she could not away with. if her grandmother had had the least idea of the effect upon the girl of her cold reasoning, she would have kept to herself the aphorisms which she was so fond of handing about like little delicately-prepared tidbits. her nature, however, was a thoroughly sound and rather cold one, which took no pleasure in overwrought emotion, and which was absolutely free from the devouring thirst which glowed in erika's soul. how could she understand the young creature, or know how to protect her from herself? but if, on the one hand, the old countess had but a poor opinion of mankind, on the other it was impossible for her to forego society. although she had promised erika to resist its temptations in venice, she not only yielded to them herself, but did all that she could to induce the girl to accompany her. her efforts were, however, of no avail, in view of erika's misanthropic and unamiable mood; and thus it came to pass that society witnessed the unusual spectacle of a venerable matron of seventy appearing with indefatigable enjoyment at one afternoon tea after another, while her beautiful young grand-daughter at home confused her mind with the study of metaphysical works or visited the poor abroad. this last had of late been her favourite occupation: she had a long list of beneficiaries, whom she befriended with enthusiastic zeal, and of whom she had learned from the kindly hostess at the hotel and from the doctor when he came to visit his patients there. it was on a cloudy afternoon towards the end of march, after her grandmother had parted from her with a sigh of compassion, that erika set out on foot, as was her wont, to visit a poor music-teacher. the way to the modest lodgings where fräulein horst resided led erika far from the busy riva by a narrow alley to the quiet piazza san zacharie, where grass was growing between the stones. thence the road grew more difficult to find, and it was not without some pride that she threaded accurately the labyrinth of narrow streets and reached the small dwelling in question without having been obliged to inquire her way. she found the poor woman in bed in a wretchedly-furnished room. a table beside her served to hold her various bottles of medicine, and a green screen before the window shut out the light. in the midst of this poverty the music-teacher lay reading "consuelo," and--was happy. a wave of compassion--a compassion that brought the tears to her eyes--overwhelmed erika. she leaned over the invalid and kissed her throbbing temples. then, with the graceful kindliness which characterized her in the presence of sickness or misery, she adorned the room with the flowers she had with her, cleared away the grim witnesses from the table, had a cup of tea made and brought, and set out various little dainties from her basket, talking the while so cheerfully that the invalid forgot her pain. the poor music-teacher followed her every movement in a kind of ecstasy; at last, taking the girl's hand and pressing her feverish lips upon it, she exclaimed, "how could i ever dream that the beautiful countess lenzdorff, whom i have admired at the theatre and at concerts, would ever come to drink a cup of tea with me! ah, what a pleasure it is!" "i am so glad," erika replied, stroking the thin hand held out to her. "i will come often, since you really like to have me." "one never ought to despair, while life lasts," said the sick woman. "just now i received a letter from an old school-mate, sophy lange. when she was a poor girl she fell in love with a gentleman. of course their union was not to be thought of. now, after many years, she writes me that she has reached the goal of her desires: she is married,--she is his wife,--and she is almost crazy with delight." "sophy lange!" erika cried, with peculiar interest. "that was the name of our governess. she must be forty years old." "about that," the woman replied, smiling to herself. "a truly loving heart keeps young even at forty years of age." "and what is her husband's name?" asked erika, smitten by a strange suspicion. "baron strachinsky," replied fräulein horst. "he is of ancient polish lineage, not very wealthy, but dear sophy does not mind that, for a rich old gentleman whom she took care of during his ten-years' illness has left her all his property." "and she is happy?" erika asked, in a kind of terror. "oh, how happy! i am so glad!--so glad! a little romance is so refreshing in these prosaic days. they met each other again on the rigi, at sunrise,--just think, countess! and sophy is not at all pretty,--only dear and kind. now they are in naples; but she tells me that in the course of the spring she and her husband may come to venice. she has had a hard life, but at last--at last--it is good to hear of so happy an end to her troubles." at this point an attack of coughing interrupted her. ah, how terrible it was! the handkerchief she held to her lips was crimsoned. erika did all that she could for her, supported her in her arms, and bade her take courage. when the invalid was more comfortable, she left her, promising to come again on the morrow. "god bless you, countess!" the poor woman murmured, faintly. it was late, and it had begun to grow dark. before leaving the house erika had a short interview with the woman who rented the lodgings, and deposited with her a sum of money, that the poor music-teacher might be supplied with every comfort possible. then, with a friendly nod, she departed. her heart felt lighter than it had done for some time, and it was not until she had started on her homeward way that she noticed the gathering gloom. she was half inclined to summon a gondola, but decided that it was not worth the trouble; and, moreover, she detested the swampy odour of the lagoons. and just here the air was so sweet: a spring fragrance was wafted about her from the grassy deserted campo. "what mysteries people are!" the girl reflected, her thoughts reverting to her grandmother's comments upon the late elopement, with a lover, of the lovely young wife of an old german diplomat. "this is love,--countess ada on the one hand, poor sophy on the other,--the one criminal, the other ridiculous. good heavens!" around her breathed the sweet, drowsy air of spring; there was a distant sound of bells and of plashing water, and over all brooded something like a dim foreboding, an expectant yearning. erika suddenly awoke from her dreamy mood, to find that she had lost her way. she walked on to the nearest corner in hopes of finding it,--in vain! not without a certain tremor, she resolved to go straight on: she could not but reach some familiar square or canal. she walked hurriedly, impatiently. the air was no longer fragrant, and she found herself in a narrow, poverty-stricken alley running between rows of tall, evil-looking, and ruinous houses, in which the windows showed like deep, hollow eyes. the gray mist was rising above the roofs, and the walls of the houses, as well as the stones underfoot, were slimy with moisture. erika had much ado to keep her footing, so slippery was the pathway. if she walked in the middle of the street she had to wade through mud and filth; and if she pressed near to the walls the green slime soiled her dress. darker and darker grew the night, when suddenly a rude noise broke the forlorn silence,--songs issuing from rough throats, mingled with the shrill, coarse laughter of women. poor erika hastened her pace, but utter weariness so assailed her that she felt almost unable to stand upright. in an unlucky moment a drunken sailor staggered out of the wretched drinking-place whence the noise proceeded. he was a young, stalwart man, and before the girl could pass him he had stretched out his arms and barred her way. beside herself with terror, she screamed,--when, as if rising from the earth, a man stepped in front of her, seized the sailor by the collar, and flung him against the wall. she trembled in every limb with disgust and fear as she looked up at her rescuer, whose features she could barely distinguish, although she could see his eyes,--dark, compassionate eyes. where had she already seen those eyes? before she could recall where, he said, lifting his hat, "you have evidently lost your way: will you tell me where you live, that i may guide you out of this labyrinth?" he spoke in english, but with a foreign accent: apparently he took her for an englishwoman. his proposal was an unusual one; and this seemed to strike him, for before she could reply he added, "of course it is disagreeable to trust to a stranger's escort, but under the circumstances it is the only thing to do. i cannot leave you here without a protector: this is no place for a lady." so dismayed was she by this knowledge that she could find no courteous word of thanks, and all she said in reply was to mention the name of her hotel. "to the left," he said, motioning in the given direction. his voice, too, seemed familiar. they passed together through the net-work of narrow streets and over a high arched bridge upon which a red lantern was burning and beneath which the sluggish water flowed slowly. "of whom does he remind me?" thought erika. suddenly her heart beat so as almost to deprive her of breath. bayreuth--lozoncyi! and at the same moment she recalled also his fair companion. meanwhile, they had reached a large, airy square. "piazza san zacharie. i know where i am now," she said, very coldly, as she took leave of him. he stood still, evidently wounded by her tone, and looked after her with a frown. without thanking him, she hurried on. suddenly she paused, unable to resist the impulse to look back. he was still standing looking after her. she half turned to retrace her steps and thank him, when indignation seemed to paralyze her. what had she to say to a man who without the least shame could appear in public with---- without further hesitation she returned to the hotel. she slept badly that night. her teeth chattered with fear at the thought of her adventure. and then--then, in spite of herself, she was vexed that she had said no friendly word to lozoncyi: he had deserved some such at her hands. what was his private life to her? she recalled the handsome half-starved lad whom she had fed beside the gurgling brook. she longed to see him again. half asleep, she turned her head uneasily on her pillow. the plashing of the water beneath her window sounded like a low, trembling sigh, and the sigh became a song. nearer and nearer it sounded, insinuatingly sweet,--a song of tosti's then in fashion. she heard only the refrain: "ninon, ninon, que fais-tu de la vie, toi, qui n'as pas d'amour?" she sprang out of bed and threw open the window. along the grand canal, illuminated by gay little lanterns, glided a gondola whence the song proceeded. she leaned forward, but almost before she was aware of it the gondola had passed out of sight: it was nothing more in the distance than a shadow with a little dash of colour, and the sweet melody only a sigh slowly absorbed by the rippling waves. she still stood at the window when all was silent again. all gone! all silent! where the gondola had passed there lay a broad moon-glade upon the black water, and mingling with the swampy odour of the lagoon erika could perceive the breath of spring. she closed the window, and no longer heard even the plash of the water, or aught save the beating of her own heart. chapter xix. the next morning after breakfast erika stood again at her window, looking out upon the magnificence of the palaces bordering the grand canal, and upon the dark, sluggish water. she seemed to be looking for the spot where the gondola the previous night had passed through the silvery radiance of the moonlight. the burden of the plaintive song still rang in her ears, in her nerves, in her soul: "ninon, ninon, que fais-tu de la vie, toi, qui n'as pas d'amour?" her grandmother entered, ready to go out, an opera-glass in her hand, and asked her, "erika, will you not come with me to the exhibition in the circolo artistico? there is a picture there of which all venice is talking,--a wonder of a picture, they say." "whom is it by?" "by lozoncyi." "ah!" erika turned away from her grandmother, and gazed out of the window into the broad southern sunlight, until black specks danced before her eyes. "what an indignant exclamation!" her grandmother said, with a laugh. "your 'ah!' sounded as if lozoncyi were your mortal enemy. perhaps you resent his being in bayreuth with--with a companion. you must not be so strict with an artist: the society which these gentlemen, in pursuance of their calling, are obliged to frequent, is apt to blunt their sensibilities in that direction. besides, he was just from paris: such things are usual there. we are rather more strict in our notions. it is all the same. for my part, it is a matter of entire indifference to me how this herr lozoncyi arranges his domestic affairs. years ago i prophesied a brilliant future for him, when our best berlin critics condemned his efforts as unripe fruit. of course i feel flattered at having been right. the vanity of being in the right is the last to die in the human breast. at all events, he seems to have painted a really great picture, and i thought---- but if you do not want to come with me, you prejudiced young lady, i will go alone. adieu, my child." she stroked the cheek of the young girl, who had now turned away from the window, and went towards the door. but before she had reached it, erika called after her: "but, grandmother, do not be in such haste. i--i should like to take a little walk with you, and i do not care where we go." "very well: i will wait." shortly afterwards grandmother and grand-daughter walked across the little square behind the hotel, decorated in honour of the spring with orange-trees and laurels in tubs, towards the piazza san stefano. the day was lovely, and the streets were filled with people. erika wore a dark-green cloth walking-suit, that became her well. although she gave but little thought to her dress, with her good taste was instinctive: she always looked like a picture, and to-day like an uncommonly handsome picture. "everybody turns to look at you," her grandmother whispered to her; "and i must confess that it is worth the trouble." this sounded like old times. the compliment had no effect upon erika, but the tenderness that prompted it did the girl good. she smiled affectionately, but shook her forefinger at the old lady. "what? i am to take care not to spoil you?" the old countess said, with a laugh. "i'll answer for that. if flattered vanity could spoil, you would be quite ruined by this time. good heavens! i would rather you were a little spoiled,--just a little,--and happy, instead of being as you are, an angel,--sometimes an insufferable one, but still an angel,--with no sunshine in your heart." she looked askance, almost timidly, at the young girl, as if to see if she were not a little merrier to-day than usual. no, erika did not look merry: she looked touched, but not merry. "if i only knew what you want!" the grandmother sighed, half aloud. erika moved closer to her side. "i want nothing. i have too much," she whispered. "you spoil me." "how can i help it? i am seventy-two years old: how much time is left me to delight in you? it may be all over for me to-day or to-morrow, and then----" but when she looked again at erika the tears were rolling down the girl's cheeks. "foolish child!" exclaimed the grandmother. "in all probability i shall not die so very soon: you need not spoil your fine eyes with crying, beforehand; but one ought to be prepared for everything, and of course i should like to see you married to a good husband." she had rested her hand on erika's arm, and hitherto the young girl in a child-like caressing way had pressed it close to her side, but now she extricated herself from the old lady's clasp; her lips quivered. "whom shall i marry?" she exclaimed, with bitter emphasis. then both were silent. the grandmother was conscious of the blunder she had committed, and was furious with herself; which nevertheless would not in the least prevent her from making another of the same kind whenever an opportunity offered. erika walked stiff and haughty beside her without looking at her again. when they reached the circolo, after a long walk, they wandered through the splendid, spacious rooms for some time without discovering the object of their expedition. the spring exhibition at the circolo was sparsely attended: strangers had no time for modern art in venice, and the natives preferred a walk in such fine weather. consequently the pictures signed by famous modern names hung for the most part upon the walls merely for the satisfaction of their originators. bezzy's landscapes the old countess pronounced to be masterpieces, and she became so absorbed in a sirocco by that artist that she quite forgot the purpose for which she had come hither. it looked almost as if erika took more interest than her grandmother in lozoncyi's picture. she looked about her in search of it. from the next room came the sound of voices, now suppressed, then loud in talk. her heart began to beat fast, and she directed her steps thither. a group of six or seven men were standing in front of a large picture which hung alone on one side of the room, probably because no other artist had ventured to provoke comparison with it. the men standing before it--erika suspected, from their remarks, that they were all artists by profession--spoke of it in low tones, as of something sacred, which the picture was not,--far from it; but it was a magnificent revelation of genius, and as such was something divine. 'francesca da rimini' was engraved upon the frame. the old subject was strangely treated. trees in full leaf were cut short by the frame so that only their luxuriant foliage and blossom-laden boughs were visible, and above them against a background of dull, gloomy storm-clouds floated two forms closely intertwined. never had erika seen two such figures living, as it were, upon canvas; never had she seen writhing despair so revealed in every limb and muscle. her first sensation was one of almost angry repulsion for the artist. "what do you say to it?" the old countess, who had followed erika, asked, rather loudly, as was her wont. "a masterpiece, is it not?" erika turned away. she was very pale, and she trembled from head to foot. "it is wonderfully beautiful," she murmured, in a low voice, "but it is unpleasant. i feel as if it were a sin to look at it." as they crossed the piazza san stefano on their way home, at the foot of manin's statue stood a group of five street-singers, two men and three women, all over fifty, both men blind, one of the women one-eyed, another hump-backed, and the third so corpulent that she looked like a caricature. these five monsters, the women with guitars, the men with violins, were accompanying themselves in a love-song, their mouths wide open, and the drawling notes issuing thence echoed from one end to the other of the spacious piazza. the burden of the ditty was,-- "tu m'hai bagnato il seno mio di lagrime, t'amo d'immenso amor." the old countess, with a laugh and the easy grace of a great lady, tossed the singers a coin half-way across the piazza. erika frowned. a feverish indignation possessed her. good heavens! did the whole world circle about one and the same thing? must she hear it even from the lips of these wretched cripples? she bit her lip: from the distance came the drawling wail,-- "t'amo d'immenso amor." "erika, look there!" the words are spoken by old countess lenzdorff in the library of the monastery of san lazaro, and as she speaks she plucks her grand-daughter's sleeve. the monastery is the same in which lord byron, more than half a century ago, was taught by long-bearded monks; and the lenzdorffs, taking advantage of the fine weather, had been rowed over to it on the afternoon of the day on which they had visited the exhibition at the circolo. the monk who acted as their cicerone had conducted them to the library to show them lord byron's signature and his portrait, a small, authentic likeness. in addition he showed them many likenesses of his lordship which were by no means authentic, but which represented him in various costumes and at various periods of his existence, and which it was hoped romantic tourists might be tempted to purchase as _souvenirs de venise_. two gentlemen are standing laughing and criticising one of these pictures, and it is to these gentlemen that the countess directs her grand-daughter's attention. one of them is standing with his back turned to the ladies, but his faultlessly-fitting english overcoat, his gray gaiters, his way of balancing himself with legs slightly apart, the distinction and gray-haired worthlessness that characterize him, leave erika in no doubt as to his identity. it is count hans treurenberg, an old austrian friend of her grandmother's. the other, whose profile is turned towards the ladies, is a man of middle height, delicately built, well dressed, although his clothes have not the english _cachet_ that distinguishes count treurenberg's, and with a frank, attractive bearing and a clear-cut dark face. taken all in all, he might be supposed to be a man of the world,--some young relative of the count's,--were it not for his eyes, strange, gleaming eyes, which after a brief glance at the grandmother are riveted upon the grand-daughter. no mere man of the world ever had such eyes. meanwhile, count treurenberg has turned round. "ladies, i kiss your hands!" he exclaims. "you too have employed this fine weather in an excursion: you could not do better." the old countess was about to reply, when treurenberg's companion whispered a few words to him. "permit me to present herr von lozoncyi," said the count,--whereupon the old countess, before lozoncyi had quite finished his formal obeisance, called out, "i am delighted to know you. i belong among your oldest admirers. do not misunderstand me: i do not, of course, refer to my own age, but to that of my admiration." "i am immensely flattered, frau countess," lozoncyi replied, in the gentle, agreeable voice of a viennese of mixed descent and doubtful nationality. "might i ask when first i had the good fortune to arouse your interest?" "how long ago is it, erika?--five or six years?" asked the old lady. "you will know." "six years ago, i think, grandmother." "six years ago, then," the countess went on. "it was in berlin, where you were exhibiting two pictures, one before a curtain, the other behind a curtain. i saw both; and i have believed in your talent ever since,--which has not, however, prevented me from being surprised by your last picture in the circolo artistico." "you are very kind." "one thing i should like to know: do you fancy there are trees in full leaf in hell?" "what?--in hell?" asked the artist, lifting his eyebrows. "so far as i can tell, i have never pictured hell to myself; although i have more than once felt as if i had been there." "why, then, did you paint francesca da rimini after that fashion?" "francesca da rimini?" again he looked at her in surprise. "the picture in the circolo," the old lady persisted. "but"--and her tone was much cooler--"perhaps i am mistaken, and the picture is not yours?" "no, no," he replied, laughing. "the picture to which you refer is certainly mine, countess, but my picture-dealer invented the title for it. i never for a moment intended to paint that most attractive of all sinning women." "what did your picture mean, then?" "to tell you the truth, i do not know." he said it with an odd smile in which there was some annoyance. "i want to paint a series of pictures under the title of 'mes cauchemars,'--' evil dreams,'--and the thing in the circolo was to be number one. if i could have dared to challenge comparison with botticelli,--which i could not,--i should perhaps have called the picture 'spring.'" as he spoke, his eyes had continually strayed towards erika: at last they rested upon her with so uncivilized a stare that she turned away, annoyed, and count treurenberg held up his hand as a screen, saying, with a laugh, "spare your eyes, my dear lozoncyi: what sort of way is that to gaze upon the sun?" "you are right, count," the painter said, rather bluntly; then, turning again to the young girl, he said, in a very different tone, "i am not recalling our meeting in the calle san giacomo. if i do not mistake,--i can hardly believe it, but if i do not,--our acquaintance dates from much farther back. have you a step-father called strachinsky?" "unfortunately, yes," her grandmother replied, dolefully. "well, then," he said, eagerly, "i----" he made a sudden pause. "how foolish i am! you must long ago have forgotten what i am remembering." "no, i have forgotten nothing," erika replied, lifting her eyes to his with a strange expression of mingled pride and reproach. "i recognized you long ago; but it was not for me to tell you so." "countess! allow me to kiss your hand, in memory of the dear little fairy who brought me good fortune." "what's all this?" count treurenberg asked, inquisitively, and the old countess as curiously inquired, "where did you make each other's acquaintance?" erika hesitates: a sudden shyness makes her uncertain how to begin the story. lozoncyi comes to her aid. his narrative is a little masterpiece of pathos and humour. he tells everything; how the baron--he describes him perfectly in a single phrase--sent him off with an alms,--two kreutzers,--his own indignation, his despair, his hunger, the sudden appearance of the little girl; he describes her sweet little face, her faded gown, her long thin legs in their red stockings, and the basket of food decorated with asters; he describes the landscape, the little brook creeping shyly beneath the huge bridge,--a bridge about as suitable, he declares, as the tomb of cecilia metella would be as a monument for a dead dog; he repeats the little fairy's every word, and tells how, finally, she slipped the five guilders into his pocket, assuring him that she knew how terrible it was to be without money. the old lady and treurenberg laugh; erika listens eagerly and with emotion. the story lacks something. yes, in spite of its minute details, something is missing. is he keeping it for the conclusion, or does he think it necessary to suppress this detail altogether? erika is indignant at such discretion. when he has finished, she says, calmly, "you have forgotten one trifling incident, herr lozoncyi: you set a price upon your picture of me----" she pauses, and then, coolly surveying her listeners, she goes on, "i had to promise herr lozoncyi to give him a kiss for my portrait." "and may i ask if you kept your word, countess?" asks count treurenberg, laughing. "yes," erika replies, curtly. "charming!" exclaims count treurenberg. "and, between ourselves, i would not have believed it of you, countess! you were a lucky fellow, lozoncyi." erika is visibly embarrassed, but lozoncyi steps a little nearer to her, and says, with a very kindly smile, "what a gloomy face! ah, countess, can you regret the alms bestowed upon a poor lad by an infant nine years old? if you only knew how often the memory of your childish kindness has strengthened and encouraged me, you would not grudge it." the matter could not have been adjusted with more amiable tact, and erika begins to laugh, and confesses that she has been foolish,--a fact which her grandmother confirms gaily. the old lady is delighted with the little story: the part played therein by strachinsky gives it an additional relish. she is charmed with lozoncyi. they leave the damp, musty library, and go out into the cloisters that encircle the garden of the monastery. the scent of roses is in the air, and from the monastery kitchen comes the odour of freshly-roasted coffee. count treurenberg is glad of the opportunity to cover his bald head with his english gray felt hat, and as he does so anathematizes the western idea of courtesy which makes it necessary for a gentleman to catch cold in his head so frequently. he walks in front with the old countess, and erika and lozoncyi follow. the two old people talk incessantly; the younger couple scarcely speak. lozoncyi is the first to break the silence. "strange, that chance should have brought us together again," he says. she clears her throat and seems about to speak, but is mute. "you were saying, countess----?" he asks, smiling. "i said nothing." "you were thinking, then----?" "yes, i was thinking, in fact, that it is strange that you should have left it to chance to bring about our meeting." the words are amiable enough, but they sound cold and constrained as erika utters them. "do you imagine that i have made no attempt to find you again, countess?" "i imagine that if you had seriously desired to find me it would not have been difficult." he does not speak for a moment, and then he begins afresh: "you are right,--and you do me injustice. when i learned that my dear little poorly-clad princess had become a great lady, i did, it is true, make no attempt to approach her; but before then---- do you care to hear of my unfortunate pilgrimage?" "most assuredly i do." "well, eight years after our childish interview i had my first couple of hundred marks in my pocket. i bought a new suit of clothes--yes, smile if yon choose,--a new suit, which i admired exceedingly--and journeyed to bohemia. i found the village, the brook, and the bridge, and likewise the castle; but all had gone who had once lived there,--even the amiable herr von strachinsky,--and no one knew anything of my little princess. i was very sad,--too sad for a fellow of three-and-twenty." he pauses. "and was that the end of your efforts?" asks the old countess, whose sharp ears have lost nothing of the story, and who now turns to the pair with a laugh. "you showed no amount of persistence to boast of." "when, overtaken by the rain, i took refuge in the parsonage of the nearest village," he continues, "i made inquiries there for my little friend. the priest gave me more information than i had been able to procure elsewhere. he told me that one fine day some one had come from berlin to carry little rika away,--that she was now a very grand lady----" "and then----?" the old lady persists. "i sought no further: the bridge between my sphere in life and that of my princess was destroyed. i quietly returned to munich. i was very unhappy: the goal to which i had looked forward seemed to have been suddenly snatched from me." "oho!" exclaims the old countess, "you can be sentimental too, then? you are truly many-sided." "that was years ago. i have changed very much since then." after which count treurenberg contrives to interest the old lady in the latest piece of venetian gossip. "you understand now why i did not appear before you, countess erika?" but erika shook her head: "i do not understand at all. i think you were excessively foolish to avoid me for such a reason." "erika is quite right," the grandmother called back over her shoulder in the midst of one of count treurenberg's most interesting anecdotes. "your failing to seek us out only proves that you must have thought us a couple of geese; otherwise you would have been quite sure of a friendly reception." "no, it proves only that i had been hardly treated by fate, that i was a well-whipped young dog," said lozoncyi. "now i have no doubt that i should have been graciously received by both of you; but it would not have amounted to much. you would soon have tired of me. a very young artist is sadly out of place in a drawing-room; i was like all the rest of the race." "that i find hard to believe," the old countess said, kindly, still over her shoulder; then, turning again to count treurenberg, "go on, count. you were saying----" "i shall say nothing more," treurenberg exclaimed, provoked. "i have had enough of this: at the most interesting part of my story you turn and listen to what lozoncyi is saying to your grand-daughter. the fact is that when lozoncyi is present no one else can claim a lady's attention." the words were spoken half in jest, half in irritation. "count treurenberg is skilled in rendering me obnoxious in society," lozoncyi murmurs. "oh, i never pay any attention to him," the old countess assures him. "i should like to know what you did after you learned that erika had----" "had become a grand lady?" lozoncyi interrupts her. "oh, i packed up my belongings and went to rome." "and then?" "there i had an attack of roman fever," he says, slowly, and his face grows dark. he looks around for erika, but she is no longer at his side: she has lingered behind, and has fallen into conversation with a tall, dignified monk. she now calls out to the rest, "has no one any desire to see the tree beneath which lord byron used to write poems?" they all follow her as the monk leads the way to the very shore of the island and there with pride points to a table beneath a tree, where he assures them lord byron used often to sit and write. his hospitality culminates at last in regaling his guests with fragrant black coffee, after which he leaves them. they sit and sip their coffee under the famous tree. lozoncyi expresses a modest doubt as to the identity of the table. count treurenberg relates an anecdote, at which erika frowns, and gazes up into the blue sky showing here and there among the branches of the old tree. suddenly an affected voice is heard to say, "_enfin le voilà_." they look up, and see two ladies: one is no other than frau von geroldstein, very affected, and looking about, as usual, for fine acquaintances; the other is very much dressed, rouged, and very pretty. frau von geroldstein is enthusiastically glad to see her berlin friends, and presents her companion,--the princess gregoriewitsch. the old countess, however, is not very amiably disposed towards the new-comers. "do not let us keep you from your friends," she says to the artist: "it is late, and we must go. adieu. i should be glad if you could find time to come and see us." count treurenberg conducts the grandmother and grand-daughter to their gondola. lozoncyi remains with his two admirers. "who was that queer princess?" countess anna asks of count treurenberg, in a rather depreciative tone, just before they reach their gondola. "oh, one of lozoncyi's thousand adorers. she has a huge palace and entertains a great deal. a pretty woman, but terribly stupid. lozoncyi is tied to a different apron-string every day." the _table-d'hôte_ is long past: the lenzdorffs are dining in a small island of light at one end of the large dining-hall. they are unusually late to-night. after their return from the armenian monastery both ladies have dressed for the evening, before coming to table. at the old countess's entreaty, erika has consented to go into society this evening,--that is, to the countess mühlberg, who has been legally separated from her husband for some time and is living very quietly at venice, where she receives a few friends every wednesday. the old countess is unusually gay; erika scarcely speaks. the glass door leading from the dining-hall into the garden has been left open for their special benefit. the warm air brings in an odour of fresh earth, mossy stones, and the faintly impure breath of the lagoons, which haunts all the poetic beauty of venice like an unclean spirit. the soft plash of the water against the walls of the old palaces, the creaking of the gondolas tied to their posts, a monotonous stroke of oars, the distant echo of a street song, are the mingled sounds that fall upon the ear. when the meal is ended the old countess calls for pen and ink, and writes a note at the table where they have just dined. erika walks out into the garden. with head bare and a light wrap about her shoulders, she strolls along the gravel path, past the monthly roses that have scarcely ceased to bloom throughout the winter, past the taller rose-trees in which the life of spring is stirring. from time to time she turns her head to catch the distant melody more clearly, but it comes no nearer. above her arches the sky, no longer pale as it had been to-day amid the boughs of the historic tree, but dark blue, and twinkling with countless stars. she has walked several times up and down the garden as far as the breast-work that separates it from the grand canal. now as she nears the dining-room she hears voices: her grandmother is no longer alone; beside the table at which she is writing stands count treurenberg. he is speaking: "'tis a pity! he really is a very clever fellow with men, but the women spoil him. just now he is the plaything of all the women who think themselves art-critics in venice." erika pauses to listen. "indeed! well, it does not surprise me," her grandmother rejoins, indifferently, and treurenberg goes on: "he is the very deuce of a fellow: with all his fine feeling, he combines just enough cynicism and honest contempt for women to make him irresistible to the other sex." "you are complimentary, count!" erika calls into the dining-hall. he looks up. she is standing in the door-way; the wrap has fallen back from her shoulders, revealing the dazzling whiteness of her neck and arms, her left hand rests against the door-post, and she is looking full at the speaker. old treurenberg, who has just taken a seat beside the countess, springs up, gazes admiringly at the girl, bows low, and says, "pray remember that any uncomplimentary remarks i may make in your presence with regard to the weaker sex have no reference to you. when i talk of your sex in general i never think of you: you are an exception." "we have both known that for a long while: have we not, erika?" her grandmother says, laughing. "but what is the cause of all this splendour, countess erika?" asks treurenberg, changing the subject. "it is the first time that i have had the pleasure of seeing you in full dress." "erika is beginning to go out a little to please me," the old countess explains. "i told her that, thanks to her passion for retirement, it would shortly be reported that she was either out of her mind or suffering from a disappointment in love. as this does not seem to her desirable, she has consented to go with me to constance mühlberg." "i should have gone to constance mühlberg at all events, only i should not have chosen her reception-day for my visit," erika declares, taking a seat beside her grandmother, leaning her white elbows upon the table, and resting her chin on her clasped hands. connoisseur in beauty that he is, the old count cannot take his eyes off her. "when a woman is so thoroughly formed for society as you are, countess erika, she has no right to retire from it," he declares. she makes no reply, and her grandmother asks, "shall we see you at countess mühlberg's, count?" "not to-night. i must go to-night to the rambouillet of venice." "oh! to the neerwinden?" "yes. why do you ladies never go there?" "to speak frankly, i had no idea that one ought to go," the countess says, laughing. "why not? because of the countess's reputation? let me assure you that all ruins are the fashion in venice. you are quite wrong to stay away from the salon neerwinden: it is an historical curiosity, and, to me, more interesting than the doge's palace." "but even if i should go to the neerwinden i could not take this child with me!" "why not? the salon neerwinden is by no means such a pest-house of infectious moral disease as you seem to think. and then nothing could harm the countess erika: her life is a charmed one." at this moment a thick-set, gray-bearded individual enters the dining-hall, very affected, and very anxious to induce his eye-glass to fit into the hollow of his right eye. he is a viennese banker, schmidt--he spells it schmytt--von werdenthal. bowing with ease to the ladies, he approaches treurenberg. "do i intrude, hans?" he asks. "you always intrude." the banker smiles at the jest: awkward as he may be, he displays a certain agility in ignoring a rude remark. "you know, hans, we must go first to the gregoriewitsch; and we shall be late." "confound the fellow!" murmurs the count; nevertheless he rises to follow schmytt, and kisses the fingertips of each lady in token of farewell. "countess erika," he says, with a final glance of admiration, "if i were but thirty years younger!--ah, you think it would have been of no use," he adds, turning to the grandmother; "but there's no knowing. if i am not mistaken, the countess erika is zealous in the conversion of sinners, and i should have been so easily converted in view of the reward. but do me the favour to leave a card upon the neerwinden: you will not repent it. one is never so well entertained as at her evenings; and if you would like to see lozoncyi in all his glory----" "but, hans, the princess will be waiting," schmytt interposes. "i am coming." and count treurenberg vanishes. the old countess looks after him with a smile. "i cannot help it, but i have a slight weakness for that old sinner," she says. "he is so typical,--a genuine austrian cavalier,--_fin de siècle_, witty without depth, good-natured with no heart, aristocrat to his finger-tips, without one single unprejudiced conviction. how you impressed him to-night! i do not wonder. lozoncyi ought to see you now: what a splendid portrait he would make of you! h'm! do you know i really should like to go to a neerwinden evening?" "that you may have the pleasure of seeing herr von lozoncyi in all his glory?" asks erika. chapter xx. curiosity carried the day. the countess lenzdorff left her card at the palazzo luzani, and as a consequence the baroness neerwinden called upon both ladies and left a written invitation for them which informed them that "my dear friend minona von rattenfels will delight us by reading aloud her latest, and unpublished, work." to her grandmother's surprise, erika seemed quite willing to go to this one of the baroness neerwinden's entertainments, and constance mühlberg accompanied them. the party was full of laughing expectation, much as if the pleasure in prospect had been a masquerade. expectation on this occasion did not much exceed reality: the old countess and constance mühlberg were extremely entertained. and erika----? well, they arrived at a tolerably early hour, ten o'clock, and found the three immense rooms in which the neerwinden was wont to receive almost empty. the lady of the house, when they entered, was seated on a small divan, beneath a kind of canopy of antique stuffs in the remotest of these rooms. her black eyes were still fine; her features were not ignoble, but were hard and unattractive. she received the countess lenzdorff with effusive cordiality, referred to several youthful reminiscences which they possessed in common, and was quite gracious to both the younger ladies. after several commonplace remarks, she dashed boldly into a discourse upon the final destiny of the earth and the adjacent stars. she had just informed her guests that she was privately engaged upon the improvement of the electric light, and should soon have completed a system of universal religion, when a sudden influx of guests caused her to stop in the middle of a sentence, leaving her hearers in doubt as to whether the catechism of the new faith was to be printed in volapük or in french, in which latter language most of the baroness's intellectual efforts were given to the world. erika was obliged to leave her place beside the hostess and to mingle in the crowd that now rapidly filled the three reception-rooms. she found very few acquaintances, and made the rather annoying discovery that, with the exception of a couple of flat-chested english girls, she was the only young girl present. if count treurenberg had not made his appearance to play cicerone, she must have utterly failed to understand what was going on around her. the masculine element was the more strongly represented, but the feminine contingent was undoubtedly the more aristocratic. it consisted chiefly of very beautiful and distinguished women of rank who almost without exception had by some fatality rendered their reception at court impossible. most of them were divorced, although upon what grounds was not clear. the strictly orthodox venetian and austrian families avoided these entertainments, not so much upon moral grounds as because it was embarrassing to meet _déclassées_ of their own rank, and because, besides, they believed this salon to be a hotbed of the rankest radicalism, both in morals and in politics. in this they were not altogether wrong. there was nothing here of the kapilavastu system of which the old countess was wont to complain in berlin; no, every imaginable topic was discussed, and after the most heterogeneous fashion. consequently the salon was in its way an amusing one, its tiresome side being the determination on the part of the hostess not to allow her guests to amuse themselves, but always to offer them a _plat de résistance_ in some shape or other. on this evening this _plat_ was fräulein minona von rattenfels; and in the midst of count treurenberg's most amusing witticisms the guests were all bidden to assemble for the reading in the largest of the three rooms. here she sat, with her manuscript already open, and the conventional glass of water on a spindle-legged table beside her. she was about fifty years old, large-boned, stout, and very florid, dressed in a red gown shot with black, which gave her the appearance of a half-boiled lobster, and with strings of false coin around her neck and in her hair. before the performance began, the electric lights were turned off, and the only illumination proceeded from two wax candles with pink shades on the table beside minona. the literary essay was preceded by a musical prologue rendered by the pianist g----, who happened to be in venice at the time. he played a paraphrase of siegmund's and sieglinda's love-duet, gradually gliding into the motive of isolde's death, all of which naturally increased the receptive capacity of the audience for the coming treat. the last tone died away. minona von rattenfels cleared her throat. "tombs!" she hurled the word, as it were, in a very deep voice into the midst of her audience. this was the pleasing title of her latest collection of love-songs. it consisted of two parts, 'love-life' and 'love-death.' in the first part there was a great deal said about dawn and dew-drops, and in the second part quite as much about worms and withered flowers, while in both there was such an amount of ardent passion that one could not but be grateful to the baroness for her bayreuth fashion of darkening the auditorium, thus veiling the blushes of certain sensitive ladies, as well as the sneering looks of others. of course minona's delivery was highly dramatic. she screamed until her voice failed her, she rolled her eyes until she fairly squinted, and count treurenberg offered to wager an entire set of her works that one of her eyes was glass. in most of her verses the lover was cold, hard, or faithless, but now and then she revelled in an 'oasis in the desert of life.' then she became unutterably grotesque, the only distinguishable word in a languishing murmur being "l--o--ve!" suddenly in the midst of this extraordinary performance was heard the clicking of a couple of steel knitting needles, and shortly afterwards the reading came to an end. again the room was flooded with light. in the silence that reigned the clicking needles made the only sound. erika looked to see whence the noise proceeded, and perceived an elderly lady with gray hair brushed smoothly over her temples, and a shrewd--almost masculine--face, sitting very erect, and dressed in a charming old-fashioned gown. her brows were lifted, and her face showed unmistakably her decided disapproval of the performance. in the midst of the heated atmosphere she produced the impression of a stainless block of ice. "who is that?" erika asked the countess mühlberg, who sat beside her. "fräulein agatha von horn. shall i present you?" erika assented, and the countess led her to the lady in question, who, still knitting, was seated on a sofa with three young, very shy artists, and overshadowed by a tall fan-palm. the countess presented erika. the artists rose, and the two ladies took their seats on the sofa beside fräulein von horn. the fräulein sighed, and conversation began. "if i am not mistaken, you are a dear friend of the gifted lady whom we have to thank this evening for so much pleasure," said constance mühlberg. "we travel together, because it is cheaper," fräulein von horn replied, calmly, "but; as with certain married couples, we have nothing in common save our means of living." "indeed?" said constance. "i am glad to hear it; for in that case we can express our sentiments freely with regard to the poetess." "quite freely." just then count treurenberg joined the group, and informed the ladies that he had been congratulating minona upon her magnificent success. "what did you say to her?" the truth-loving agatha asked, almost angrily. "'in you i hail our modern sappho.' that is what i told her." "and she replied----?" asked constance mühlberg. the count fanned himself with his opera-hat with a languishing air, and lisped, "'_ah, oui, sappho; c'est bien sappho, toujours la même histoire_, after more than two thousand years.'" "poor minona! and to think that she cudgels it all out of her imagination!" fräulein agatha remarked, ironically. "she has no more personal experience than--well, than i." "'sh!--not so loud," constance whispered, laughing. "she never would forgive you for betraying her thus." "i have known her from a child," fräulein von horn continued, composedly. "she once exchanged love-letters with her brother's tutor, and since then she has always played the game with a dummy." the dry way in which she imparted this piece of information was irresistibly comical, but in the midst of the laughter which it provoked a loud voice was heard declaiming at the other end of the room, where, in the midst of a circle of listeners, stood a black-bearded individual with a mephistophelian cast of countenance, holding forth upon some subject. "who is that?" asked countess mühlberg. "i do not know the fellow," said the count. "not in my line." "a writer from vienna," fräulein von horn explained. "he was invited here, that he might write an article upon minona." "what is he talking about?" asked the count. countess mühlberg, who had been stretching her delicate neck to listen, replied, "about love." "indeed!" exclaimed count treurenberg, springing up from his seat: "i must hear what the fellow has to say." and, followed shortly afterwards by constance mühlberg, he joined the circle about the black-bearded seer. erika remained sitting with fräulein agatha on the sofa beneath the palm. they could hear the seer's drawling voice as he announced very distinctly, "love is the instinctive desire of an individual for union with a certain individual of the opposite sex." fräulein von horn meditatively smoothed her gray hair with one of her long knitting-needles, and said, carelessly, "i know that definition: it is max norden's." whereupon she left her seat beside erika to devote herself to the three artists, her _protégés_. erika was left entirely alone under the palm, in a state of angry discontent. never before, wherever she had been, had she been so little regarded. she was of no more importance here than fräulein agatha,--hardly of as much. for the first time it occurred to her that under certain circumstances it was quite inconvenient to be unmarried. at the same time she was conscious of a great disappointment: she had not come hither to study the baroness neerwinden's eccentricities, or to listen to minona von rattenfels's love-plaints: she had come---- what, in fact, had she come for? from the other end of the room came the seer's voice: "the only strictly moral union is founded upon elective affinity." "very true!" exclaimed frau von neerwinden. a short pause followed. the servants handed about refreshments. rosenberg, the black-bearded seer, stood with his left elbow propped upon the back of his friend minona's chair; in his right he held his opera-hat. a french _littérateur_, who had understood enough of the whole performance to be jealous of his german colleague, began to proclaim his view of love: "_l'amour est une illusion, qui--que_----" there he stuck fast. then somebody whom erika did not know exclaimed, "where is lozoncyi? he knows more of the subject than we do; he ought to be able to help us." "i think his knowledge is practical rather than theoretical," said count treurenberg. not long afterwards a few guests took leave, as it was growing late. the circle was smaller, and erika discovered lozoncyi seated on a lounge between two ladies, frau von geroldstein and the princess gregoriewitsch. the princess was a beauty in her way, tall, stout, very _décolletée_, and with long, languishing eyes. lozoncyi was leaning towards her, and whispering in her ear. erika rose with a sensation of disgust and walked out upon a balcony, where she had scarcely cast a glance upon the veiled magnificence of the opposite palaces when lozoncyi stood beside her. "good-evening, countess. i had no idea that you were here; i discovered you only this moment." in her irritated mood she did not offer him her hand. "you are astonished that my grandmother should have brought me here," she said, with a shrug. but, to her surprise, she perceived that nothing of the kind had occurred to him: his sense of what was going on about him was evidently blunted. "why?" he asked. "because--because of the antecedents of the hostess? it is long since people have troubled themselves about those, and it is the brightest salon in venice." "there has certainly been nothing lacking in the way of animation to-night," erika observed, coldly. she was leaning with both hands on the balustrade of the balcony, and she spoke to him over her shoulder. he cared little for what she said, but her beauty intoxicated him. always strongly influenced by his surroundings, the least noble part of his nature had the upper hand with him to-night. "rosenberg has taken great pains to entertain his audience," he remarked, carelessly. "and his efforts have assuredly been crowned with success," erika replied, contemptuously. then, with a shade more of scorn in her voice, she asked, "is there always as much--as much talk of love here?" "it is frequently discussed," he replied. "and why not? it is the most important thing in the world." then, with his admiring artist-stare, he added, in a lower tone, "as you will discover for yourself." she frowned, turned away, and re-entered the room. he stayed outside, suddenly conscious of his want of tact, but inclined to lay the fault of it at her door. "'tis a pity she is so whimsical a creature," he muttered between his teeth; "and so gloriously beautiful; a great pity!" nevertheless he was vexed with himself, and was firmly resolved, if chance ever gave him another interview with her, to make better use of his opportunity. shortly afterwards countess lenzdorff, with erika and constance mühlberg, took her leave. she was in a very good humour, and exchanged all sorts of witticisms with constance with regard to their evening. "and how did you enjoy yourself?" she asked erika, when, after leaving constance at home, the two were alone in the gondola on their way to the 'britannia.' "i?" asked erika, with a contemptuous depression of the corners of her mouth. "how could i enjoy myself in an assemblage where there was nothing talked of but love?" her grandmother laughed heartily: "yes, it was rather a silly way to pass the time, i confess. i cannot conceive why they waste so many words upon what is perfectly plain to any one with eyes. they grope about, and no one explains in the least the nature of love." she threw back her head, and, without for an instant losing the slightly mocking smile which was so characteristic of her beautiful old face, she said, "love is an irritation of the fancy, produced by certain natural conditions, which expresses itself, so long as it lasts, in the exclusive glorification of one single individual, and robs the human being who is its victim of all power of discernment. all things considered, those people are very lucky who, when the torch of passion is extinguished, can find anything save humiliation in the memory of their love." the old countess was privately very proud of her definition, and looked round at erika with an air of self-satisfaction at having clothed what was so self-evident, so cheerful a view, in such uncommonly appropriate words. but erika's face had assumed a dark, pained expression. her grandmother's words had aroused in her the old anguish,--anguish for her mother. it was not to be denied that in some cases her grandmother's view was the true one. was it true always? no! something in the girl's nature rebelled against such a thought. no! a thousand times no! "but the love of which you speak, grandmother, is only sham love," she said, in a husky, trembling voice. "there is surely another kind,--a genuine, sacred, ennobling love!" "there may be," said her grandmother. "the pity is that one never knows the true from the false until it is past." erika said no more. the air was mild; the scent of roses was wafted across the sluggish water of the lagoon; there was a faint sound of distant music. but an icy chill crept over erika, and in her heart there was a strange, aching, yearning pain. chapter xxi. three weeks had passed since minona von rattenfels had so effectively given vent to her languishing love-plaints. a striking change was evident in erika. she was much more cheerful, or, at least, more accessible; she no longer withdrew from the world in morbid misanthropy, but went into society whenever her grandmother requested her to do so. wherever she went she was fêted and admired. since her first season in berlin she had never received so much homage. it seemed to give her pleasure, and, what was still more remarkable, she seemed to exert herself somewhat--a very little--to obtain it. wherever she went she met lozoncyi,--lozoncyi, who scarcely took his eyes off her, but who made no attempt to approach her in any way that could attract notice. his bearing towards her was not only exemplary, but touching. always at hand to render her any little service,--to procure her an ice, to relieve her of an empty teacup, to find her missing fan or gloves,--he immediately retired to give place to her other admirers. among these prince helmy nimbsch was foremost: the entire international society of venice were daily expecting the announcement of a betrothal, and one afternoon, at a lawn-tennis party at lady stairs's, he had given erika unmistakable proofs of his intentions. she was a little startled, and, while she was endeavouring to lead the conversation with him away from the perilously sentimental tone it had assumed, her eyes accidentally encountered lozoncyi's. shortly afterwards she managed to get rid of the prince; and as, after a last game of lawn-tennis, she was retiring from the field, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling from the exercise, lozoncyi came up to her to relieve her of her racket. "you see how right the poor painter was, not to venture to approach his little fairy," he murmured. the words, his tone, aroused her sympathy and compassion, but before she could reply he had vanished. he did not come near her again that afternoon, but she could not help perceiving that his looks sought herself and prince nimbsch alternately, at first inquiringly, and afterwards with an expression of relief. dinner has been over for some time. the lamps are gleaming red along the grand canal, and their broken reflections quiver in long streaks upon the waters of the lagoon. the little drawing-room is but dimly lighted, and erika is seated at the piano, playing bits of 'parsifal,' her fingers gliding into the motive of sinful, worldly pleasure. the old countess enters, and, after wandering aimlessly about the room for a moment, goes, after her fashion, directly to the point. she pauses beside erika, and observes, "prince nimbsch is courting you. people are talking about it." "nonsense!" erika rejoins, running her fingers over the keys. "he is only amusing himself." "h'm! he seems to me to be very much in earnest," murmurs the old lady; "and there is no denying that it would be a brilliant match." erika drops her hands in her lap. "grandmother!" she exclaims, half laughing, "what are you thinking of? he is a mere boy!" "a boy? he is full four years older than you; and i need not remind you that you are no child. at all events, you must consider well----" "before i enter into another engagement," erika interrupts her. "i promise you i will; nay, more than that, i promise you solemnly that i will not engage myself to prince nimbsch." "in fact, i must confess that i do not think him your equal." there is a certain relief in the old lady's tone, although she adds, with some hesitation, "but the position is tempting, very tempting." "ah, grandmother!" erika exclaims, with reproach in her tone, as, rising, she puts her arm around the old countess's shoulder and kisses her gray head, "do you know me so little?" her grandmother returns her caress with emotion, murmuring the while, as if talking to herself, "as if you knew yourself, my poor, dear child!" "i know myself so far," erika declares, "as to be sure that after my first unfortunate mistake i am cured of all worldly ambition." "oh, that was quite another thing!" her grandmother sighs. "your marriage with lord langley would have been positively unnatural; but prince helmy nimbsch is a fine, gallant young fellow." "it all amounts to the same thing: old or young, he is a man whom i do not love, and never could love." the old lady shakes her head impatiently: "are you beginning upon that? love? i thought you had more sense. love!--love! heaven preserve you from that disease! the only sound foundations for a happy marriage are unbounded esteem and warm sympathy: anything more is an evil." erika is silent, and the old countess continues: "no respectable woman should indulge in passion. passion is an intoxication, and nausea is sure to follow upon intoxication. therefore a respectable woman, who can at the most indulge but once in such intoxication, condemns herself, after a short period of bliss, to nausea for the rest of her life. only the unprincipled woman who cures her nausea by a fresh passion can permit herself such indulgence. it is all nonsense for one of us." during this long speech the countess has seated herself in an arm-chair with a volume of taine's 'les origines de la france' open in her lap, and to lend emphasis to her words she taps the book from time to time with a large japanese paper-knife. erika stands near her, leaning upon the piano, tall and graceful in her white gown. "and what am i to infer from your preachment? that i must marry helmy nimbsch, even without love?" "helmy nimbsch? who is talking of him?" the old lady almost starts from her chair. "i thought you were, grandmother," erika says, with a mischievous smile. "if i am not mistaken, he was the subject of our conversation." "nonsense! helmy nimbsch! _ce n'est pas serieux!_" "of whom, then, are you talking?" erika asks, looking her grandmother full in the face. "oh, of no one: i was talking in general," her grandmother replies, with some irritation, adding, still more petulantly, after a pause, "if you have unbounded esteem and warm sympathy for young nimbsch, why, marry him, by all means." instead of replying, erika begins to arrange the sheets of music on the piano. a long pause ensues. from below come the murmur of voices, the ringing of bells, and the moving of trunks,--in short, all the bustle consequent upon the arrival of fresh guests at a large hotel. countess lenzdorff takes the opportunity to complain of so much noise, and to declare, "in fact, i am quite tired of this wandering about from place to place." "what, grandmother? why, you were so delighted here! only yesterday you told me how 'refreshing' you considered your venetian life." "yes, yes; but it has lasted too long for me. while you were playing lawn-tennis this afternoon with constance mühlberg, i went to see hedwig norbin. she arrived yesterday, and is at the 'europe;' but she is only stopping for a day or so on her way home. 'tis a pity." "and she gave you such an alluring description of berlin that you are anxious to fold your tent and fly back to bellevue street now, in the midst of this wondrous southern spring?" erika asks, coldly. "oh, spring is lovely everywhere!--lovelier in berlin than in venice: there is nothing more beautiful than the thiergarten in may. and then i find there all my old habits, my old friends." "i have no friends in berlin," says erika, with a strange emphasis, "and that is why i beg you to stay away from berlin for a while longer. next autumn you may do with me what you please. have a little patience with me." "patience! patience!" the old countess taps her book more energetically than ever. after a while erika begins: "did frau von norbin tell you anything about dorothea von sydow? how is her position regarded by society?" "how?" her grandmother exclaims. "how should society regard the critical position of a woman who has never shown the slightest consideration for any one, never conferred a benefit upon any one, scarcely even treated any one with courtesy, but lived only for her own frivolous gratification? society acknowledges a woman in her position only when it would lose something by dropping her. who would lose anything if dorothea were stricken from its list? a couple of young men, perhaps; and they would be at liberty to make love to her outside of the ranks of society. the world has turned its back upon her: hedwig tells me that she is positively shunned." "and how does she accommodate herself to her destiny?" asks erika. "as poorly as possible. one would suppose that she would have left berlin. for my part, i never imagined that she cared so much for her social position; but she appears to be clutching it in a kind of panic." "how unpleasant for--for the dead man's brother!" says erika. several months have passed since she has spoken goswyn's name: it would seem as if her lips refused to utter it. "for goswyn!" her grandmother exclaims, in a tone of sincere distress. "terrible! they say he is altered almost beyond recognition. i did not know he was so devoted to otto. but, to be sure, the circumstances attendant upon his death were frightful. goswyn always found fault with me, but, after all, since his mother's death i have stood nearest to him in this world. i know he would be glad to pour out his heart to me." erika draws a long breath; her large clear eyes flash. "ah!" she exclaims, "this, then, is your reason for wishing to go to berlin,--that you may console herr goswyn von sydow? i always knew that he was dear to you: i learn now for the first time that he is dearer to you than i am!" "oh, erika!--dearer than you!" the old lady rises and strokes the girl's arm tenderly. "i am often sorry that i cannot love you both together!" she adds, half timidly, in an undertone. but this time erika repulses almost angrily the caress usually so dear to her. "i cannot understand you!" she says: "it is a positive mania of yours. you are always reproaching me for not having married goswyn, or hinting that i ought to marry him,--a man who has not wasted a thought upon me for years!" "oh, erika! how can you talk so? remember bayreuth." "what if i do remember bayreuth? yes, he still thought of me then; that is, he remembered the young girl with whom he had ridden in the thiergarten, and he brought her memory with him to bayreuth; but he discovered it did not fit with what he found there: that was the end of it all!" erika silently paces the room to and fro once or twice, then, pausing before her grandmother, she continues: "it stings me whenever you speak of goswyn and lose yourself in the contemplation of his measureless magnanimity. magnanimity! yes, but it is a cold, sterile, arrogant magnanimity! he is a thoroughly just man, but he is a man who never forgives a weakness, because none ever beset him,--none, at least, of which he is conscious. he---- oh, yes----,"--the girl's voice grows hoarse, she catches her breath and goes on with increasing volubility,--"i have no doubt that he would spring into the water at any moment to save the life, at the risk of his own, of any worthless wretch, but as soon as he brought him to land he would turn his back upon him and march away with his head proudly erect, without even casting a look upon the man he had rescued, let alone giving him a kind word. witness his behaviour towards me. i refer to it expressly that we may correct once for all your painful and humiliating misapprehension. he did, as you know, do me a service in bayreuth which i could not have expected of any one else. granted. but he has never forgiven me for being betrothed for six or eight weeks to lord langley. good heavens! it was a mistake of mine, a stupidity, the result of vanity and ambition on my part. but it was nothing more; and yet it was enough to cause--to cause herr von sydow to banish me from grace forever. this is your wonderful goswyn. it is a matter of perfect indifference to me: i take not the slightest interest in him, thank god! if i had been interested in him i might have fretted myself nearly to death; but, as it is, i am merely vexed that i should have overrated him,--that is all." her grandmother listened in amazement. she had never before seen erika so excited, had never imagined that her voice was capable of such intonations. at times it was the voice of a stubborn, angry child, and anon that of a proud, passionate woman. "why, erika!" she exclaimed when the girl paused, "this is all nonsense,--cleverly-invented nonsense, the worst of all kinds. there is not one word of truth in it. i know that he adores you just as he always did." "you have a lively imagination," erika said, sarcastically. "it is remarkable that goswyn has had nothing to say about his adoration all this time." "my dear child," replied her grandmother, "that is quite another thing. in certain respects goswyn is petty: i have always told you so. his poverty and your wealth have always been of too much consequence in his eyes. it is a folly which may have cost him the happiness of his life. say what you will, i am convinced that his poverty alone has prevented him from renewing his suit." "indeed!" said erika, tossing her head disdainfully. "well, his poverty is at an end!" "oh, erika, with your wonderful sensibility you ought to understand that a man like goswyn cannot bring himself all in a moment to profit by his brother's death,--a death, too, so terrible in its attendant circumstances." erika was silent for a minute; her lips quivered; then she said, in a low tone, "true, grandmother; it would be odious of him to renew his suit instantly; but, you see, if such a misfortune as has befallen him had happened to me, i should long to carry my pain to those who were nearest my heart. you are ready to return to berlin for his sake. if all that you fancy were true, he would have come to venice: he could easily have obtained a leave. and now we have done with this subject once for all. fortunately, i do not care for him in the least,--not in the least. i tell you all this only that you may not request me to ride posthaste with you to berlin, that the world there, already so predisposed in my favour, may say, 'she is running after goswyn von sydow, now that he has inherited the family estates.'" the grandmother laid her hands on erika's shoulders, then drew the proud young head towards her, and kissed her on the forehead. at that moment lüdecke, the indispensable, entered and presented a visiting-card. "paul von lozoncyi," countess lenzdorff read from the card, and then dropped it upon the salver again. "are you in the mood to receive strangers?" "yes. why not?" asked erika. shortly afterwards lozoncyi entered erika's pretty little boudoir, now illuminated by a couple of shaded lamps. erika received him most amiably. the old countess, on the other hand, was at first rather formal in her manner towards him. she was not accustomed to have young men delay so long in taking advantage of an invitation extended by herself to visit her. but before lozoncyi had been five minutes in the room her displeasure melted like snow in sunshine. without the slightest attempt to excuse his dilatoriness, the artist was at pains to impress his hostesses with his delight in having at last found the way to them. "how charming!" he said, looking around the room and rubbing his slender hands, after his characteristic fashion. "one never would dream that this was a hotel." "this is my grand-daughter's sanctum," said the old countess. "my own reception-room is several shades barer." "indeed? ah, i know it does not become me, the first time i am permitted to enjoy this privilege, to stare about at your treasures like the private agent of some dealer in antiquities, but we artists delight in the pride of the eye. it is remarkable how well you have suited the frame to the picture. look, your excellency." he drew the old lady's attention to the picture formed at that moment by her grand-daughter, who was sitting in a negligent attitude in a high-backed antique chair, the gilt leather covering of which made a charming background for her auburn hair. "it is enchanting, the white figure against the golden gleam of the leather, and with that vase of jonquils beside it. if one could only perpetuate it!" he sighed. "you will embarrass the child," the grandmother admonished him, although in her heart she was delighted. "instead of turning the countess erika's head, tell us why you have been so long finding your way hither." he raised his eyes, looked her full in the face, and then dropped them again, as he said, in a low tone, "rather ask me why i have come at all." "no, i ask you expressly why you did not come before," the old lady persisted, laughing. "why?" he hesitated a moment, and then replied, calmly, "because i have no wish to be the last among the countess erika's adorers to drag her triumphal car. now you know. such plain questions provoke plain answers." he looked at the old lady as he spoke, to see if he had gone too far. no, he was one of those favoured individuals to whom thrice as much is forgiven as to other men. something in the intonation of his gentle, cordial voice, his frank yet melancholy glance, and especially his smile, his charming insinuating smile, instantly prepossessed people in his favour. it was the same smile with which as a lad of seventeen he had beguiled little erika's tender heart, the merry, careless smile which he must have inherited from an amiable, light-hearted mother. the old lady only laughed at his confession, and then asked, mockingly, "and now you are content to be the very last, etc., etc.?" he shook his head: "now it has occurred to me that perhaps i can offer the countess erika a small pleasure which none other among her adorers can give her, and i come to ask if she will give me leave to do so." erika was silent. countess lenzdorff said, "herr von lozoncyi, you speak in riddles." lozoncyi turned from one to the other of the ladies with a look calculated to go directly to their hearts, and then, addressing the younger one, said, "you perhaps remember that i am in your debt, countess erika?" "yes; i once lent you five guilders." "five guilders," he repeated. "it seems a trifle; but then it was much for me. without those five guilders i should probably never have been able to reach my aunt illona in munich, and i might have starved in a ditch. you see that i owe you much; and in consideration of this fact i have come to ask if you will allow me to paint your portrait." erika gazed at him blankly. "for five guilders?" exclaimed the old countess, with comical emphasis. every one knew how difficult it was to persuade lozoncyi to paint a portrait, and what a fabulous price he asked when induced to do so. "i entreat you not to refuse me, countess erika," he begged, with clasped hands. "i advise you to accept the offer," said her grandmother: "it will hardly be made a second time." "you shall not be subjected to the slightest inconvenience," he went on to erika, "except that of being bored for a few hours. i know that you do not, as a rule, like my pictures, and therefore i promise you that i will burn this one if it does not please you, even though i should consider it a masterpiece. but should i succeed in pleasing you, the picture may serve to remind you sometimes of a poor fellow who----" the sentence was cut short by the entrance of several visitors, and much talk and laughter ensued. lozoncyi stayed until all the rest had gone. "when shall i have the first sitting?" he asked. "whenever you please," erika made reply. "to-morrow?" "to-morrow? no; to-morrow will not do; but the day after to-morrow, in the forenoon, if you like." his eyes sparkled. "about eleven?" she assented. "there goes another man whose head you have turned, erika," remarked the old countess, as the door closed behind the artist. she laughed as she said it. good heavens! what did it matter? at the appointed time lüdecke carried down to the gondola the portmanteau containing the gown in which lozoncyi had seen erika at frau von neerwinden's, and in which he had wished to immortalize her. the two ladies were not accompanied even by a maid, erika declaring that she needed no help in arranging her toilette for the portrait. the sky was cloudless, the air warm but not oppressive. the gondoliers rowed merrily and quickly. lozoncyi's studio was back of the rialto, on one of the narrower water-ways to the left of the grand canal. in about a quarter of an hour the gondola stopped before a light-green door with an iron lion's head in the centre of it. one of the gondoliers knocked with the ring depending from the lion's mouth. lozoncyi himself opened the door. he wore a faded linen blouse, and appeared greatly elated. "to the very last moment i was afraid of an excuse, and here you are, only a quarter of an hour late!" he cried, in a tone of cordial welcome; then, taking the portmanteau from the attendant gondolier, he called loudly, "lucrezia! lucrezia!" "you must excuse me, ladies," he said: "my house does not boast electric bells." from a passage at the head of the stone staircase there appeared an old venetian woman, with large earrings in her ears, and thick waving gray hair brushed back from her temples and coiled in a knot at the back of her head, the antique style of which suited admirably her regular classic features. she smiled a welcome to the ladies, thereby displaying a double row of dazzling white teeth, while lozoncyi in fluent italian ordered her to take the portmanteau to the dressing-room and unpack it. along the narrow passage leading directly through the house from the water, they walked into the garden, a tangle of luxuriant growth. the bushes were already clothed in tender green, and here and there through the young leaves could be seen a spray of white hawthorn. "oh, how charming!" exclaimed erika. "is it not?" said the painter. "i came here for the sake of the garden. a spot of earth is so precious in this watery venice." "do not forget your lucrezia: her beauty exceeds that of your garden," the old countess remarked. "my old factotum? yes, she has a fine face, magnificent features. i cannot endure anything ugly about me. but did you notice how short and stout she is?" he asked the question with so genuine an air of annoyance that the old countess could not help laughing. "what of that? is it a crime in your eyes?" "no," he said, thoughtfully, "but it makes her useless for artistic purposes. i tried to pose her the other day,--in vain. she might do for juliet's nurse, or for a modern fortune-teller, but that is not my line. i find plenty of handsome faces among these venetians, and fine shoulders, too, but nothing more. their bodies are too long, their legs too short; there are no sweeping lines, no grace of movement. and when one finds a model whose limbs are long enough, she is like a stork. i have a deal of trouble in this respect. when i was painting 'spring,'--the picture that countess erika does not like,--i was in despair because i could find no model for my female figure. then one day on the rialto i found a person, no longer young, rouged, but magnificently formed,--as tall as countess erika, only not----" he broke off and grew very red. a moment afterwards, however, he had forgotten his embarrassment in a new inspiration. at the door of the studio erika lifted her arm to pluck a spray of wistaria. "stay just as you are, for one instant, countess!" he cried, and, rushing into his studio, he returned instantly with a sketch-book and a basket-chair. the latter he placed in the shade for the old countess, and then began to sketch rapidly. "only look at that curve!" he exclaimed to the grandmother. "it is music! and the line of the hips!" his manner of unceasingly dwelling upon the beauty or ugliness of the human body, the exact analysis which he was perpetually making of its structure, in connection with his profession, was at times offensive. but neither of the ladies took exception to it, erika partly from inexperience and partly from flattered vanity, the old countess because her sensitiveness in this respect had become dulled of late, and also because lozoncyi expressed himself in so naïve a fashion that he seemed at the worst to be merely guilty of a breach of good taste. one had to know him very intimately to discover what a profound impression upon his inmost nature this perpetual study of the human figure had produced. "how thoroughly you understand how to dress yourself!" he exclaimed, continuing to look fixedly at the girl, who wore a gown of some white woollen stuff, with a large straw hat trimmed with heavy old venetian lace. "i have half a mind to paint you thus, instead of in evening dress," he murmured. "but no; your portrait should be in full dress. only, be generous; we will begin the portrait to-morrow, give me an hour for myself to-day: i want to make a water-colour sketch of you. does it tire you too much to stretch your arm out so far?" "a woman does not grow tired when she is conscious of being admired," the old countess declared; "but the situation is less entertaining for me. have you not some book to give me?" erika grew weary at last, in spite of the admiration lavished upon her by lozoncyi while he sketched. the painter improvised a lunch for his guests beneath a mulberry-tree, upon a little rickety table. it was excellently prepared and delicately served, and he enjoyed seeing the ladies do ample justice to it. lucrezia had just served the coffee, and was standing with a smiling face and arms akimbo, listening to the old countess's praise of her skill in cookery, when there came a knock at the door. "confound it!" muttered lozoncyi, "not a visitor, i trust." it was no visitor, but a letter brought by lozoncyi's gondolier, a handsome dark-skinned lad in a sailor dress, with a red scarf about his waist. involuntarily erika glanced at the letter. the address was in a feminine hand; the post-mark was paris. lozoncyi gave an impatient shrug at sight of the handwriting; then, crushing the letter in his hand, he slipped it unopened into his pocket. "will you not look into my workshop?" he asked the ladies. "i was just about to ask you to show us your studio," replied the old countess. "i am curious with regard to your 'bad dreams.'" "yes,"--he shivered,--"'bad dreams,'--that is the word!" the atelier, which they entered from the garden by a glass door, was an unusually high and spacious apartment, but very plainly furnished, and in dusty confusion,--the workshop of a very nervous artist, who can endure no 'clearing up,' who cannot do without the rubbish of his art. erika's gaze was instantly attracted by a remarkable and horrible picture. a single figure in a close, clinging garment of undecided hue, the head thrust forward, the arms stretched out, the whole form expressing yearning, torturing desire, was groping its way towards a swamp above which hovered a will-o'-the-wisp. above in the dark heavens gleamed the pure light of the stars. it was all a marvel of tone and expression,--the sad harmony of colour, the star-lit sky, the dreary swamp, and above all the figure, its every feature, every fingertip, every fold even of its garment, expressing desire. "what did you mean it to represent?" asked the old countess. "can you not guess?" no, she could not guess; but erika instantly exclaimed, "blind love!" he looked at her more curiously than he had done hitherto, and then asked, "how did you know?" "i see how the figure is creeping towards the will-o'-the-wisp, not heeding the stars sparkling above it. look how it is sinking into the swamp, grandmother. it is horrible!" "blind love," her grandmother repeated, thoughtfully. the subject did not appeal to her. "yes," said lozoncyi, "blind love,--the misery of debasing passion." with a bitter smile he added, "well, the only comfort is that one can sometimes attain to the will-o'-the-wisp, though he can never reach the stars, however he may gaze up at them." "no," erika exclaimed, indignantly, "that is no comfort. rather--a thousand times rather--reach up in vain for the stars, and expand and grow in longing for the unattainable, than stoop to a happiness to be found only in a swamp!" he made an inclination towards her, and said, half aloud, "what you say is very beautiful; but you do not understand." "well, you certainly have turned that poor fellow's head," countess lenzdorff remarked, leaning back comfortably among the cushions of the gondola as she and erika were being rowed home. "it will do him no harm: on the contrary, it is good for such young artists, too apt to be self-indulgent, to reach after the unattainable; it enlarges their minds." then after a while she went on: "i wonder whom the letter that so provoked him was from. perhaps from that blonde who was with him at bayreuth." erika did not reply; she looked down at a spray of wistaria he had plucked for her as she took leave of him. suddenly she started: a large black caterpillar crept out from among the fragrant blossoms. with a little cry of disgust she flung the spray into the water. at the same time lozoncyi was standing in his studio, looking at the water-colour sketch he had made of erika. "a glorious creature," he muttered to himself; "glorious! i do not remember ever to have seen anything more beautiful, and, with all her distinction, and that pallor too, thoroughly healthy, fully developed, nothing maimed or deformed about her. she must be at least twenty-four. how is it that she is not married? some unhappy love-affair? hardly. she seems entirely fancy free, as if she had never in her life cared for a lover. how proudly she carries her head! her kind is entirely unknown to me. well, there are always women enough to do the dirty work of life; some there must be to guard the holy grail." he turned to the door of the studio that led out into the garden. a light vapour was rising from the earth, enveloping the blossoms in mist. he smiled strangely and not very pleasantly. "the spring cares not a whit for the holy grail. it goes on its way; it goes on its way." at first she had been repelled by him; then he had flattered her vanity; by and by he interested her, but from the very beginning he had excited her imagination as no other man had ever done. and this in spite of the fact that his views of life, which he scarcely concealed, aroused within her painful indignation. she was quite aware that there were dark recesses in his soul which she might not explore, and that, courteous and faultless as was his behaviour towards women like her grandmother and herself, he respected them as curious specimens of the sex, interesting, because not often encountered. upon all this she pondered, sick at heart, as she turned her head to and fro upon her pillow, so many nights, seeking the refreshment of sleep. the outcome of it was a strange, pathetic, foolishly ambitious project. she set herself the task of converting him to nobler views of life. how many unfortunates have been ruined in their zeal for conversion! that erika should unconsciously play with fire was not astonishing, but that her grandmother should look on in smiling indifference while her grand-daughter was thus occupied was amazing. there are learned fanatics who in their determination to establish some theory of their own lavish all their powers in an effort to elaborate it, shutting their eyes to any light which may steal in upon them, while thus engaged, from an opposite quarter. at first the portrait progressed with great rapidity; but now weeks had gone by, and it seemed as if lozoncyi were unable to finish it. it was life-size, a three-fourths figure, and, in order not to fatigue erika, she was taken sitting in an antique chair, her lap heaped with pale-lilac wistaria blossoms. there was no straining for effect, not a trace of conventionality. "take the position that you find most comfortable," he had instructed his beautiful model. "you can take none that will not be lovely." the long spring days glided slowly by. when the two ladies first went to lozoncyi's studio the gray stone of the garden wall was easily seen behind the vines and bushes; now the green alone showed everywhere,--the roses were in bloom, and the hawthorn had nearly faded. the studio, too, was changed. when they first came, it had been absolutely bare of all decoration; now when they came, which was three or four times a week, it was filled with the loveliest flowers. when they left he heaped up all of these that had not been touched by the heat in their gondola, which sometimes returned alone to the hotel britannia, laden with the flowers, while lozoncyi escorted his guests to their home by some picturesque roundabout way. it was a great pleasure to walk with him. no one knew as he did how to call attention to some artistic effect, some bit of colour that might have easily escaped one less sensitive to picturesque detail. "good heavens!" said the old countess, "i have been through these alleys a hundred times, but you make me feel as if i never had been here before. you have a special gift for teaching one the beauty of life." "indeed? have i?" he murmured. "it is a gift, then, for teaching what i cannot learn myself." by degrees erika came to see with his eyes, and sometimes more quickly than he was wont to do. she was especially pleased when she could first call his attention to some artistic effect that had escaped him, and he always exaggerated the value of these discoveries of hers, assuring her that he had never seen a woman with so keen a sense of the beautiful, and rallying her upon her artistic skill. once when the old countess asked what they were talking about, lozoncyi replied, "the countess erika and i are teaching each other to find life beautiful." and once he turned to erika and said, sadly, "it is a pity that it must all come to an end so soon." all the sentences abruptly broken off which just touched the brink of a declaration of love, but were never really such, erika naturally interpreted in one way: "he loves me, but dares not venture to hope for a return of his affection: he is convinced that i am too far above him." at first she was proud of having inspired a man so rare, so gifted, so flattered, with so profound a sentiment; then---- "to what can this lead?" for the hundredth time lozoncyi asked himself this question. "to what can this lead?" he was standing in his studio before erika's unfinished portrait--unfinished! "it must be finished at the next sitting. for the last ten days i have simply put off its completion from one sitting to the next, and all because i cannot tell how i can endure seeing her no more. and, yet, to what can it all lead?" he was very pale, and the moisture stood upon his forehead. he would have turned away from the portrait, but was drawn towards it as by a spell. "a glorious creature!" he murmured; "and not only beautiful, but absolutely unique. it raises a man's moral standard to be with such a creature. h'm! before i knew her i was not aware that i had a moral standard." he laughed bitterly, and continued to gaze at the picture. "she is beautiful!" he muttered between his teeth. "it is folly for a being like her to be so beautiful,--a waste,--a contradiction of nature!" he stamped his foot, vexed that any but the purest thoughts should intrude upon his admiration of erika. "a strange creature! what eyes!--so clear, so deep, so penetrating!" he could think of nothing save of her; his nerves thrilled with passion for her. strive as he might, his artist imagination could not force itself from the contemplation of her beauty. he loved her; he had known that for some time. but hitherto his love for her had been a tender, noble sentiment, something of which he had not supposed himself capable, something that exalted him in his own estimation. he had been refreshed, revived, by her presence, by intercourse with her. but that was past. "the charm of love is the dream that precedes it," he murmured. the dream was over: what now? then an insane idea occurred to him: "she is unlike all others: there is a magnanimous, exaggerated strain in her composition, which exalts her above all pettiness. if she loved me, could she ever have been induced to marry me?" he shivered. "no! no! it is worse than folly to imagine it. in spite of all her enthusiasm, in spite of her immense power of compassion, she is too much the countess to ever dream of such a possibility." his lips were dry; an iron hand seemed clutching his throat. he turned his back to the picture and went out into the garden. the skies were covered with gray clouds: the flowers drooped; there was a distant mutter of thunder. "yet if it could be!" he murmured. chapter xxii. erika was sitting by the window in her boudoir. although outside the night had not yet fallen upon the earth, it was too dark to read. her window looked out upon the hotel-garden,--which at this season of the year was like one huge bed of roses intersected by a narrow gravel path. the sweet breath of the roses was wafted in at the window, but with it there mingled always the sickening odour of the lagoon. a couple of distant clocks were striking the hour, and the water was lapping the feet of the old palaces. lost in thought the girl sat there. the mission in life for which she had so yearned was revealed to her in the noblest, most attractive form. she could not doubt that lozoncyi loved her. mistrustful as she usually was concerning the sentiments she was wont to arouse, there could be no uncertainty in this case. the future lay before her bright and alluring. how could she have despaired in this wonderful life of ours? she seemed to have always known that she was foreordained for some special service. why had he never yet made a direct confession of his sentiments? her pride replied to this question, "he dare not venture." it was for her to take one step to meet him. reserved as she was, the mere thought of so doing sent the blood to her cheeks, but she took herself sternly to task, admonishing herself that cowardice on her part would be paltry in the extreme. it would surely be possible to allow him to read her heart, without any indelicate frankness on her part. thus far her thoughts had led her, when marianne brought her a card: "herr von lozoncyi." "did you tell him i was at home?" "no; i said i would see. when her excellency is away i never say anything decided," replied the maid. the old countess had gone out a little while before, to pay a short visit in the neighbourhood; lüdecke had accompanied her. erika hesitated a moment, then turned up the electric light and told marianne to show in the visitor. immediately afterwards he entered, and she arose to receive him. she was startled as she looked at his face, it was so pale and wan. "are you ill?" she exclaimed; "or have you come to tell us of some misfortune that has befallen you?" the sympathy expressed in her tone agitated him still further. "neither is the case," he replied, trying to assume an easy air. "i came only to----" there he paused. why had he come? the thought that she might entertain a warmer sentiment for him--a thought that had occurred to him to-day for the first time--would not be banished. he had dragged the sweet, racking uncertainty about with him for an hour through the loneliest streets of venice, without being able to rid himself of it. he would see her,--would have certainty; and then---- ah, he could not gain that certainty: he could only long for her. he had invented some explanation of his visit, but he could not remember it; instead he said, "you are very kind to receive me in countess lenzdorff's absence, and i will show my appreciation of your kindness by making my visit a short one." "on the contrary," she rejoined, "i hope you will spend the evening with us. my grandmother will be here in a few minutes, and will be very glad to find you here." how soft and sweet her voice was! could it be--could it be----? his agitation became almost intolerable. he knew that he ought not to stay, but he could not bring himself to leave. the evening minstrels of venice were beginning their rounds, and in the distance they sang "_io son felice--t'attendo in ciel!_" "bring your present expression to the studio tomorrow!" lozoncyi said, hoarsely: "i will transfer it to the canvas as well as i can, in memory of the noblest creature i have ever met. you are coming to-morrow?" "certainly. the portrait is almost finished, is it not?" "yes; i think to-morrow will be the last sitting; and then----" "and then----?" she repeated. "then it will all be over!" there was a pause. he turned his head aside. suddenly a low sweet voice, that went directly to his heart, said, softly, "then you will wish to know nothing more of me!" he started as if from an electric shock; the room swam before his eyes, when----the door opened, the countess mühlberg appeared, and lozoncyi arose to take leave, thanking heaven for this unexpected interruption. "will you not wait until my grandmother returns?" erika asked. "unfortunately, it is impossible." "adieu, then. to-morrow at eleven," she called after him. he made no reply. it lightened and thundered all through the night, but scarcely a drop of rain fell; the air the next morning was as sultry as it had been on the previous day. when erika, with her grandmother, entered lozoncyi's garden punctually at eleven o'clock, everything there looked withered and drooping. lozoncyi himself was pale; his motions had lost their wonted elasticity, and his face was grave. when the old countess asked him if he were ill, he ascribed his condition to the sirocco. erika noticed that there were no fresh flowers in the studio: he had taken no pains to decorate it for his guests, and she was conscious of a foreboding of misfortune. "i must subject you to some fatigue to-day, i fear, that the picture may at last be finished," he said, speaking very quickly. "you must have patience this last time. i should not like to give you a picture that was not as good as i knew how to make it." "you have already bestowed too much of your valuable time upon the countess erika," the old countess said, kindly. "indeed? do you think so?" he murmured, with a bitterness he had never displayed before. "do you think we artists should not be allowed to devote so much time to enjoyment? 'tis true," he added, in an undertone, "that we have to pay for it." erika looked at him in startled wonder: his words were perfectly incomprehensible to her, but the expression of his pale face was one of such anguish that her compassion, always too easily aroused, increased momentarily. as usual, she repaired to the adjoining room to change her dress with lucrezia's assistance. when she returned to the studio lozoncyi was standing with his back to the chimney-piece, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, while her grandmother, sitting opposite him in her favourite chair, was asking him, "what is the matter with you, lozoncyi? have you lost money in the stock market?" he shook his head. "no," he said, trying to answer the question in the same jesting tone as that in which it had been asked. "then what is wrong? confide in me." he cleared his throat. "in fact, i----" he began. then, perceiving erika, "ah, ready so soon?" he cried. "let us go to work." she could not find the pose immediately: he was obliged to move her right arm. his hand was as hot as if burning with fever, and he had scarcely touched the girl's arm with it when he withdrew it hastily. he went to the easel, gazed long and with half-closed eyes at his model, then turned and began to paint. usually there was a constant flow of conversation between erika and himself. to-day he spoke not a word; perfect silence reigned in the studio; the turning of the leaves of the novel which the old countess was reading and the twittering of the birds in the garden outside, were audible; one could even hear now and then the sweep of the brush upon the canvas. thus an hour passed. then, stepping back a few paces from the picture, he fixed his eyes upon erika, added a few touches with his brush, and looked from her to the portrait. "look at it yourself," he said, with a hard emphasis on each syllable. "so far as i can finish it, it is done. i cannot improve it!" both ladies went and stood before it. "i do not know whether it is like," said erika, "but it certainly is a masterpiece." "it is magnificent!" exclaimed her grandmother. "you have flattered the child, and have done it most delicately,--_en homme d'esprit_." "flattered!" he cried. "hardly! i have tried to produce the expression which not every one can see in the face. that is the only merit of my poor performance: otherwise it is a daub. i have never seemed to myself so poor a painter as when at work upon this picture." as he spoke he tossed the entire sheaf of brushes which he held in his hand into the chimney place. "what are you about?" exclaimed the old countess. "you are in a very odd mood to-day." "oh, the brushes were worn out," he replied. "i could not have painted another picture with them." the blood mounted to erika's cheek with gratification. she understood him. his agitation and sorrow did not disquiet her now, so convinced was she that it was in her power to dispel them by a single word. "you must leave the picture with me for a time. when it is dry i will varnish it and send it to you: i must ask you, however, to what address?" "i hope we shall still continue to see you," the old countess replied. "i assure you that i entertain a sincere friendship for you. the visits to your studio, although my part in them has been a secondary one, have come to be a pleasant habit, which i shall find it hard to discontinue. we shall always be glad to welcome you wherever we are." erika, meanwhile, had approached the painter. "i do not know how to thank you," she said. "i have done nothing for which thanks are due," he rejoined. "the thanks should come from me. all i ask of you is to bestow a thought now and then upon the poor painter who has enjoyed the sight of you for so long. no, there is one thing more. you will allow me to make a copy of the picture for myself?" the grandmother interposed: "go change your dress, erika." and lozoncyi asked, "will you take your portmanteau with you, or shall i send it to you?" erika went into the next room. hurriedly, impatiently, she took off the white gown and put on her street dress. "stuff everything into the portmanteau," she ordered lucrezia, slipping a gold coin into the servant's hand. she was in a strange mood: she felt her heart throb up in her throat. "shall i have one moment in which to speak to him alone?" she asked herself. "ready? you have been quick," her grandmother said when she re-entered the studio. "have you summoned our gondola, lozoncyi?" "yes, countess. i wonder it is not here. meanwhile, i must cut the roses in my garden for you. i cannot tell for whom they will bloom when you come no longer." he went out into the garden. for one moment erika hesitated; then she followed him. the skies were one uniform gray; every branch and blossom drooped wearily. the roses which lozoncyi tried to cut for erika fell to pieces beneath his touch, strewing the earth with pink and white petals. lozoncyi did not look around, but cut unmercifully, with a large pair of garden scissors. before he knew it, erika stood beside him. "i may be overbold," she half whispered, lightly touching his arm, "but i cannot help feeling that i have a right to know your troubles. is anything distressing you?" he looked at her and tried to smile. "to say farewell distresses me, countess, as you must be aware." she was overpowered by timidity, but her compassion gave her courage. she collected herself: they must understand each other. "if to say farewell really distresses you, i--i cannot see why it should be said," she whispered. the tears stood in her eyes, and he----? he was ashy pale, and the roses dropped from his hands. at this moment the bell rang loudly, and a woman's voice asked, in french with a strong prussian accent, "does the artist, paul lozoncyi, live here?" erika was startled. where had she heard that voice before? out into the drooping garden came a tall, well-formed woman, with regular features, fair, slightly rouged, every fold of her dress, every curl of her fair hair,--yes, even the perfume which breathed about her,--betraying her cult of physical perfection. a scarlet veil was drawn tightly about her face: otherwise her dress was simple and becoming. erika recognized her instantly, and guessed the truth. for a moment the garden swam before her eyes: she was afraid she should fall. meanwhile, the new-comer laid a very shapely and well-gloved hand upon the artist's arm, and cried, "_une surprise--hein, mon bébé! tu ne t'y attendais pas--dis?_" "no," he replied, sharply. she frowned, and, challenging erika with a look, she said, "have the kindness to introduce me." he cleared his throat, and then, sharp and hard as the blow of an axe, the words fell from his lips, "my wife." erika had recovered her self-possession. she had advanced sufficiently in knowledge of the world since bayreuth to know that no one, not even frau lozoncyi, could expect her to be cordial. she contented herself with acknowledging lozoncyi's introduction by a slight inclination. meanwhile, the old countess appeared from the studio to see what was going on. she took no pains to conceal her astonishment, and when lozoncyi presented his wife her inclination was, if possible, colder and haughtier than erika's had been, as she scanned the stranger through her eye-glass. lozoncyi's servant announced the gondola. erika offered her hand to lozoncyi and had the courage to smile. the old lady also held out her hand to him, but did not smile. her manner was very cool as she said, "thank you for all the kindness you have shown us. i had hoped you would dine with us to-night; but you will not wish this first day to leave--to leave frau von lozoncyi." the gondola pushed off. the water gurgled beneath the first stroke of the oar, and the wood creaked slightly. for an instant the artist stood upon his threshold, looking after erika; then he went into the house, and the light-green door which she knew so well closed behind him. how did she feel? she had no time to think of that. all her strength was expended in concealing her agitation. she arranged her dress, and remarked that the water was unusually muddy. in fact, it had an opaque greenish hue. the old countess did not notice it. "i never suspected that he was married!" she exclaimed. "he should have told us. a man has no right to conceal such a fact." and erika replied, with an air of easy indifference that surprised even herself, "i suppose, grandmother, he did not imagine that the circumstance could possess the slightest interest for us." chapter xxiii. in addition to many trying and strange characteristics possessed by erika, providence had bestowed upon her one which at this time stood her in stead. upon any severe agitating experience a few hours of cool, hard self-consciousness were sure to ensue,--hours in which she was perfectly able to appear in the world with dry eyes, and not even the keenest observer could perceive any change in her, save that her laugh was perhaps more frequent and more silvery. this condition of mind was far from being an agreeable one: moreover, the reaction afterwards was terrible: nevertheless, thanks to this moral paralysis, erika was able in critical moments to preserve appearances. the day on which, as she supposed, her happiness, her faith, the entire purpose of her life, lay in ruins about her, was occupied with social duties of every description. she performed them all,--an afternoon tea, with lawn-tennis, a dinner, and at last a supper with music at the austrian consul's. and even when the old countess on their way home from the consul's proposed that they should look in at frau von neerwinden's, upon whom they had not called since the memorable evening when minona read, erika declared herself quite willing to do so. perhaps this was because she had a secret hope of meeting lozoncyi there; for she longed to see him, to show him how entirely he had been mistaken if he had supposed---- ah! what pretexts we invent to deceive ourselves as to the cowardly impulses of our desires! but he was not at frau von neerwinden's, where the old countess found herself so well entertained, however, that she passed an hour, discussing the latest venetian scandal, in which erika took no interest. she strolled away from the group of elderly guests and through the open glass doors leading out upon a balcony above the water, where she seemed quite forgotten by those within the apartment. beneath her on the dark surface of the lagoon the gondolas were crowding from all quarters around a bark whence came music and song. they glided past over the black water, a broad stream of humanity attracted as by a magnetic needle, lured by a voice. nearer and nearer came the song, until it swept past beneath erika's balcony: "ninon, ninon, que fais-tu de la vie, toi, qui n'as pas d'amour?" and above her glimmered the stars, myriads of worlds, sparkling, and shining down disdainfully upon wretched humanity writhing and striving in its efforts to attain paltry ends, so vastly important in its own estimation. erika lay awake all night long, oppressed by a terrible burden,--not grief for a happiness of which she had dreamed and which had proved to be impossible, but something infinitely harder to be borne by a person of her temperament, the sense of disgrace. so long as she had been firmly convinced that he loved her, far from resenting the unconventional expression of his admiration, she had taken pleasure in it. but now the whole matter bore another aspect in her eyes. she remembered with painful distinctness the superficial, frivolous theories of life which he had advanced upon their first acquaintance. love! yes, he might perhaps have experienced what he designated thus, but at the thought her cheeks burned. she had pleased him, as hundreds before her had done, and in the full consciousness of the ties of marriage by which he was bound he had allowed himself to make love to her as he would have done to any common flirt. when at last, in entire faith in the sincerity--yes, in the sacredness--of his feeling for her, she had generously laid bare her heart before him, he had been simply terrified by the revelation. "he is probably laughing at me now," she said to herself, trembling in every limb. then, with infinite bitterness, she added, "no; he is probably reproaching himself, and wondering at my folly." it was enough to drive her insane. she buried her burning face in her pillow, and groaned aloud. she shed not a tear throughout the night, and she appeared punctually as usual at the breakfast-table, but in the midst of the pleasant little meal, which was always taken in her grandmother's boudoir, she was overcome by an intense weariness; she longed to flee to some dark corner where no one could find her and there let the tears flow freely. the meal was, however, unusually prolonged. the old countess, who had quite forgotten her vexation at lozoncyi's concealment of his marriage, and who had been vastly entertained the previous evening at frau von neerwinden's, was in an excellent humour, and was full of conversation, in which she showed herself both amusing and witty. erika forced herself to laugh and to seem gay, when, just as she felt unable to endure the situation for another moment, lüdecke appeared with a note for her. it had come, he informed her, the day before, shortly after the ladies had gone out to dinner, and he begged to be forgiven for having forgotten to deliver it. "old donkey!" the countess lenzdorff murmured. erika opened the note with trembling hands. it came from fräulein horst, the poor music-teacher. she wrote that she had been worse for a couple of days, and had made up her mind to go home. with pathetic gratitude and sincere admiration she desired to take leave of erika thus in writing, since her weak condition would not allow her to call upon her. really distressed, and a little ashamed of having of late somewhat neglected the poor creature, erika had a gondola called, and went immediately to the pension weber. when she asked in the hall of the establishment for fräulein horst, the dismay painted on every face at once revealed to her the truth: the poor music-teacher had passed away. she asked to be taken to the room where the dead woman lay; and as attilio, the hotel waiter, conducted her thither, he told how there had been for a long time no hope of the invalid's recovery; the day before yesterday the last symptom had appeared,--a restless longing for change,--for travel; her departure had been fixed for this evening; they had all hoped so that she would get off; but she had died here: they had found her dead in bed this very morning, her candle burnt down into the socket, and her open book on her bed. oh, yes, it was very sad to die so, away from home, and it was very unpleasant for the establishment. eccellenza had no idea of the injury it was to the pension! the signor baron in the first story had declared that he would not spend another night there. as attilio finished, he unlocked the room where the body lay, and ushered in erika. she motioned to him to leave her alone. the room was darkened. erika drew aside the curtains a little. there was a crucifix among the medicine-bottles on the table beside the bed, and a book, open apparently at the place where the dead woman had been last reading. it was a german translation of 'romeo and juliet:' it was open at the balcony scene, 'it is the nightingale, and not the lark----' erika kneeled down at the bedside, buried her face in the coverlet, and wept bitterly. when attilio came to remind her gently not to stay long, she arose and followed him with bowed head from the room. as she was going down the stairs, she heard a harsh grating voice with a slight polish accent call, "sophy, sophy, are you ready?" and then from the end of the corridor two figures appeared, one a short, thick-set woman heavily laden with a bundle of shawls, a travelling-bag, and several umbrellas, and looking up at a man who walked beside her, his hands in the pockets of his plaid jacket, his eye-glass in his eye, allowing himself with much condescension to be adored. they were strachinsky and his second wife. "ii signore barone," murmured attilio. strachinsky glanced towards erika: he frowned and looked away. she was glad that he did so, for in her dejected condition she could hardly have brought herself to speak to the couple. her whole soul was filled with a desire to creep away to some quiet spot where she might find relief in tears. she sent away her gondola, and hurried through the narrow streets to the piazza san zacharie. there she took refuge in the church of the same name. it was empty: not even a tourist was present to gaze upon the beauty of the famous gianbellini. she crouched down in the darkest corner upon the hard stones, and there, leaning her head upon the rush seat of a church chair, she wept more uncontrollably than she had done beside the corpse of the poor music-teacher. all at once she felt that she was no longer alone. she looked up. beside her stood lozoncyi. she arose, doing what she could to summon her pride to her aid. "what strange chance brings you here?" she asked him. "no chance whatever," he replied. "i saw you enter the church, and i followed you." "ah!" by a supreme effort she forced herself to assume an indifferent tone. "i have just been to the pension weber to take leave of my poor music-teacher. i found her dead. you may imagine----" he shook his head: "and you would have me believe that the tears you have just shed are for that poor creature? it is hardly worth the trouble. countess erika, i have followed you to speak with you undisturbed for the last time, to thank you, and to entreat your forgiveness. be frank with me, as i shall be with you. let us have the consolation of knowing that, when we parted, the heart of each was laid bare to the other: it will be but poor comfort, after all." he uttered the words with so decided a casting aside of all disguise that erika's pride availed her nothing. in vain did she seek for words in which to reply. she looked in his face, and was startled to see it so wan and haggard. "you see," he said, perceiving her dismay, "that in this case your wounded pride may be entirely satisfied; you can easily dispense with it. compared with the torture i have endured since the day before yesterday evening, your pain is mere child's play. oh, i pray you,"--he spoke in somewhat of his old impatient tone, the tone of a man whose wishes are usually complied with gladly,--"sit down for a moment: this is our last opportunity for speaking with each other. i owe you an explanation. you have a right to ask me how i came to conceal from you that i was married. to that i can only reply that i never speak of my marriage. i am not proud of my wife; i never take her into society with me; few of the friends whom i have here are aware that i am married, although i do not intentionally make a secret of it. i frequently travel alone, and last autumn the relations between my wife and myself, from causes unnecessary to relate, became of so strained a nature that we agreed to separate for a time. i avoided, when i could, even the thought of her. in spite of all this, i ought not to have refrained from acquainting you with my circumstances; nor should i have done so if i had dreamed---- you shrink, but we have agreed that for once in our lives, entirely casting aside pretence, we will tell each other the truth. in this case there is nothing in it that can offend your pride. i had conceived an enthusiasm for you when you were a very little girl. shall i say that i loved you from the first moment that i saw you? no! you excited my curiosity, my wonder; i could not help thinking of you. a veritable angel with wings would not have been more wonderful to me than such a being as yourself. i did not wish to believe in you. at times i called you too high-strung, at times i said to myself that yours was simply a cold nature. you know how i avoided you,--avoided you when i could not take my eyes off you; and then--then--you have no idea of how my heart beat when i went to you to beg to be allowed to paint your portrait. from that time all speculation with regard to you was at an end: i blissfully and gratefully accepted the miracle revealed to me; nay, i ceased to regard you as a miracle; you were for me the key to a pure, noble life, of which i had hitherto never dreamed. and i began to long for this life: the disgust i had hitherto felt for the whole world i now felt for myself; and then all was over with me. i had no longer any thought save of you; my whole soul was filled with eager anticipation of the short time i could pass with you; when you were gone i used to sit for hours in my studio, recalling in memory your every look and word. the budding freshness of your being, which needed only a little sunshine to blossom forth gloriously, your profound capacity for enthusiasm, the wealth of affection concealed beneath a coldness of manner, and withal the proud, unsullied purity of your heart, mind, and soul--oh, god! how lovely it all was! but you were so far removed from me; a universe separated us. never, no, never for one moment did i dream of your bestowing one thought of love upon me. then, when, conscious that the joy which had come to be my life was so soon to end, i went to you in most melancholy mood, the day before yesterday evening, your look, the tone of your voice, set my brain on fire. i left you and wandered about the streets like one possessed. when at last i went home, i shut myself up in the studio and began to dream. i pictured what my life might have been had i been free to clasp in my arms the bliss that might have been mine. i seemed to feel your presence, so pure, so holy, and yet so tender and loving. the life at which i had always sneered--a home-life--seemed to me the only one worth living, if lived with you. i dreamed it in every detail; i thought how my art could be ennobled and purified through you,--my art, which until now had been little more than the cry of a tortured soul. my former life lay far behind me, like some foul swamp from which you had rescued me. how i adored you! how tenderly and truly i reverenced you! then on a sudden i awoke to the consciousness of how impossible it all was. i crept out into the garden, where in the early dawn all looked pale and fading like my dying dream. i forced myself to think: it pained me so to think!--but i forced myself to do so, to draw conclusions. whichever way my thoughts turned, they led to despair,--to separation from you. i could not resist the conviction that it was my duty to end all intercourse with you as quickly as possible. what next occurred you know yourself. but you never can dream of what i endured from the time when you entered my studio yesterday morning until the moment when you followed me into the garden and there among the roses held out your hands to me, your eyes filled with light, everything about you so chaste, so grave, so tender; no, that agony you never can imagine! not to be able to fall at your feet, to take you in my arms and say, 'my heaven, my queen, my every thought, my life, my art, shall all be one prayer of gratitude to you!' to live a joyless life when joy is all unknown is nothing,--a matter of course. but when an angel opens wide the gates of paradise for one, and one must say, 'no, i dare not!' it is horrible! one cannot believe it possible to survive it!" he ceased. erika had listened to him with bowed head. every word that he had uttered had been balm to her wounded pride, and at the same time had excited that which was most easily stirred within her, the tenderest, warmest emotion of her heart,--her compassion. she had, it is true, a vague consciousness that it was not right that she should listen to such words from a married man, but she stifled it with the excuse that it was their last interview. his eyes sought hers: apparently he expected her to speak; but her lips refused to frame a sentence, although there was a question which she longed to ask. he leaned towards her. "there is something you would fain ask," he whispered. "tell me what it is." "i--i"--at last she managed to say,--"i cannot comprehend what induced you to marry that woman." he shrugged his shoulders: "no, nor can i, now, myself. how can i make you understand that in the world in' which i lived there were no women who inspired me with respect? it was made up of my fellow-students, and of women in no wise superior to the one of whom we are speaking. i was convinced that all her sex were either like her, or were harsh old maids, like my aunt illona. ten years older than i, she controlled my thoughts and my actions; i could not do without her, and at last i married her for fear lest some one of my fellow-students should take her from me." he paused. erika drew her breath painfully. "shortly afterwards came fame," he began anew, "suddenly,--over-night, as it were,--and all doors were flung wide for me. i do not want to represent myself to you as a better man than i am: i do not deny that all went smoothly in the beginning. i did not suffer from the burden with which i had laden my life. dozens of my fellows lived just as i did. she relieved me of every petty care, she removed every obstacle from my path, she undertook all my transactions with the picture-dealers, she was everything that i was not,--practical, cautious, energetic. i went into society without her,--she was content that it should be so,--and i enjoyed in intercourse with other women that charm which was lacking in my home. i felt no disgust then at my own want of all true perception. the fashionable circles which i frequented were in no wise in advance, so far as a lofty standard of morality was concerned, of those in which i had lived hitherto. whence does a young artist nowadays derive his knowledge of so-called refined society? from a few exaggerated women who befriend him half the time because they are wearying for a new toy. we poor fellows have but little opportunity to sound the depths of a true, pure womanly nature, least of all in the beginning of our career. it never occurred to me to think what my life might have been under other influences, until---- oh, erika, erika, why did you so transform me? why did you drag me from the mire which was my element, to leave me to perish?" she put both hands to her temples. "what can i do?" she murmured, hoarsely. "what can i do?" there she stood, pale and still, trembling with sympathy and compassion, needing help and helpless, more beautiful than ever, with cheeks flushed and eyes bright with fever. on a sudden the cannon from san giorgio announced the hour of noon, and instantly all the bells in venice began to swing their brazen tongues. erika awaked as from a dream. "i must go," she said. "my grandmother is expecting me." "this is farewell forever," he murmured. he bowed his head and turned away. she could not endure the sight of his agony. approaching him, and laying her hand upon his arm, she began, "do you really believe that you owe no duty to your wife?" "none!" he could not understand why she should ask the question. "then--then----" she stammered, "why not obtain a divorce?" he gazed at her for an instant. "and you could then consent to be my wife? you, the beautiful, idolized countess erika lenzdorff, the wife of a poor, divorced artist?" "yes," she replied, firmly. then, offering him her hand, and once more lifting to his her clear, pure eyes, she left the church. in an inspired frenzy of self-sacrifice, as it were, she crossed the piazza, where the grass grew between the uneven stones of the pavement, and above which the gray clouds were floating. she was as if borne aloft by an inspiration that elevated her whole being. suddenly she became aware of a discord in her sensations. on her ear there fell, sung to the tinkling accompaniment of a guitar,--the words,-- "tu m'hai bagnato il seno mio di lagrime, t'amo d'immenso amor." looking up, she perceived the same repulsive musicians that had so shocked her awhile ago on the piazza san stefano. she hastened her steps; but the sound long pursued her, 't'amo d'immenso amor!' until it died away with a last 'amor.' she frowned. she was indignant, that the wondrous, sacred word should be thus profaned. there was no brightness in the future to which erika looked forward. of this she was fully aware. they must go forth into the world, he and she, with none to wish them god-speed, none to bless them. and yet the melancholy which shrouded their love made it doubly dear to her. the craving for suffering which for some time past had thrilled her excited nerves now stirred within her. had she not been seeking it lately everywhere,--in poetry, in music, in art? she passed the day in this state of enthusiastic exaltation. at night she slept better than she had for long, but shortly after she awaked she was assailed by a distracting, feverish agitation. no arrangement had been made as to how she should get the intelligence from lozoncyi with regard to his wife's consent to a divorce. would he bring the information himself? would he send her a note? ten o'clock struck,--half-past ten,--eleven,--and no message came. her hands, her lips, her brow, burned with fever; she drew her breath with difficulty. about eleven o'clock the old countess went to take her forenoon walk. she had been gone but a short time when lüdecke announced herr von lozoncyi. erika had him shown up, and the first glance which she cast at his face told her that for him there was no possibility of a release. without a word she held out her hand to him. his hand was icy cold and trembled in her clasp; he looked pale and wretched,--the picture of misery. possessed absolutely by the pity that had filled her soul, she saw in his face only torturing despair at not being able to rid his life of what so degraded it. what could she do for him now? what sacrifice could she make? "sit down," she said, awkwardly, after a pause. "it is not worth while," he rejoined, in the dull tone of a man crushed to the earth beneath a heavy burden. "i have been waiting for an hour to see you alone, that i might tell you that which must be told. i have spoken with--my wife. she will not consent to a divorce, and without her consent no divorce is possible. she has never given me any legal cause for a separation,--no, never, strange as it may seem in a woman of her class. yesterday evening i spoke to her, and there was a terrible scene; and now,"--his voice grew fainter,--"now all is over." he laid his hand upon the back of a chair, as if to support himself, and paused for a moment, then resumed: "i ought to have written to you,--it would have been far better,--far,--but i could not deny myself one more sight of you. farewell. now all is over." she stood as if rooted to the spot, pale, mute, searching feverishly for some consolation for him. what more could she offer him? there was a gulf as of death between them. she sought some path that would lead across it,--in vain. she felt faint and giddy. "farewell," he murmured. "thanks--thanks for all--the joy--for all the sorrow---- good god! how dear it has been!" his voice broke; he turned away, holding out to her, for the last time, a slender, trembling hand. why at sight of that hand did memory recall so vividly the half-starved artist lad after whom as a tiny girl she had run to relieve his misery? and now she could do nothing for him,--nothing! really nothing? suddenly it flashed upon her. she had but to hold out her arms, to forget herself, and his anguish would be transformed to bliss. compassion grew within her and took possession of her like insanity; her soul was shaken as by an earthquake; what had been above was now beneath, and from the chaos one thought emerged, at first formless as a dream, then waxing clearer, until it took shape as a command, gradually obtaining absolute mastership of her. she raised her head, proud, resolved. "have you the courage to break with all your present life, and to begin a new one with me?" she asked. "a new life?" he murmured, and, vaguely, uncertainly, as if unable to trust his senses and fearing to lend words to what was monstrous and impossible, he added, "with you?" "yes." he recoiled a step, and looked her full in the face, speechless, breathless. a burning blush rose to her cheeks. "you have not the courage," she said, sternly. "well, then----" with an imperious gesture she turned away. but he detained her. "not the courage?" he cried, seizing her hand and carrying it to his lips. "offer a cup of pure water to a man perishing of thirst, and ask him if he has the courage to drink! the question is not of me, but of you. have you the faintest idea of the meaning of what you have said?" she shook her head: "i have learned to look life in the face; i know what i am doing. i know what the consequences of my act will be; i know that i resign all intercourse with my fellow-beings, saving only with yourself; that my only refuge on earth will be at your side; i know that i shall be a lost creature in the eyes of the world; and yet, if i may cherish the conviction that thereby i can redeem your shattered existence, that i can purify and ennoble your life, i am ready." her voice, always soft and full of that quality which goes straight to the heart, was veiled and vibrating; her hands were clasped upon her breast, her head was proudly erect, and her eyes seemed larger than usual from the ecstasy that shone in them. she was supernaturally lovely, and never had the chaste purity peculiar to her beauty been more distinctly stamped upon her face than at this moment when she--she, erika lenzdorff--was voluntarily proposing to follow a married man through the world as his mistress. "erika!" there was boundless exultation in his voice; he took one step towards her to clasp her in his arms and to press the first kiss upon her lips. but she repulsed him, overcome, it seemed, by sudden distress and dread, and when he repeated, in a tone of dismay and reproach, "erika!" she passed her hand across her brow, and murmured, "my entire life belongs to you. do not grudge me a few hours of reflection and preparation." he smiled at her reserve, and contented himself with pressing his lips tenderly again and again upon her hand, as he said, caressingly, "preparation? oh, my darling, my darling! meet me to-night at the railway-station at ten, and we will start for florence. leave all the rest to me." "to-night it would be impossible," she said: "it is our reception evening. i could not leave without giving rise to a search for me." "then to-morrow?" he persisted, speaking very quickly in his beguiling, irresistible voice. everything about him betrayed the feverish insistence of a man who suddenly gives free rein to a passion which he has hitherto with difficulty held in check. "to-morrow," she repeated, anxiously,--"to-morrow----" "do not delay, erika, if you are really resolved." "to-morrow be it, then!" the words came syllable by syllable from her lips in a kind of dull staccato. "erika!" his eyes shone, his whole being seemed transfigured. "yes," she went on, "constance mühlberg has arranged an excursion to chioggia to-morrow in a steamer she has chartered. my grandmother is to chaperon the party. at the last moment i will refuse to accompany her, and i shall then be free. when shall i come?" they decided upon taking the train leaving between eight and nine in the evening for vienna. then other necessary details were arranged, a process unutterably distasteful to erika, to whom it seemed like making the business arrangements for a funeral. she suffered intensely in thus descending to blank, prosaic reality from the visionary heights to which she had soared. at last everything had been discussed: there was nothing more to be said. a great dread then stole over her: she grew very silent. "i cannot believe in my bliss," he murmured. "you stand there in your white robes so chaste and grave, with that holy light in your eyes, more like a martyr awaiting death than a loving woman ready to break through all barriers to----" there was something in this description of the situation that offended her,--offended her so deeply that with what was almost harshness she interrupted him, saying, "and now, i pray you, go!" he looked at her in some dismay. she cast down her eyes, and with flaming cheeks stammered, "my grandmother will return in a few moments: i should not like to see you in her presence." "you are right," he said, changing colour. "your grandmother has always been so kind to me, and now----" "ah, go!" "may i not come to see you at some time during the day to-morrow?" "no." "in the evening, then,--at eight?" she looked him full in the face, stern resolve in her eyes. "i shall be punctual," she said. "to-morrow at eight," he whispered. "to-morrow at eight," she repeated. a minute afterwards he stood alone in the sunlit space behind the hotel. he rubbed his eyes, seeming to waken slowly from a lovely and most improbable dream. at first he felt only exhilaration, the joy of a near approach to a long-desired but unhoped-for goal. "to-morrow at eight," he whispered to himself several times. then on a sudden the keen edge of his delight was blunted; his joy seemed to slip through his fingers; he could not retain it. he recalled the entire scene through which he had just passed. he saw the girl's expression of face, he heard the sound of her voice. it was all lovely, exquisitely lovely, but, after all, there was something inharmonious, unnatural in it. this very girl who had of her own free impulse proposed to fly with him had never, during their long consultation, been impelled to utter one word of affection for him, and he himself was conscious that he could not have demanded it of her. she had been gentle, enthusiastic, self-sacrificing,--yes, self-sacrificing even to fanaticism. self-sacrificing! he repeated the word to himself in an undertone: it had seized hold of his imagination as portraying precisely her attitude and bearing. self-sacrificing,--yes, but not the slightest evidence had she given him of warm, passionate affection. he frowned, as he walked on thoughtfully. "how does she picture to herself the future, i wonder?" distinctly in his memory rang her words, "i know that i resign all intercourse with my fellow-beings, saving with yourself; that my only refuge on earth will be at your side; i know that i shall be a lost creature in the eyes of the world; and yet, if i can only cherish the conviction that i can thereby redeem your shattered existence, that i can purify and ennoble your life, i am ready." how ravishing she had been whilst uttering these words! and beautiful, pathetic words they were; but---- he shivered, in spite of the venetian may sunshine. some chord of overwrought feeling suddenly snapped; a stifling sensation of ungrateful and almost angry rebellion against an undeserved happiness assailed him. how could this be? he was paralyzed by a cowardly dread. he was ashamed of this revulsion of feeling, and struggled against it with angry self-contempt, but he could not shake it off. he had a vague consciousness that he must always be thus shamed in erika's presence. to avoid being so he should have to incite himself to a degree of high-souled enthusiasm which was unnatural and inconvenient. "purify and ennoble his life!" what did that mean? "purify? ennoble?" chapter xxiv. when by a long and roundabout way he at last reached his home on foot, and walked through the stone-paved, whitewashed corridor, looking absently before him, he perceived sitting beneath a mulberry-tree, the lower boughs of which were covered with the blossoms of a climbing rose, an attractive female figure, whose golden hair gleamed in the sunlight. she was sitting in a basket chair, and was engaged upon a piece of delicate crochet-work. she wore a gown of some white woollen stuff, very simply made, and confined at the waist by a belt of russet leather; the sleeves, which were rather short, left exposed not only the wrists, but part of a plump arm, white and smooth as polished marble, and the finely-formed throat rose as white and polished from the turn-down sailor collar, beneath which a dark-blue cravat was loosely knotted. how deft and skilful, as she worked, was every movement of her rather large but faultlessly-shaped hands! she was somewhat stout, but there was a certain charm in that. the broad full shoulders gave an impression of vigour that nothing could subdue. lozoncyi could not but admire them. he was amazed. yesterday there had been shrieks and screams, torn clothes and broken furniture, while to-day, after a scene that would have made any other woman ill, there was not a trace of fatigue, no dark shade beneath the steel-blue eyes, not a wrinkle about the rather large mouth. what a fund of inexhaustible vitality the woman possessed! what triumphant, healthy vigour! not a sign of nervousness, of useless agitation; no breath of exaggeration. ah, she had her good side,--there was no denying it. he sighed, and, hearing himself sigh, was startled by the turn his thoughts were taking. was it possible that after a forced companionship of scarcely two days--a companionship of which, when he could not avoid it, he had taken advantage to hurl in the woman's face his hatred and contempt for her--old habits were asserting their rights? she went on crocheting. the sunlight crept down from among the climbing roses and glittered upon her crochet-needle. at last it shone in her eyes: she moved her chair to avoid the dazzling glare, and, looking up, saw him. instead of the dark looks she had given him yesterday, she smiled slowly, blinking her strange cat-like eyes in the sunshine, and by her smile disclosing a row of pearly teeth. he passed her sullenly, as if she had taken an unjustifiable liberty with him, and went into the studio, wishing to persuade himself that he had a horror of her, that she repelled him. he hoped to feel that disgust for her with which the thought of her had inspired him since love for erika had filled his heart; but he did not feel the disgust. he lingered for less time than usual before erika's portrait, which occupied a large easel in the most conspicuous place in the studio, and went to his writing-table. several business letters awaited him there; he opened them with an impatient sigh. they were for the most part requests for answers to letters received by him weeks previously. since he had been in venice his business correspondence--in fact, his business affairs generally--had fallen into terrible disorder. he opened the latest letter: it contained columns of figures. it was the account from his picture-dealer. he snapped his fingers, and, sitting down, tried to comprehend it. in vain! the figures danced before his eyes. involuntarily he looked up. through the glass door of the studio a pair of greenish eyes were gazing at him with an expression of good-humoured raillery. his heart began to beat fast. formerly she had conducted his entire correspondence for him,--with what perfect regularity and skill! before she had taken up the trade of model in consequence of a love-affair with an artist, she had been a _dame de comptoir_; she was as skilled in accounts as a bank-clerk. he needed but to speak the word, and she would reduce all these provoking affairs to perfect order; but he would ask no favour of her. then she opened the studio door, and, entering softly, laid a warm strong hand upon his shoulder. he tried to persuade himself that he disliked the touch of this hand. but he did not dislike it: it had a soothing effect upon his excited nerves. nevertheless he forced himself to shake it off. the woman laughed, a low, gentle laugh,--the laugh of a cynic. she lighted a cigarette and handed it to him, saying, "_pauvre bébé_, try to rest instead of settling those accounts: i will do it all for you in the twinkling of an eye, while it would take you until next week." this time she did not lay her hand upon his shoulder, but stroked his head gently. "_voyons, séraphine!_" he said, crossly, shaking her off. she laughed again, good-humouredly, carelessly, with unconscious cynicism. before three minutes had passed, she was seated in his stead at the writing-table, and he, with the cigarette which she had offered him between his lips, was standing lost in thought before erika's portrait. how long he had been standing thus he could not have told, when he heard a deep voice beside him say, "_c'est rudement fort, tu sais. sapristi!_ shall you exhibit it?" "i have not made up my mind," he replied, absently, and then he was vexed with himself for answering her. "she is pretty, there's no denying it," seraphine confessed. "i am really sorry to have interfered with your amusement, but nothing could have come of it. if i am not mistaken, you had gone as far as was possible. she is one of those who give nothing for nothing, and who never invest their capital except in good securities. i am sorry i cannot resign these securities to her; _je suis bon garçon, moi_, but, _mon dieu, lorsqu'il y a un homme dans la question--sapristi, chaque femme pour elle!_" here lucrezia opened the door, and announced that lunch was served in the garden. lozoncyi had firmly resolved never again to sit down to a meal with this woman. but, before he could say so, she began, "it would be well if you could give them something to talk of again in paris. when did you leave in the autumn? in october? you have no idea what a relief your departure was to the artists there. you ought to see the crazy carnival of colour held in this year's salon! bouchard exhibited a nymph with a faun, quite in your style, only yours is flesh and his is putty,--a poor thing; but the critics exalted it, and gave it a _médaille d'honneur_. you had begun to make the artists very uncomfortable: they are praising up mere daubers, to belittle you, doing what they can to knock away the floor from under you. but you need only show yourself to recover your ground. becard told me lately that he had got hold of quite a new way of looking at things: his picture in the salon----" talking thus, she had gone slowly towards the door; now she was outside. unconsciously he had followed her. "what has becard in the salon?" "a woman on a balcony, after dinner, between two different lights,--on one side candle-light, and on the other moonlight; half of her is sulphur-yellow, the other half sea-green; _c'est d'un dróle!_" "i saw the sketch for that monstrosity in his atelier," cried lozoncyi, excited. "did they accept it?" she had taken her seat at the tempting table, upon which smoked a golden omelette; she did not answer instantly. "did they accept it?" lozoncyi repeated. "accept it----! why, my dear, they laud him to the skies: they hail him as _le messie_!" lozoncyi had now seated himself opposite her. he brought his fist down upon the table. "confound it!" he muttered between his teeth. "you are wrong to be vexed," she said: "he is a good fellow, and your friend. he told me awhile ago with reference to his success, 'it is envy of lozoncyi that is now standing me in stead.' let me give you some omelette: it is growing cold." he allowed her to fill his plate. two hours later he was pacing his atelier to and fro in gloomy mood. he had enjoyed his breakfast, and had been entertained by his wife's chatter. with infinite skill she lured his fancy back to the old, careless, good-humoured bohemian life in paris. he questioned her with increasing curiosity as to the works of his fellows there, and she told him stories,--highly spiced but very amusing stories; she peeled his orange for him, and when the sun began to shine full upon the table at which they were sitting they drank their coffee in the studio. a sensation of intense comfort stole over him; but in the midst of it he was conscious of physical uneasiness. she looked at him, and disappeared with a laugh, returning with a pair of easy slippers. it was warm; his boots were tight; he took them off and slipped his feet into the easy shoes she had brought him. he felt as if relieved for the first time for a long while of a certain restraint. he yawned and stretched himself. suddenly he shivered. the question suggested itself, could he ever allow himself such license in erika's presence? he started up. the momentarily-restored harmony between himself and his wife was interrupted. in the sudden change of mood to which in the course of years she had become accustomed, he repulsed her,--actually turned her out of the room, rudely, angrily. again his every pulse throbbed. he felt as if he should go mad. his revulsion of feeling with regard to erika clothed itself in a new dress. it was odious, unprincipled, criminal, to take advantage of the enthusiasm of this inexperienced young creature, to drag her down to probable--nay, to certain--misery. he went to his writing-table; he would write to her that for her sake he withdrew from their agreement. but scarcely had he written the first word when a wave of passion swept over his soul, benumbing his energies: he knew that he was as powerless to renounce her as he was to carry out any other resolve. what did he really want? he sprang up, crushed in his hand the sheet of paper which his pen had scarcely touched, and threw it away. once again he stood before the portrait. at last, with bowed head, he went into the next room. erika had left there by accident one or two articles belonging to her,--a lace handkerchief, a glove. he pressed them to his lips. chapter xxv. "erika! erika!" old countess lenzdorff calls in a joyful voice across the garden of the hôtel britannia. "erika!" the old lady is sitting by the breast-work bordering on the canal grande. erika is coming out of a side-door of the hotel. her grandmother had sent her upstairs for her parasol. how strange the girl looks, with cheeks so white and lips so feverishly red! but that is a secondary matter: what must strike every one who looks at her to-day is the transfigured light in her eyes,--a light shining as through tears. "come quickly!" her grandmother calls. "i have a surprise for you." but erika does not come quickly: she walks slowly through the blooming garden to her grandmother, who has an open letter in her hand. the little garden is basking in the sunshine; the heavens are cloudless; the lagoon looks as if it were sprinkled with diamonds, as the black gondolas glide past, the sinewy brown throats of the gondoliers shining like bronze. in the fragrant garden can be heard, now loud, now faint, the sound of gay voices on the water mingled with the constant lapping of the waves and the jangle of church-bells. "from whom does this letter come?" her grandmother asks erika, with a smile. "i--i cannot imagine," the girl murmurs. her pale cheeks grow paler, and a fixed look comes into her shining eyes. "indeed? from whom should a letter come which i am so glad to receive?" erika starts. "from goswyn!" says her grandmother. "but what a face is that!" "am i to be as glad as you are because goswyn at last condescends to take some notice of the kind sympathy you have shown him?" says erika. but the old hard intonation of her voice is gone: it sounds weary and dull. "never mind!" her grandmother rejoins, triumphantly. "first read the letter, and then tell me if you still have the faintest disposition to be vexed with him. whether you have any regard for him or not, the letter will please you. he asks, among other things, whether we shall be in venice next week, and if he may come to us here." erika holds the letter in her hands, but when she fixes her eyes upon it the bold distinct characters swim before them. she looks away into the dazzling sunlight above the lagoon. among the black gondolas with white lanterns she now perceives prince helmy in his yellow cutter, which usually lies at anchor in front of the hôtel britannia. espying the two ladies, the prince clambers up to them over one or two gondolas, and asks, "can you ladies not be induced to intrust yourselves to me? it would be far pleasanter to go to chioggia in my cutter than in the steamer." "it certainly would," the old countess replies, with more amiability than she is wont to display towards prince helmy. "but," she adds, "unfortunately i cannot have that pleasure. i have promised to act as chaperon to constance mühlberg's party, and i cannot disappoint her." "i'm sorry." at this moment a merry old voice cries, "your obedient servant, ladies!" it is count treurenberg, dressed in a light summer suit, all ready for the excursion to chioggia. "you are going to chioggia too?" "we are." "'tis a pity you cannot go with us." "i have just been telling them," observes prince helmy. "do you know whether lozoncyi is to be of the party?" asks treurenberg. "i have no idea," countess lenzdorff replies, rather coldly. "what do you think of the wife who has made her appearance so suddenly? something of a surprise, eh?" "a surprise which does not interest me much," the countess replies, haughtily. "of course not. but there are some of our venetian beauties who could hardly say as much. 'tis odd that the fellow should have been so close-mouthed concerning his 'indissoluble tie.' i saw him once in paris with the individual in question, but i never dreamed that that yellow-haired dame had any legitimate claim upon him. probably a youthful folly." "a millstone that he has hung about his neck," prince helmy says, feelingly,--"a burden that will weigh him down to the earth. i am very sorry for him." "h'm!" count treurenberg drawls, "my pity is not so easily excited. such women make an artist's life very comfortable; and she certainly has interfered but little with him hitherto." he rubs his hands with a significant glance. "are you ready, count?" prince helmy asks, after the pause that follows treurenberg's words. the count is ready, and takes leave of the ladies. shortly afterwards they see him in the cutter with the prince, who is helping his two sailors to hoist the tiny sail. the gentlemen wave a respectful farewell to the lenzdorffs; the cutter glides off, at first slowly from among the gondolas, then more and more swiftly, skimming the water like a bird in the direction of the line of foam which marks the boundary of the open sea. it is a trifle which has made the weight upon erika's heart heavier in the last minute. she has said to herself that never again after to-morrow will a man accord her the respectful courtesy just shown her by the two gentlemen in the cutter. her attack of cowardice is a short one, however. immediately afterwards she feels the joy of a fanatic who delights in suffering one pang more for his convictions. "i cannot see why we have not been called to lunch," countess lenzdorff remarks, consulting her watch; then, observing erika, she is startled by the girl's looks. "what is the matter with you?" she asks, and when the girl's only answer is a rapid change of colour, the thought occurs to her for the first time, "is it possible that she cares for lozoncyi?--my proud erika?" she observes her grand-daughter narrowly, and an ugly suspicion invades her heart. "what reply shall i make to goswyn?" she thinks. "good heavens! i had no idea! perhaps it is only fancy. but if---- it would be my fault. and people call me shrewd! poor child!" meanwhile, fritz announces that lunch is served. "my child, you are eating nothing," the old countess says anxiously to her grand-daughter, who is doing her best to swallow a morsel of food. "i am not very well," erika replies, in a faint, weary voice. how often those tones will ring through the old countess's soul! "i have a slight headache," and she puts her hand to her head; "i feel as if a storm were coming; but there is not a cloud in the sky." "so, there is not a cloud to be seen. the sunshine is so powerful in the dining-hall that the shades have to be drawn down, thus diffusing a gray twilight through the room. "let us go to our rooms," says the old countess, with a sigh of discouragement. they go, and erika seems to be making ready for the proposed expedition. but when her grandmother, fully arrayed, enters the girl's room half an hour afterwards, she finds her in a long white dressing-gown with loosened hair, leaning back in an easy-chair. "my child, my child! what is the matter with you?" the old lady exclaims, in terror. "nothing," the girl replies, without lifting her downcast eyes. "a headache. you can see i meant to go, but i cannot: you must go without me. give all kinds of affectionate messages to constance, and tell her how sorry i am." "my dear child, i cannot go with those people if you are not well," the old lady says, beginning to take off her gloves. "no human being could expect me to do that." erika is trembling violently. "but, grandmother," she replies, "it is only a headache. you can do me no good by staying at home, and you know i cannot bear to make a disturbance." "yes, yes," says the grandmother. "but lie down, at least, my darling." "you could not disappoint constance mühlberg: you know she depends upon you, she needs your support," erika goes on, persuasively. "yes, that is true," the countess admits. she notices that erika has hastily brushed away tears from her eyes, and the suspicion which had assailed her below in the garden is strengthened. perhaps it would be better to leave the girl in peace for a while, she says to herself. meanwhile, marianne appears, to say that the countess mühlberg is awaiting the ladies below in her gondola. "go, grandmother dear," erika says, faintly; "go!" "yes, i will go; but first let me see you lie down, my child." she conducts erika to the bed. "how you tremble! you can hardly stand." she arranges her long dressing-gown, strokes the girl's cheek, and kisses her forehead. she has reached the door, when she hears a low voice behind her say, "grandmother!" she turns. erika is half sitting up in bed, looking after her. "what is it, my child?" "nothing, only i was thinking just now that i have not treated you as i ought, sometimes lately. forgive me, grandmother!" the old lady clasps the trembling girl in her arms. "little goose!" she says. "as if that were of any consequence, my darling! only go quietly to sleep, that i may find you well when i return. where is my pocket-handkerchief? oh, there is goswyn's letter: when you are a little better you can read it. you need not be afraid that i shall try to persuade you; that time has gone by; but i think the letter ought to please you. at all events, it is something to have inspired so thoroughly excellent a man with so deep and true an affection; and you will see, too, that you have been unjust to him. good-bye, my darling, good-bye." for the last time erika presses the delicate old hand to her lips. the countess has gone. erika is alone. she has locked her door, and is sitting on her bed with goswyn's letter open on her lap. her tears are falling thick and fast upon it. it reads as follows: "my very dear old friend,-- "shall you be in venice next week, and may i come to you there? i do not want you to tell me if i have any chance: i shall come at all events, unless countess erika is actually betrothed. this is plain speaking, is it not? "have you known, or have you not known, that through all these years since my rejection by the countess erika not a day has passed for me that has not been filled with thoughts of her? in any case my conduct must have seemed inexplicable to you: probably you have thought me ridiculously sensitive. it is true, ridiculous sensitiveness, as i now see, has been the true cause of my foolish, unjustifiable behaviour, but it has not been the sensitiveness of a rejected suitor. god forbid! "i should never have been provoked by the countess erika's rejection of me,--no, never,--even if it had not been conveyed in so bewitching a way that one ought to have kneeled down and adored her for it. there was another reason for my sensitiveness. a certain person, whose name there is no need to mention, hinted that i was in pursuit of countess erika's money. from that moment my peace of mind was at an end. i could not go near her again, because, to speak plainly, i was conscious that i was not a suitable match for her. "you think this petty. i think it is petty myself,--so petty that i despise myself, and simply ask, am i any more worthy of so glorious a creature, now that i have a few more marks a year to spend? "i dread being punished for my obstinate stupidity. perhaps there was no possibility of my winning her heart, but it was worth a trial, and she has a right to reproach me for never in all these years making that trial. inconceivable as my long delay must appear to you, i am sure you can understand why i have not thus appealed to you lately, so soon after the terrible misfortune that has befallen me. "it was too horrible! "in addition to my sincere sorrow for my brother's death, i am tormented by the sensation that i never sufficiently prized the nobility of character which his last moments revealed. to turn so terrible a catastrophe to my advantage would have been to me impossible. i could not have done it, even although i had not been so crushed by the manner of his death that all desire, all love of life, has for some weeks seemed dead within me. "yesterday i met frau von norbin, who has lately returned from her italian tour. she informed me that prince nimbsch is paying devoted attention to countess erika, although at present with small encouragement. "jealousy has roused me from my lethargy. and now i ask you once more, may i come to venice? unless something unforeseen should occur, i could obtain a leave without much trouble. again i repeat, i do not ask you what chance i have,--i know that i have none at present,--but i only ask you, may i come? "impatiently awaiting your answer, i am faithfully yours, "g. v. sydow." she read the letter to the last word, her tears flowing faster and faster. then she threw herself on the bed, and buried her face among the pillows. a yearning desire assailed her heart, and thrilled through her every nerve, calling aloud, "turn back! turn back!" but it was too late; she would not turn back. she was entirely possessed by the illusion that she was about to do something grand and elevating. a low knock at the door recalled her to herself. it was marianne, who, instructed by the old countess, came to see if she would not have a cup of tea. "by and by, marianne," she called, without opening the door. "i want nothing at present. i am better." marianne left, and erika looked at her watch. four o'clock! it was time to begin her final preparations. she gathered together all her trinkets,--an unusually large and valuable collection for a girl. she had been fond of jewelry, and her grandmother had denied her nothing. without one longing thought of them, she selected all that were of special value, running through her fingers five strings of beautiful pearls, and calculating as she did so their probable worth. these she added to the heap, and then wrapped all together in a package, upon which she wrote "for the poor." then she sat down at her writing-table and explained her last wishes, arranging everything as one would who contemplated suicide. not one of her numerous _protégées_ did she forget, commending them all to her grandmother's care. after everything in this respect that was necessary, or at least that she considered necessary, was arranged, she reflected that she must write a farewell to her grandmother. it was a terribly hard task, but after she had begun her letter there seemed to be no end to it. she covered three sheets, and there were yet many loving things to say. now first she comprehended all that her grandmother had been to her of late years. she forgot how often the old countess's philosophy had grated upon her, how often she had rebelled against it. how hard it was to leave her! but retreat was not to be thought of. and she wrote on. at last she concluded with, "every one else will point the finger of scorn at me; you will bewail my course, but you will not call it evil, only foolish. poor, dear grandmother! and you will mourn over the misery which i have voluntarily brought upon myself. it is terrible that i cannot fulfil the mission in life which lies so clearly before me without giving you pain. but i cannot help it! one thing consoles me. i know how large-minded you are: you will have to choose between the world and me, and you will be strong enough to resign the world and to turn to me, and then nothing will be wanting to me in my new life, let people slander me as they will!" three times did erika fold up the letter, and three times did she open it again to add something to it. at last it was finished. she put with it into the envelope the draft of her wishes as to the disposal of the effects she left behind her, and then asked herself where she should put the letter so that her grandmother might find it instantly upon her return. at first she took it to the countess's room, but then, reflecting that the old lady would come at once to her bedside to see how she was, she laid it, with eyes streaming with tears, upon the table beside her bed. "poor grandmother!" she kissed the letter tenderly as she left it. now everything was finished: she had only to dress herself. but she was not content. once more she sat down at her writing-table and wrote. this time the words came slowly and with difficulty from her pen, as if each one were torn singly from her bleeding heart. "my dear, faithful friend,"--she began,--"do not come to venice. when this letter reaches you i shall have vanished from the world in which you live. i could not endure to have you hear from strangers of the step i am about to take, and so i write to you myself. yes, when you read this letter i shall have broken with all that has constituted my life hitherto, and shall have fled with--with a married man. how grieved you will be when you read this! my whole soul cries out with pain as i think of it. "you will not understand it. 'erika lenzdorff fled with a married man!' it sounds incredible, does it not? "you know that i am not light-minded, nor corrupt, and so you will believe me when i tell you that the reasons which have induced me to take so terrible a step are unanswerable in my mind. "i can redeem the life of a noble and gifted man. his moral nature is deteriorating, he suffers frightfully, and i cannot avoid the conviction that without me he must go to destruction. "he hoped to be able to procure a divorce from his wife. it was impossible. without hesitation i resolved of my own accord to follow him. in the midst of the agony which it has cost me to break with all my former associations, i am sustained by a sense of right. "it is grand and beautiful to suffer for a noble and highly-gifted fellow-being,--beautiful to be able to say, 'providence has chosen me to shed light into his darkened soul.' i do not waste a thought upon what i resign in thus fulfilling my mission, but the consciousness of the pain i shall cause my dear grandmother and you weighs me to the earth. she will forgive me, and you, my poor friend, you will forget me. i would gladly find consolation in this conviction; but no, it does not comfort me. of all that i must give up with my old life, your friendship is what i shall lack most painfully. "goswyn! for god's sake do not judge me falsely and harshly! what i do, i do in the absolute conviction that it is right. if this conviction should ever fail me, then---- but i cannot harbour that idea!--it would be too terrible. i cannot be mistaken! "i have a fearful attack of cowardice as i write to you, and a sudden dread takes possession of me. am i equal to the task i have undertaken? will he always be content to live apart from the world with me alone? "i am prepared for that also. if his feeling for me should wane, my task will be done, he will need me no longer. then i will vanish from his life, and from life itself, like a poor taper that is extinguished when the sun rises. i shall have the courage to extinguish it; it will be a trifle in comparison with what i am now doing. oh, god! how hard it is! goswyn, adieu! one thing more, and this i tell you because this is my farewell to you. whether it will console you, or add one more pang to your sorrow, i cannot tell, but i am constrained to lay bare my heart before you: these are as it were the words of a dying woman. if last autumn you had said one kind word to me, i should now have been your wife, and you should not have repented it! all that is over. fate had another destiny in store for me. "once more, farewell! "forgive me for causing you pain, and sometimes think of your poor friend, "erika lenzdorff." now all was done. she put on her travelling-dress, a plain dark suit in which she was wont to pay visits to the poor. she looked at the clock--seven! one half-hour more, and she must go; and she could not go without something to lend her physical strength. she rang for a cup of tea, swallowed it hastily, and for the last time walked through the four rooms occupied by her grandmother and herself. then she took her travelling-bag, which she had packed with a few necessaries, put on her straw hat, and went. it was half-past seven: the servants were at their evening meal. no one noticed her departure at so unusual an hour. how often she had been seen leaving the hotel in the same dress to visit her poor people! she walked for some distance, and dropped her letter to goswyn into the nearest post-box, feeling as she did so that she was casting her whole life thus far into a dark gulf whence it could never be recovered. then she hired a gondola, an open one,--she could find no other,--and it pushed off with her. she was very weary; with her eyes fixed on vacancy, she leaned back among the black cushions. the tragic wretchedness of the situation no longer impressed her. she only felt that she was about to undertake a journey. if it were but over! sssh--sssh--the strokes of the oars sounded monotonously in her ears: the gondola glided rapidly over the water. the garish daylight had faded; the spring twilight, with its incomparably poetic charm, was casting its transparent veil over venice. the gondola glided on. erika's battle was fought. she leaned back, pale and still, with gleaming eyes. the sound of the church-bells droned in her ears. dulled to all that lay behind her, she was conscious of nothing save of the enthusiasm of a young hero ready to brave death for a sacred cause. around her was the breath of the waning spring, and beneath her was the sobbing of the waves. it was later by about an hour and a half. the old countess, who had felt it her duty to be present at the fête, had not thought herself obliged to remain until its close. she was very uneasy about erika, and had gratefully accepted prince nimbsch's offer to take her home in his cutter, leaving constance mühlberg and her guests, with the hungarian band that had been telegraphed for from vienna for their amusement, to return to venice in the steamer. with the velocity of a skimming swallow the little vessel shot through the water. prince nimbsch, leaving the management of the sail entirely to his sailors, leaned back beside the old lady among his very new velvet cushions, and made good-humoured, although futile, efforts to entertain her. she was absent: her thoughts were occupied with erika's altered appearance. "poor child!" she thought, "i was foolish. it was my fault; but how could i suspect it? she seemed so strong, so unsusceptible. it is the same folly, the same disease that attacks us all once in a lifetime. i had it myself: i can hardly remember it now. it hurts,--it hurts very much. but she has a strong character and a clear head. i am very sorry; i might have prevented it, if i had only known. my poor, proud erika! what shall i write to goswyn? of course that he must come. i think she will be glad to see him: this cannot go very deep; but i am very sorry." venice lay before them, gray and shadowy, a reflection of the pale summer sky, whence the sun had long disappeared, and where the stars were not yet visible. they reached the hotel, and the old countess looked up at erika's windows. "she is not in her boudoir," she said to herself. "perhaps she is asleep." "tell countess erika how stupid the _fête_ was, thanks to her absence," the young austrian said as he took his leave, "and how we all anathematized that headache for depriving us of her society. i shall call to-morrow, and hope to find her quite well again." he kissed the old lady's hand, and she hurried upstairs to her rooms. she softly entered erika's apartments. the boudoir was dark, as she had seen from below. she gently opened the door of the bedroom; that was dark also. had the poor child gone to bed? she approached the bed very softly, not to disturb her, and stooped above it. there was no one there. a foreboding of something terrible instantly took possession of her. for a moment she lost her head: she grew dizzy, and would have screamed and alarmed the house, but her voice died in her throat. suddenly something fluttered down from the table upon which she leaned to support herself. she stooped to pick it up: it was a letter. she turned on the electric light and read it through. after the first few lines, half blind with grief, she would have tossed it aside,--what could it contain that she did not now know?--but at last she read it through, read every word to the very end, feeding her pain with each tender, loving expression of the unhappy, mistaken girl. not for one moment did she blame erika for what had happened: she blamed herself alone. she accused herself of plunging erika into wretchedness, as years before she had done with her daughter-in-law. she had required of both of them that they should accede to her materialistic views. she had never allowed them to entertain any idealistic conception of life. she had never understood that such idealism was a necessity of their existence, and that if deprived of it in one shape they would take refuge in some exaggeration which might shield them from a life of coldly-calculating egotism. her daughter-in-law's unhappiness had not affected her much; her grand-daughter's misery would blot the sun from her sky. she was so clear-sighted: ah, why was she so, when she could see nothing but what agonized her? for a creature like erika it was as impossible to disregard the dictates of morality as it would be to breathe in the moon with lungs constructed for the atmosphere of the earth. there were women capable of braving the opinions of the world and of quietly going on their way, women for whom the pillory was converted into a pedestal as soon as they stood in it. but erika was not one of these. before the stars in their courses had twice appeared in the heavens she would writhe in misery. she had none of that self-exalting quality which must veil the moral lack of which she would surely be made conscious. yes, she would then find no other name for the sacrifice she had made to the wretch who had been willing to receive it at her hands than the one which the world has given to it for centuries when it has been made to men by worthless women, inspired by no lofty desire. in her own eyes she would be a fallen woman. the moisture stood upon the old countess's forehead. "my erika! my proud, glorious erika!" she murmured. she knew that the peril of a woman's fall must be measured by the moral height from which she falls. and erika had fallen from a very lofty height. her life was ruined. once more she opened erika's letter and read the line, "you will have to choose between the world and me." choose! as if there could be any question of choice. of course she was ready to open her arms to her and do for her what she alone could; but what could she do? suddenly a picture arose in her memory,--a terrible picture. in the waiting-room of a railway-station she had once seen among some emigrants a poor woman with a child, a boy about six or seven years old. his face was frightfully disfigured by scars. all the passers-by stared at him, and some nudged one another and whispered together. the child first grew scarlet, then very restless, and finally burst into a passion of tears; whereupon the mother sat down upon a bench and hid the poor face in her lap. a quarter of an hour later, when the countess passed the same spot the woman was still there with the child's face in her lap. she sat stiffly erect, glaring at the unfeeling crowd whose cruel curiosity had so hurt the boy, and with her rough hand she gently stroked his short light hair. the sight had made a profound impression upon the countess. "she cannot sit there always, concealing in her lap her child's deformity," she said to herself: "sooner or later she must again expose the poor creature to the gaze of the crowd." what now recalled this poor, powerless mother to her mind? she could do no more for erika than hide her head in her lap from the contemptuous curiosity of the world. so entirely did this thought take possession of her imagination that she seemed to feel the warm weight of the poor humiliated head upon her knee; she raised her hand to stroke it, when with a start she awoke to consciousness. "ah, even that will be denied me," she thought. "as soon as erika comes to herself, she will cast away her life. yes, all is over,--all,--all!" marianne came into the room. she waved her away without a word. she never thought of inventing a reason to the maid for erika's absence. she sat there mute and motionless, looking into the future. a vast misfortune seemed to have engulfed the world, and she alone was left to suffer, she alone was to blame. chapter xxvi. lozoncyi had gone to the station. he had delayed until the latest minute, intimidated by the difficulties of his undertaking, swayed by intense agitation. at last, passion for erika had gained the mastery, although it had shrunk to very small dimensions. all the poetry had faded out of it. the lofty conception of life and its duties which had lately raised him above himself had vanished like a fit of intoxication of which nothing is left save a torturing thirst. will she come? he had asked himself, with quivering nerves, as he sprang from the gondola, and, after purchasing the tickets, looked around him anxiously. he had in fact expected that she would be there before him: he was disappointed at not finding her. he went out upon the steps leading from the railway-station to the canal, and looked abroad over the shining green water. as each gondola approached he said to himself, "here she comes." but no; she did not come. the first bell rang. he went on the platform, his pulses throbbing feverishly. while he had been sure that she would come he had been comparatively calm; now his longing for her knew no bounds. he eagerly scanned every woman whom he saw in the distance. fortunately, he saw no one whom he knew: the train was not very full. the second bell rang; the passengers hurried into their several compartments, porters ran to and fro with travelling-bags and trunks, farewells were waved from the windows of the train. the third bell rang, and the train steamed noisily out of the station. she had not come. his disappointment was largely mingled with anger, and was so intense that it amounted to physical nervous pain. "at the last moment her courage has failed her," he told himself. but then her pale beautiful face, lit up with enthusiasm, arose before his mind's eye, and in the midst of his frenzy of passion he was conscious of the yearning tenderness which had been a chief element in his feeling for her. "no," he said to himself, "even if her courage has failed her, she is not one to break her word. she must have been prevented at the last moment." a burning desire for certainty in the matter mastered him. he went to the hôtel britannia, under the pretext of calling upon the lenzdorffs. he was told that her excellency had gone out early in the afternoon and had not yet returned. he hesitated for a moment, and then, in a tone the indifference of which surprised himself, he asked if he could see the countess erika, as he had a message for her. the porter, a presuming fellow who meddled in everybody's affairs, informed him that the young countess had just gone out, but would probably return shortly. "why do you think so?" asked lozoncyi. "because she was not in evening dress. she went out in a street suit, and carried a leather bag in her hand: that always means 'charity' with the young countess. i know the bag: i have often carried it for her to the gondola. this time she walked, and carried it herself. she is a little----" he touched his forehead with his forefinger, "but a good lady: she is always giving." lozoncyi stayed no longer. he got into his gondola again, uncertain what to do. what could have kept her? after some reflection, he went again to the railway-station. "she has been detained by some acquaintance; she will be here for the next train," he thought. he waited until the next train left,--in vain. then a fierce anger against her arose within him and transcended all bounds. he forgot that he himself had delayed for a moment. he could not find words bitter enough to express his contempt for her. he never should have taken such a step of his own accord: he had simply acquiesced in the inevitable. she had carried him away by her enthusiasm, which had levelled all barriers between them, and now--now her cowardice had left him in the lurch. it was hardly worth while to devise so fine a drama, when it was never to be played out! how stupid he had been ever to believe that it could possibly be played out! he ought to have known that at the last moment the censor would prohibit it. in the midst of his anger he experienced a sensation of dull indifference. what did anything matter? everything of importance in his life was at an end: what became of the rest he did not care. he had been lured on by a fata morgana; he laughed at the thought that he had taken it for reality,--a dull, joyless laugh,--and then--he could not spend the night at the station--he resolved to go home. it was about ten o'clock when he passed through the green door of his house and along the narrow corridor into the garden. the moon was high in the sky, and the trees and bushes cast pitchy shadows upon the bluish light lying upon the grass and gravel paths. the air was warm; rose-leaves lay scattered everywhere; spring was laying aside her garments, and there was a dull weariness in the atmosphere. lozoncyi, with bowed head, walked towards the atelier, where was the portrait. on a sudden he heard a light foot-fall behind him. he turned, and stood as if rooted to the earth. "erika!" she came towards him lovely as an angel. her head was bare, and her golden hair gleamed in the moonlight. "erika!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, without advancing a step towards her. he took her for an illusion conjured up by his fancy. but as she drew near he felt the reality of her young life beside him. "then it is really you?" he murmured. "i thought it a phantom to deceive me. why are you here?" "no wonder you ask," she said, and her voice expressed unutterable compassion. "i come to bid you farewell." "farewell!" he gasped. "then i was right to doubt you. and yet how bitterly i have reproached myself because----" "because----?" she asked, sadly. "because i ventured to suppose you had lost courage. what could i think? i waited for you at the station from one train to the next: you did not come. then i told myself that you had simply treated me to a farce. but i cannot believe that now: as i look into your dear face i can find there no cowardice, nothing paltry. you have been detained against your will, and you are here yourself to tell me so. it is noble of you, erika! my erika!" he drew closer to her, and extended his arms towards her: she evaded them. "all is over between us," she said, wearily. "it cannot be." she saw him turn ashy pale in the moonlight. "over? it cannot be? erika! what does this mean? have you robbed me of all self-control only to desert me thus at the last moment? i cannot believe it of you, erika!" there was passionate entreaty in his voice. again he stretched out his arms towards her: gently, but firmly, she repulsed him. "do not touch me," she begged. "i can scarcely stand. something horrible has happened; i must tell you of it as quickly as possible, but i cannot stand upright." she grasped the bough of the mulberry-tree around which the climbing roses were wreathed, and as she did so the bough shook, and a cloud of white rose-leaves fluttered to the ground. all about her was fading! how sultry the night was! she sat down on the bench beneath the mulberry, above her the moonlit sky with its hosts of stars, at her feet the fading garment of the spring. then she began her story: "i was on my way to the station. i should have been punctual: perhaps i should have been there before you. i was convinced that i was doing right, and so long as that was so i could not delay. the way to the station leads past this house. my gondola had not yet reached the bridge that spans this canal when i heard a loud splash in the water. a woman had thrown herself from the bridge. you can imagine my horror. in an instant the suspicion darted into my mind that it might be your wife. i implored my gondolier to save her, and he plunged into the water just in time. it was indeed your wife, whom i could not but feel i had thus hunted to death. she lay in the bottom of the gondola, covered with sea-weed and slime--oh, horrible! i brought her home. we carried her up-stairs, with lucrezia's help, and then recalled her to life. that was comparatively easy; but scarcely had she opened her eyes when she was seized with frightful spasms of the chest, and i feared she would die." lozoncyi had listened breathlessly; now he nodded slowly. "i know she suffers from such attacks frequently," he said, bitterly, "but they are not dangerous: they are usually the result of a fit of fury." "that i did not know," erika murmured, in the same weary, self-accusing voice,--the voice of a criminal arraigning herself. "her condition made a terrible impression upon me. we put her to bed, and i stayed with her while lucrezia went for a physician. she returned without him, but the unfortunate woman seemed better and calmer, and i was about to leave her, when i heard your step in the corridor. i came hither to take leave of you. forgive me, and farewell!" she had risen from the bench, and held out her hand to him; her eyes were full of tears. he did not take her hand. "and for this you would desert me?" he exclaimed, angrily. "you have given me no reason,--not the slightest. that devil up-stairs has simply played you a trick,--nothing more. can you not see it? she knew what we were about to do, and watched for you: she had not the least idea of taking her own life." "i do not know," replied erika, passing her hand across her brow: "it may be that she meant only to prevent me from arriving in time at the station. but it was frightful: the canal is very deep there; she would surely have been drowned; and how could i have lived after witnessing her death? no! as i sat beside her bed a veil seemed to fall from my eyes,--a veil which had blinded me to what i was doing. i saw that, with the best will in the world, i could do only harm. i was ready to give my life for you,--i am always ready for that,--but i must not sacrifice the lives of others who stand in close relation to you and to me; i cannot!--i cannot! i ought not to have robbed you of your peace, to have taken from you the power of self-renunciation; i acknowledge it. if you could but know how bitterly i reproach myself, how fearful it is for me to see you suffer! my poor friend, i entreat your forgiveness from my very soul!" she took his hand and humbly touched it with her lips. the night grew more sultry and oppressive. a bewildering fragrance exhaled from the earth, from the plants, from the faded blossoms on the ground, and from the fresh buds opening to life. the moonlight fell full upon the statue of a dancing faun beneath an acacia-tree, and upon the scattered rose-leaves around it. hitherto lozoncyi had stood still, with bowed head. but at the touch of her lips upon his hand he looked up. his veins ran fire. "farewell!" she murmured, gently. he repeated "farewell!" and then suddenly added, "will you not take one more look at the studio before you go?" she found nothing unusual in this request. he led the way; she followed him, her whole being filled with compassion: she would have been nailed to the cross to relieve his pain,--the pain for which she was to blame. the moonlight flooded the studio, lending an unreal appearance to the room, and in the magic light stood forth the figure of 'blind love,' athirst to reach its goal, staggering in the mire. from the garden breathed a benumbing odour, and from the far distance floated towards the pair, like a yearning sigh, the song of the venetian night-minstrels. erika looked about her sadly. "it was fair!" she murmured. "i thank you for it all. adieu!" she held out both her hands to him; she had wellnigh offered him her lips, in the desperation of her compassion. he took her hands in his and bent over them. "it is, perhaps, better so," he said, and his voice had never been so tremulous and yet so tenderly beguiling. "the sacrifice you would have made for me was too great: i ought not to have accepted it at your hands. and you are right, we must spare those who are near to us; it must be. but for god's sake do not desert me quite! do not consign me to utter misery!" she looked at him with eyes of wonder. she could not comprehend. what was there left for her to do for him?--what? he kissed her hands alternately: she did not notice how he drew her towards him until she felt his hot breath upon her cheek. then he said, softly, very softly, "you must return to your grandmother tonight, i know; you cannot devote your life to me; but--oh, erika! our existence is made up of moments--grant me a moment's bliss now and then! you will not be the poorer, and i--i shall be richer than a king! the world shall never know; no shadow shall fall upon you, be sure----" at last she understood. she tore her hands from his grasp; a hoarse sobbing cry escaped her lips, and without a word she turned and fled past the faun gleaming in the moonlight, past the fading blossoms, across the garden, through the long cold corridor, without once taking breath until the green door with the lion's head had closed behind her. a despairing cry pursued her: "erika! erika!" it was the voice of the man who had been suddenly aroused to the consciousness of what he had done. but she never heeded it: she had a horror of him. for a moment she stood uncertain on the border of the canal. her gondolier had departed, having judged it best to be rid as soon as possible of his wet clothes. it was late, and she was alone. around her was the ghostly moonlight, before her the dark lapping water. she was not afraid: what was there to fear? but, with the world in ruins as it were about her, what should she do? what, except return to the hôtel britannia? she threaded her way through the zigzag narrow streets, across bridges and along the shores of the canals, her eyes bent on the ground. it never occurred to her that any one whom she knew could meet her wandering thus late at night with uncovered head; for she had left her hat in the sick woman's room. all through these last terrible hours she had had no thought for her reputation. she walked on and on. suddenly there fell upon her ear,-- "ninon, ninon, que fais-tu de la vie, toi, qui n'as pas d'amour? comment vis-tu----" as she crossed a narrow canal by a small bridge, the singers' gondola came directly towards her. she saw it close at hand. the soprano was a faded, hollow-cheeked woman, the men were quite ragged. was that the phantom that had lured her on all through the spring? the guttering candles in the gondola were burned almost into the sockets. one of the paper lanterns took fire. the boat glided beneath the bridge. when it emerged on the other side the lights were extinguished, the singers silent. the gondola floated drearily on, a black formless spot in the moonlight. shortly afterwards erika found a gondola in which she reached the hotel. in consequence of the arrival of a large number of fresh guests, the hotel was brilliantly lighted, all the doors were open, and erika went up the staircase to her room without attracting special notice. "perhaps," she thought, "my grandmother has not yet returned: i may be able to recover my letter before she has read it." she went instantly to her bedroom. light issued from the chink of the door: she was too late. she opened the door. there, beside her bed, sat her grandmother in an arm-chair, erect and stiff, her eyes looking unnaturally large in her ashy-pale face, where the last few hours had graven deeper furrows than had been made by all the other experiences of her seventy years. a strange cry escaped the old countess's lips when she perceived the wan, sad apparition in the door-way. half rising from her seat, her hands grasping the arms of the chair, she gazed at the girl as if she had been a corpse newly risen from the tomb. trembling in every limb, "erika!" she stammered. she tried to walk towards her grandchild, and could not. erika's strength barely sufficed to carry her to the bedside, where she sank at her grandmother's feet and laid her head in her lap. neither could speak for a while. the old lady only stroked the girl's hair with her delicate hand, which grew warmer every minute. the girl sobbed. after some minutes the grandmother bent over her and murmured, "erika, tell me how you have been rescued at the eleventh hour. where have you been?" erika lifted her head, and in a faint voice told all that had occurred until the moment when she had gone down into the garden to take leave of lozoncyi. there she hesitated. her grandmother listened breathlessly, and in an instant the girl began afresh: "i had forgotten myself. i would have done more for him than was ever done for man before; i would have borne him aloft to the stars. and he--the way was too hard; he had no heart for it; he would have dragged me down into the mire from which i would fain have rescued him. and when at last i understood, i fled----" a fit of convulsive sobbing interrupted her: she could not go on. her grandmother understood it all. she said not a word, only gently stroked the poor head in her lap. after a while she persuaded erika to lie down, helped her to undress, and smoothed the pillow in which the poor child hid her tear-stained face. she sat at the bedside until the dull weariness sure to follow upon intense nervous agitation produced its effect and the girl slept. the grandmother still sat there, motionless, until far into the morning. about nine o'clock marianne softly opened the door of the room. erika awoke. she had forgotten everything,--when her glance fell upon a small black travelling-bag in the maid's hand. "please, your excellency, a gondolier has just brought this bag," marianne explained. "he says the countess erika left it in the gondola yesterday after the accident,--after the fright, i mean: he told me all about it. poor countess erika! what a terrible thing for her! but it was fortunate, too, because she was able to save the poor woman. the gondolier has come for the hundred lire which the countess promised him for getting the woman out of the water." the old countess drew a deep breath. everything was turning out more favourably for erika than she had dared to hope. the adventure, which would of course be discussed freely by all the hotel servants, would explain erika's long absence and strange return. "is the countess erika ill?" asked the faithful marianne, with an anxious glance at the young girl, whose cheeks were flushed with fever. "only suffering from the effects of agitation," said countess lenzdorff, who had meanwhile brought the money and given it to the maid. "no wonder! poor countess erika!" the servant murmured as she withdrew. weary and wretched, erika again closed her eyes. when she opened them she saw her grandmother at the writing-table, her head resting on her hand, and a blank sheet of paper before her. "to whom are you writing, grandmother?" "i want to write to goswyn," the old countess replied, in a low tone. "i must answer his letter; and--i am not sure----" she hesitated. upon erika's mind flashed the remembrance of the letter she had written the previous day to goswyn. she had forgotten it. "of course i must tell him not to come," said her grandmother. erika sighed. must she give her grandmother that pain too? at last she managed to say, in a voice that was scarce audible, "he will not come: he----" startled by a terrible suspicion, her grandmother looked at her in dismay. erika's face was turned away from her. "well?" asked the old countess. "i wrote to him yesterday," poor erika stammered, "telling him what i was about to do. i thought he must hear of it sooner or later, and i wished that he should hear it in a way that would give him least pain." "oh, erika! erika!" but erika lay still, her head turned away from her grandmother. after a while she said, almost in a whisper, "grandmother, please write to him that"--she buried her face in the pillow--"that---- oh, grandmother, tell him--that--he need not despise me!" her grandmother made no reply. for a while absolute silence reigned in the room. then erika suddenly heard a low sob. she looked round. the countess had covered her face with her hands, and was weeping. it was the first time since erika had known her that she had seen her shed tears. chapter xxvii. no trace of spring can be seen. the garden of the hôtel britannia is a sunburned desert, where the rose-bushes show withered leaves and not a single bud. the breath of the yellowish-gray lagoons is stifling. all is limp and faded,--both vegetation and human beings. the hotels are emptying: the season here is over, and the season for the watering-places not yet begun. moreover, there is in venice an epidemic of typhus fever. scarcely half a dozen people assemble every evening at the _table-d'hôte_ of the hôtel britannia, and the small table appropriated to the lenzdorffs in the far corner of the dining-hall is deserted. nevertheless the lenzdorffs have not left the hotel; but erika is ill, stricken down by malarial fever, and the old countess does not leave her bedside. the attack was sudden,--sudden so far as could be seen by those in daily intercourse with her, but pronounced very gradual by the physician, who maintained that the disease had long been latent in the girl's system. in the afternoon of the day after that upon which erika had, as by a miracle, escaped the most terrible peril of her life, she had, by her grandmother's desire, donned a charming gown and had gone with the old countess to pay a round of farewell visits. she had gone patiently in the gondola from one palazzo to another, and with a pale, calm face had answered question after question as to the terrible catastrophe which her timely presence had been the means of preventing. there were various versions concerning the reasons for frau lozoncyi's attempt at suicide: thanks to the jealousy of lozoncyi's numerous feminine adorers, none of these versions approached even distantly the truth, for none of his adorers would have admitted that the artist had ever bestowed a serious thought upon erika. in the evening she had dressed for dinner, and then, overcome by fatigue, she had lain down upon her bed to rest for a quarter of an hour. she did not rise from it for weeks. now the disease has left her. the physician has not only allowed but advised her to leave her bed. every forenoon at eleven o'clock marianne and the old countess dress her,--ah, how tenderly and carefully!--and then, leaning heavily upon her grandmother's arm, she walks slowly about the room. it is nearly six o'clock. the intense heat has somewhat abated, and erika is sitting in the most comfortable arm-chair to be had in the hotel, her head resting upon a pillow, her hands in her lap. and what hands they are!--so slender, so white and helpless! to please her grandmother, she has swallowed a few spoonfuls of soup,--without the slightest desire to eat,--as if it had been medicine. "are you comfortable, my darling? shall i not get you another pillow?" her grandmother asks. the old countess is hardly to be recognized, her treatment of her grand-daughter is so humbly tender, so pathetically anxious. her force and rigour have vanished: she can only pet and spoil erika; she cannot incite her to any interest in life. "ah, grandmother dear, everything is most comfortable," erika replies. as if a pillow more or less could procure her ease! "shall i read aloud to you, my child?" "if you will be so kind." her grandmother makes choice of a new novel of norris's. as she reads, she looks across the book at erika: the girl is not listening. the old countess stops, and drops the book in her lap. erika is not aware that she has ceased to read. after a while she looks up. "grandmother," she asks, gently, "did no letters come while i was ill?" "of course," her grandmother replies. "i had letters every day from various friends and acquaintances, asking how you were. hedwig norbin is with her married daughter in via reggia, and i had to send her bulletins reporting your condition three times a week." erika's thin cheeks flush slightly. "and--did no letters come from berlin?" she asks, with averted face. her grandmother hesitates for a moment, and then says, "i do not correspond with any one in berlin. i have written as few letters as possible during your illness." erika's head droops. "how ashamed my grandmother must be for me, if she has not even told goswyn that i am ill!" she thinks. for a while there is silence; then erika whispers, "grandmother, i am very tired. i should like to lie down." her grandmother leads her to a lounge, where she lies down, with her face turned to the wall. she is very quiet. is she sleeping? the old countess softly leaves the room. in erika's boudoir she walks to and fro a couple of times, then sits down and takes up a book, but it soon drops in her lap unread. for weeks she has felt no interest in the comfortless philosophy of the books which were formerly her favourites. the book slips to the floor; she does not stoop to pick it up; with hands clasped in her lap she ponders upon many things that had not been wont to occupy her thoughts. she never notices a bustle in the hotel most unusual at this, the dull season, until lüdecke opens the door and announces, "your excellency, herr von sydow wishes to know if he may come up, or if your excellency----" she starts. "herr von sydow!" she repeats. "show him up,--very softly, of course: countess erika is asleep." a moment afterwards he enters the room. at first she hardly recognizes him. his features are sharper; the hair about his temples is gray. "my dear child, you here?" she says, cordially, rising and advancing a few steps to meet him. he kisses her hand. "i learned only three days ago that she is ill. how is she?" "erika?" "who else could it be?" he replies, impatiently. "the disease is cured; but she does not get well. she gains no strength. she has not improved in the last ten days; she has no appetite, takes no interest in anything. she is always weary." "what does her physician say?" goswyn is sitting beside his old friend, leaning forward and listening eagerly to every word that falls from her lips. both speak very softly. "the physician begins to be anxious; there is not much to say. entire relaxation of the nervous system,--want of vitality,--no love of life----" "no love of life! nonsense!" exclaims goswyn. "life must be made dear again for her." suddenly they hear a low rustle. the door leading into erika's bedroom opens; on the threshold stands a slender figure in a long white dressing-gown, her hair loosely knotted at the back of her head. what is there in the poor thin face, in the large melancholy eyes, that suddenly reminds goswyn of the unformed, timid child whom he met on the staircase in bellevue street on the evening of erika's arrival in berlin? "goswyn," she stammers, gazing at him, "you here? what are you doing here?" he goes to her and takes her hand. "i heard that you were ill, and i came to help your grandmother to carry you back to your home." her pale lips quiver, and her weak slender form sways uncertainly, and then--before he is conscious of it himself--he does what he ought to have done years before: he takes her in his arms and kisses her forehead. a wondrous sensation of perfect content, of blissful freedom from all desire, overcomes her; she clasps her emaciated arms about his neck, and murmurs, "goswyn, do you really want me now,--now, after all the pain i have given you?" he only clasps her closer to his heart. he, who for years has been dallying with opportunity because his courage failed him in view of little obstacles which would never have daunted another man, now leaps at a bound over the first real obstacle in his way. "what!" he cries, "do you suppose i blame you for that folly, erika? no; for me your illness began weeks before it did for the physicians." meanwhile, he has tenderly conducted her to a lounge, upon which, exhausted as she is, she sinks down. "i must make one confession to you, erika," he whispers. "i was almost out of my senses in that terrible twenty-four hours after i received your letter and before i received your grandmother's; my gray temples bear witness to that; but then--then i took delight in your letter,--yes, in that terrible letter. for i learned from it what i had never ventured to hope,--that you cared for me a little, erika." "ah, goswyn, you always were, of all men in this world, the most indispensable one to me!" how fair life can be! for a while the lovers, hand clasped in hand, talk blissfully; then erika looks round for her grandmother. but the old countess has vanished: they do not need her at this moment. she is sitting in her own room, delighting in her two young people, recalling her far-distant past, as she says to herself that under certain circumstances love may be a beautiful thing, and when it is beautiful---- the end. transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/othoumyaustria schuiala . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. "o thou, my austria!" translated from the german of ossip schubin by mrs. a. l. wister philadelphia j. b. lippincott company . * * * * * copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company. * * * * * contents. chapter i. a manuscript misappropriated. chapter ii. the contents of the manuscript. chapter iii. an arrival. chapter iv. a quarrel. chapter v. baroness paula. chapter vi. entrapped. chapter vii. an invitation. chapter viii. the secret. chapter ix. an encounter. chapter x. a garrison town. chapter xi. an old friend. chapter xii. a graveyard in paris. chapter xiii. at dobrotschau. chapter xiv. olga. chapter xv. comrades and friends. chapter xvi. lato treurenberg. chapter xvii. mismated. chapter xviii. a friend's advice. chapter xix. frau rosa's birthday. chapter xx. komaritz again. chapter xxi. "poor lato!" chapter xxii. harry's musings. chapter xxiii. zdena to the rescue. chapter xxiv. a sleepless night. chapter xxv. the confession. chapter xxvi. the baron's aid. chapter xxvii. baron franz. chapter xxviii. a short visit. chapter xxix. submission. chapter xxx. persecution. chapter xxxi. consolation. chapter xxxii. interrupted harmony. chapter xxxiii. early sunrisee. chapter xxxiv. struggles. chapter xxxv. a slanderer. chapter xxxvi. failure. chapter xxxvii. a visit. chapter xxxviii. at last. chapter xxxix. the dinner. chapter xl. a farewell. chapter xli. resolve. chapter xlii. found. chapter xliii. count hans. chapter xliv. spring. chapter xlv. old baron franz. "o thou, my austria!" chapter i. a manuscript misappropriated. "krupitschka, is it going to rain?" major von leskjewitsch asked his servant, who had formerly been his corporal. the major was leaning out of a window of his pretty vine-wreathed country-seat, smoking a chibouque; krupitschka, in the garden below, protected by a white apron, and provided with a dark-green champagne-bottle, was picking the spanish flies from off the hawthorn-bushes. at his master's question, he looked up, gazed at a few clouds on the horizon, replied, "don't know--maybe, and then again maybe not," and deftly entrapped three victims at once in the long neck of his bottle. a few days previous he had made a very satisfactory bargain with the apothecary of the neighbouring little town for spanish flies. "ass! have you just got back from the delphic oracle?" the major exclaimed, angrily, turning away from the window. at the words "delphic oracle," krupitschka pricked up his ears. it annoyed him to have his master and the other gentlemen make use of words that he did not understand, and he determined to buy a foreign dictionary with the proceeds of the sale of his cantharides. meanwhile, he noted down, in a dilapidated memorandum-book, "delphin wrackle," muttering the while, "what sort of team is that, i wonder?" unable to extort any prognosis of the weather from krupitschka, the major turned to the barometer; but that stood, as it had done uninterruptedly for the past fortnight, at 'changeable.' "blockhead!" growled the major, shaking the barometer a little to rouse it from its lethargy; and then, seating himself at the grand piano, he thundered away at a piece of music familiar to all the country round as "the major's triumphal march." all the country round was likewise familiar with the date of the origin of this effective work,--the spring of . at that time the major had composed this march with the patriotic intention of dedicating it to the victorious general benedek, but the melancholy events of the brief summer campaign left him no desire to do so, and the march was never published; nevertheless, the major played it himself now and then, to his own immense satisfaction and to the horror of his really musical wife. this wife, a northern german by birth, fair and dignified in appearance, sat rocking comfortably in an american chair, reading the latest number of the _german illustrated news_, while her husband amused himself at the piano. the major banged away at the keys in a fury of enthusiasm, until a black poodle, which had crept under the piano in despair, howled piteously. "ah, paul," sighed frau von leskjewitsch, letting her paper drop in her lap, "are you determined to make my piano atone for the loss of the battle of königgratz?" "why do you have a foreign piano, then?" was the patriotic reply; and the major went on strumming. "you make mori wretched," his wife remarked; "that dog is really musical." "a nervous mongrel--a genuine lapdog," the major muttered, contemptuously, without ceasing his performance. "your march is absolutely intolerable," frau von leskjewitsch said at last. "but if it were only by richard wagner--" the major remarked, significantly: "of course you wagnerites do not admit even the existence of any composer except your idol." with this he left the piano, and, with his thumbs stuck into the armholes of his vest, began to pace the apartment to and fro. there was quite space enough for him to do so, for the room was large and its furniture scanty. nowhere was he in any danger of stumbling over a plush table loaded with bric-à-brac, or a dwarf arm-chair, or any other of the ornaments of a modern drawing-room. the stock of curios in the house--and it was by no means inconsiderable, consisting of exquisite figures and groups of louisburg, meissen, and old viennese porcelain, of seventeenth-century fans, and of thoroughly useless articles of ivory and silver--was all arranged in two antique glass cabinets, standing in such extremely dark corners that their contents could not be seen even at mid-day without a candle. baroness leskjewitsch hated everything, as she was wont to express herself, that was useless, that gathered dust, and that was in the way. in accordance with the severe style of the furniture, perfect order reigned everywhere, except that in an arm-chair lay an object in striking contrast to the rest of the apartment,--a brown work-basket about as large as a common-sized portmanteau. it lay quite forlornly upon one side, like a sailing-vessel capsized by the wind. the major paused, looked at the basket with an odd smile, and then could not resist the temptation to rummage in it a little. his wife always maintained that he was something of a paul pry; and perhaps she was right. "ah!" he exclaimed, dragging to light a piece of embroidery upon japanese canvas. "the first design for a cushion--the th is my birthday. what little red book is this?--'maximes de la rochefoucauld'--don't know him. and here--why, only look!" he pulled out a package tied with blue ribbon. "a manuscript! it seems that zdena has leanings to authorship! h'm--h'm! when a girl like our zdena takes to such ways, it is usually a sign that she feels impelled to confide in a roundabout way, to paper, something which nothing could induce her to confess frankly to any living being. h'm! i really am curious to know what goes on in that whimsical, childish brain. "'my memoirs!'" the major pulled aside the blue ribbon that held the package together. "a motto! two mottoes!--a perfect _luxe_ of mottoes!" he murmured, and then read out aloud,-- 'whether you marry or not, you will always repent it.' plato. then comes,-- 'should you marry, then be sure life's sorest ills you must endure.' lermontow. 'l'amour, c'est le grand moteur de toutes les bêtises humaines.' g. sand. i really should not have supposed that our zdena had already pondered the marriage problem so deeply," he said, gleefully; then, contemplating with a smile the mass of wisdom scribbled in a bold, dashing handwriting, he added, "there seems to be more going on in that small brain than we had suspected. "what do you think, rosel? may not zdena possibly have a weakness for harry?" "nonsense!" replied the baroness. she was evidently somewhat annoyed,--first, because her husband had roused her from a pleasant nap, or, rather, disturbed her in the perusal of an article upon grecian excavations, and secondly, because he had called her rosel. her real name was rosamunda, a name of which she was very proud; she really could not, even after almost twenty years of married life, reconcile herself to her husband's thus robbing it of all its poetry. "nonsense!" she exclaimed, with some temper. "i have a very different match in view for her." "i did not ask you what you had in view for zdena," the major observed, contemptuously. "i know that without asking. i only wish to know whether during your stay in vienna you did not notice that zdena had taken a liking to----" "oh, zdena is far too sensible, and, if i am not greatly mistaken, also too ambitious, to dream of marrying harry. she knows that harry would ruin his prospects by a marriage with her," frau von leskjewitsch continued. "there's no living upon love and air alone." "nevertheless there are always some people who insist upon trying it, although the impossibility has long been demonstrated, both theoretically and practically," growled the major. "and, aside from all that, harry is not at all the husband for your niece," frau rosamunda went on, didactically. "she is wonderfully well developed intellectually, for her age. and he--well, he is a very good fellow, i have nothing to say against him, but----" "'a very good fellow'! i should like to know where you could find me a better," cried the major. "in the first place, he is as handsome as a man can be----" "as if beauty in a man were of any importance!" frau von leskjewitsch remarked, loftily. paying no attention to this interruption, the major went on reckoning up his favourite's advantages, in an angry crescendo. "he rides like a centaur!" he declared, loudly, and the comparison pleased him so much that he repeated it twice,--"yes, like a centaur; he passed his military examinations as if they had been mere play, and he is considered one of the most brilliant and talented officers in the army. he is a little quick-tempered, but he has the best heart in the world, and he has been in love with zdena since he was a small boy; while she----" "let me advise you to lower your voice a little," said frau rosamunda, going to the window, which she partly closed. "stuff!" muttered her husband. "as you please. if you like to make zdena a subject for gossip, you are quite free to do so, only i would counsel you in that case to consult your crony krupitschka. he has apparently not lost a single word of your harangue. i saw him from the window just now, staring up here, his mouth wide open, and the spanish flies crawling out of his bottle and up his sleeves." with which words and a glance of dignified displeasure, frau rosamunda left the room. "h'm! perhaps i was wrong," thought the major: "women are keener in such matters than we men. 'tis desirable i should be mistaken, but--i'd wager my gelding's forefoot,--no--" he shook his head, and contemplated the manuscript tied up with blue ribbon. "let's see," he murmured, as he picked it up and carried it off to his smoking-room. chapter ii. the contents of the manuscript. major paul von leskjewitsch, proprietor of the estates of lauschitz and zirkow in southwestern bohemia, had been for twenty years on the retired list, and was a prosperous agriculturist. he had formerly been a very well-to-do officer, the most steady and trustworthy in the whole regiment, always in funds, and very seldom in scrapes. in his youth he had often been a target for cupid's arrows, a fact of which he himself was hardly aware. "what an ass i was!" he was wont to exclaim to his cousin, captain jack leskjewitsch, when on occasion the pair became confidential at midnight over a glass of good bordeaux. the thought of his lost opportunities as a lover rather weighed upon the worthy dragoon. in his regiment he had been very popular and had made many friends, but with none of them had he been so intimate as with his corporal krupitschka. there was a rumour that before the major's wooing of his present wife, a fräulein von bösedow, from pomerania, he had asked this famulus of his, "eh, krupitschka, what do you think? shall we marry or not?" fortunately, this rumour had never reached the ears of the young lady, else she might have felt it her duty to reject the major, which would have been a pity. in blissful ignorance, therefore, she accepted his proposal, after eight days of prudent reflection, and three months later baron leskjewitsch led her to the altar. of course he was utterly wretched during the prolonged wedding festivities, and at least very uncomfortable during the honey-moon, which, in accordance with the fashion of the day, he spent with his bride in railway-carriages, inns, churches, picture-galleries, and so forth. in truth, he was terribly bored, tided himself over the pauses which frequently occurred in his conversations with his bride by reading aloud from the guide-book, took cold in the colosseum, and--breathed a sigh of relief when, after all the instructive experiences of their wedding-tour, he found himself comfortably established in his charming country-seat at zirkow. at present the paul leskjewitsches had long been known for a model couple in all the country round. countess zelenitz stoutly maintained that they were the least unhappy couple of her acquaintance,--that they were past-masters of their art; she meant the most difficult of all arts,--that of getting along with each other. as every piece of music runs on in its own peculiar measure, one to a joyous three crotchets to the bar, another to a lyrically languishing and anon archly provocative six-quaver time, and so on, the married life of the leskjewitsches was certainly set to a slow four crotchets to the bar,--or "common time," as it is called. the husband, besides agriculture, and his deplorable piano performances, cultivated a certain hypochondriac habit of mind, scrutinized the colour of his tongue very frequently, and, although in spite of his utmost efforts he was quite unable to discover a flaw in his health, tried a new patent tonic every year. the wife cultivated belles-lettres, devoted some time and attention to music, and regulated her domestic affairs with punctilious order and neatness. the only fault leskjewitsch had to find with her was that she was an ardent admirer of wagner, and hence quite unable to appreciate his own talent as a composer; while she, for her part, objected to his intimacy with krupitschka and with the stag-hounds. these, however, were mere bagatelles. the only real sore spot in this marriage was the luck of children. the manner in which fate indemnified these two people by bestowing upon them a delightful companion in the person of a niece of the major's can best be learned from the young lady herself, in whose memoirs, with an utter disregard of the baseness of such conduct, the major has meanwhile become absorbed. my memoirs. i. it rains--ah, how it rains! great drops following one another, and drenching the garden paths, plash--plash in all the puddles! never a sunbeam to call forth a rainbow against the dark sky, never a gleam of light in the dull slaty gray. it seems as if the skies could never have done weeping over the monotony of existence--still the same--still the same! i have tried everything by way of amusement. i curled morl's hair with the curling-tongs. i played chopin's mazurkas until my brain reeled. i even went up to the garret, where i knew no one could hear me, and, in the presence of an old wardrobe, where uncle's last uniform as a lieutenant was hanging, and of two rusty stove-pipes, i declaimed the famous monologue from the "maid of orleans." "oh, i could tear my hair with vexation!" as valentine says. i read faust a while ago,--since last spring i have been allowed to read all our classics,--and faust interested me extremely, especially the prologue in heaven, and the first monologue, and then the walk. ah, what a wonderful thing that walk is! but the love-scenes did not please me. gretchen is far too meek and humble to faust. "dear god! how ever is it such a man can think and know so much?" my voice is very strong and full, and i think i have a remarkable talent for the stage. i have often thought of becoming an actress, for a change; to--yes, it must out--to have an opportunity at last to show myself to the world,--to be admired. miss o'donnel is always telling me i was made to be admired, and i believe she is right. but what good does that do me? i think out all kinds of things, but no one will listen to them, especially now that miss o'donnel has gone. she seemed to listen, at all events, and every now and then would declare, "child, you are a wonder!" that pleased me. but she departed last saturday, to pay a visit to her relatives in italy. her niece is being educated there for an opera-singer. since she went there is no one in whom i can confide. to be sure, i love uncle paul and aunt rosamunda dearly,--much more dearly than miss o'donnel; but i cannot tell them whatever happens to come into my head. they would not understand, any more than they understand how a girl of my age can demand more of life than if she were fifty--but indeed---- rain--rain still! since i've nothing else to do, i'll begin to-day to write my memoirs! that sounds presumptuous--the memoirs of a girl whose existence flows on between zirkow and komaritz. but, after all,-- "where'er you grasp this human life of ours in its full force, be sure 'twill interest;" which means, so far as i can understand, that, if one has the courage to write down one's personal observations and recollections simply and truthfully, it is sure to be worth the trouble. i will be perfectly frank; and why not?--since i write for myself alone. but that's false reasoning; for how many men there are who feign to themselves for their own satisfaction, bribing their consciences with sophistry! my conscience, however, sleeps soundly without morphine; i really believe there is nothing for it to do at present. i can be frank because i have nothing to confess. every easter, before confession, i rack my brains to scrape together a few sins of some consequence, and i can find nothing but unpunctuality at prayers, pertness, and too much desire for worldly frivolities. well! now, to begin without further circumlocution. most people begin their memoirs with the history of their grandparents, some with that of their great-grandparents, seeming to suppose that the higher they can climb in their genealogical tree the more it adds to their importance. i begin simply with the history of my parents. my father and mother married for love; they never repented their marriage, and yet it was the ruin of both of them. my father was well born; not so my mother. born in paris, the daughter of a needy petty official, she was glad to accept a position as saleswoman in one of the fashionable paris shops. poor, dear mamma! it makes me wretched to think of her, condemned to make up parcels and tie up bundles, to mount on stepladders, exposed to the impertinence of capricious customers, who always want just what is not to be had,--all in the stifling atmosphere of a shop, and for a mere daily pittance. nothing in the world vexes me so much as to have people begin to whisper before me, glancing at me compassionately as they nod their heads. my ears are very acute, and i know perfectly well that they are talking of my poor mother and pitying me because my father married a shop-girl. i feel actually boiling with rage. young as i was when i lost her, she still lives in my memory as the loveliest creature i have ever met in my life. tall and very slender, but always graceful, perfectly natural in manner, with tiny hands and feet, and large, melancholy, startled eyes, in a delicate, old-world face, she looked like an elf who could not quite comprehend why she was condemned to carry in her breast so large a human heart, well-nigh breaking with tenderness and melancholy. i know i look like her, and i am proud of it. whenever i am presented to one of my couple of hundred aunts whose acquaintance i am condemned to make, she is sure to exclaim, "how very like fritz she is!--all fritz!" and i never fail to rejoin, "oh, no, i am like my mother; every one who knew her says i am like mamma." and then my aunts' faces grow long, and they think me pert. although i was scarcely six years old when uncle paul took us away from paris, i can remember distinctly my home there. it was in a steep street in montmartre, very high up on the fourth or fifth floor of a huge lodging-house. the sunlight shone in long broad streaks into our rooms through the high windows, outside of which extended an iron balcony. our rooms were very pretty, very neat,--but very plain. papa did not seem to belong to them; i don't know how i discovered this, but i found it out, little as i was. the ceilings looked low, when he rose from the rocking-chair, where he loved to sit, and stood at his full height. he always held his head gaily, high in the air, never bowing it humbly to suit his modest lodgings. his circumstances, cramped for the time, as i learned later, by his imprudent marriage, contracted in spite of his father's disapproval, apparently struck him as a good joke, or, at the worst, as a passing annoyance. he always maintained the gay humour of a man of rank who, finding himself overtaken by a storm upon some party of pleasure, is obliged to take refuge in a wretched village inn. now and then he would stretch out his arms as if to measure the smallness of his house, and laugh. but mamma would cast down her large eyes sadly; then he would clasp her to his breast, kiss her, and call her the delight of his life; and i would creep out of the corner where i had been playing with my dolls, and pluck him by the sleeve, jealously desirous of my share of caresses. in my recollection of my earliest childhood--a recollection without distinct outlines, and like some sweet, vague dream lingering in the most secret, cherished corner of my heart--everything is warm and bright; it is all light and love! papa is almost always with us in our sunny little nest. i see him still,--ah, how plainly!--leaning back in his rocking-chair, fair, with a rather haughty but yet kindly smile, his eyes sparkling with good-humoured raillery. he is smoking a cigarette, and reading the paper, apparently with nothing in the world to do but to enjoy life; all the light in the little room seems to come from him. the first four years of my life blend together in my memory like one long summer day, without the smallest cloud in the blue skies above it. i perfectly remember the moment in which my childish happiness was interrupted by the first disagreeable sensation. it was an emotion of dread. until then i must have slept through all the hours of darkness, for, when once i suddenly wakened and found the light all gone, i was terrified at the blackness above and around me, and i screamed aloud. then i noticed that mamma was kneeling, sobbing, beside my bed. her sobs must have wakened me. she lighted a candle to soothe me, and told me a story. in the midst of my eager listening, i asked her, "where is papa?" she turned her head away, and said, "out in the world!" "out in the world----" whether or not it was the tone in which she pronounced the word "world," i cannot tell, but it has ever since had a strange sound for me,--a sound betokening something grand yet terrible. thus i made the discovery that there were nights, and that grown-up people could cry. soon afterwards it was winter; the nights grew longer, the days shorter, and it was never really bright in our home again,--the sunshine had vanished. it was cold, and the trees in the gardens high up in montmartre, where they took me to walk, grew bare and ugly. once, i remember, i asked my mother, "mamma, will the trees never be green again?" "oh, yes, when the spring comes," she made answer. "and then will it be bright here again?" i asked, anxiously. to this she made no reply, but her eyes suddenly grew so sad that i climbed into her lap and kissed her upon both eyelids. papa was rarely with us now, and i was convinced that he had taken the sunshine away from our home. when at long intervals he came to dine with us, there was as much preparation as if a stranger had been expected. mamma busied herself in the kitchen, helping the cook, who was also my nurse-maid, to prepare the dinner. she laid the cloth herself, and decorated the table with flowers. to me everything looked magnificent: i was quite awe-stricken by the unwonted splendour. one day a very beautiful lady paid us a visit, dressed in a velvet cloak trimmed with ermine--i did not know until some time afterwards the name of the fur--and a gray hat. i remember the hat distinctly, i was so delighted with the bird sitting on it. she expressed herself as charmed with everything in our home, stared about her through her eye-glass, overturned a small table and two footstools with her train, kissed me repeatedly, and begged mamma to come soon to see her. she was a cousin of papa's, a countess gatinsky,--the very one for whom, when she was a young girl and papa an elegant young attaché, he had been doing the honours of paris on that eventful afternoon when, while she and her mother were busy and absorbed, shopping in the _bon marché_, he had fallen desperately in love with my pale, beautiful mother. when the countess left us, mamma cried bitterly. i do not know whether she ever returned the visit, but it was never repeated, and i never saw the countess again, save once in the bois de boulogne, where i was walking with my mother. she was sitting in an open barouche, and my father was beside her. opposite them an old man sat crouched up, looking very discontented, and very cold, although the day was quite mild and he was wrapped up in furs. they saw us in the distance; the countess smiled and waved her hand; papa grew very red, and lifted his hat in a stiff, embarrassed way. i remember wondering at his manner: what made him bow to us as if we were two strangers? mamma hurried me on, and we got into the first omnibus she could find. i stroked her hand or smoothed the folds of her gown all the way home, for i felt that she had been hurt, although i could not tell how. the days grow sadder and darker, and yet the spring has come. was there really no sunshine in that april and may, or is it so only in my memory? meanwhile, the trees have burst into leaf, and the first early cherries have decked our modest table. we have not seen papa for a long time. he is staying at a castle in the neighbourhood of paris, but only for a few days. it is a sultry afternoon in the beginning of june,--i learned the date of that wretched day later. the flowers in the balcony before our windows, scarlet carnations and fragrant mignonette, are drooping, because mamma has forgotten to water them, and mamma herself looks as weary as the flowers. pale and miserable, she moves about the room with the air of one whom the first approach of some severe illness half paralyzes. her pretty gown, a dark-blue silk with white spots, seems to hang upon her slender figure. she arranges the articles in the room here and there restlessly, and, noticing a soft silken scarf which papa sometimes wore knotted carelessly about his throat in the mornings, and which has been left hanging on the knob of a curtain, she picks it up, passes it slowly between her hands, and holds it against her cheek. there!--is not that a carriage stopping before our door? i run out upon the balcony, but can see nothing of what is going on in the street below; our rooms are too high up. i can see, however, that the people who live opposite are hurrying to their windows, and that the passers-by stop in the street, and stand and talk together, gathering in a little knot. a strange bustling noise ascends the staircase; it comes up to our landing,--the heavy tread of men supporting some weighty burden. mamma stands spellbound for a moment, and then flings the door open and cries out. it is papa whom they are bringing up, deadly pale, covered with blankets, helpless as a child. there had been an accident in an avenue not far from bellefontaine, the castle which the countess gatinsky had hired for the summer. papa had been riding with her,--riding a skittish, vicious horse, against which he had been warned. he had only laughed, however, declaring that he knew how to manage the brute. but he could not manage him. as i learned afterwards, the horse, after vainly trying to throw his rider, had reared, and rolled over backwards upon him. he was taken up senseless. when he recovered consciousness in bellefontaine, whither they carried him, and the physician told him frankly that he was mortally hurt, he desired to be taken home,--to those whom he loved best in the world. at first they would not accede to his wishes; countess gatinsky wanted to send for mamma and me,--to bring us to bellefontaine. but he would not hear of it. he was told that to take him to paris would be an injury to him in his present condition. injury!--he laughed at the word. he wanted to die in the dear little nest in paris, and it was a dying man's right to have his way. i have never talked of this to any one, but i have thought very often of our sorrow, of the shadow that suddenly fell upon my childhood and extinguished all its sunshine. and i have often heard people whispering together about it when they thought i was not listening. but i listened, listened involuntarily, as one does to words which one would afterwards give one's life not to have heard. and when the evil words stabbed me like a knife, it was a comfort to be able to say to myself, "it was merely the caprice of a moment,--his heart had no share in it;" it was a comfort to be able to say that mamma sat at his bedside and that he died with his hand in hers. i do not remember how long the struggle lasted before death came, but i never can forget the moment when i was taken in to see him. i can see the room now perfectly,--the bucket of ice upon which the afternoon sun glittered, the bloody bandages on the floor, the furniture in disorder, and, lying here and there, articles of dress which had not yet been put away. there, in the large bed, where the gay flowered curtains had been drawn back as far as possible to let in the air, lay papa. his cheeks were flushed and his blue eyes sparkled, and when i went up to him he laughed. i could not believe that he was ill. mamma sat at the head of the bed, dressed in her very prettiest gown, her wonderful hair loosened and hanging in all its silken softness about her shoulders. she, too, smiled; but her smile made me shiver. papa looked long and lovingly at me, and, taking my small hand in his, put it to his lips. then he made the sign of the cross upon my forehead. i stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and i embraced him with all the fervour of my five years. mamma drew me back. "you hurt him," she said. he laughed,--laughed as a brave man laughs at pain. he always laughed: i never saw him grave but once,--only once. mamma burst into tears. "minette, minette, do not be a coward. i want you to be beautiful always," said he. those words i perfectly remember. yes, he wanted her to be beautiful to the last! they sent me out of the room. as i turned at the door, i saw how papa stroked mamma's wonderful hair--slowly--lingeringly--with his slender white hand. i sat in the kitchen all the long summer afternoon. at first our servant told me stories. then she had to go out upon an errand; i stayed in the kitchen alone, sitting upon a wooden bench, staring before me, my doll, with which i did not care to play, lying upon the brick floor beside me. the copper saucepans on the wall gleam and glitter in the rays of the declining sun, and the bluebottle flies crawl and buzz about their shining surfaces. a moaning monotonous sound, now low, then loud, comes from my father's room. i feel afraid, but i cannot stir: i am, as it were, rooted to my wooden bench. the hoarse noise grows more and more terrible. gradually twilight seems to fall from the ceiling and to rise from the floor; the copper vessels on the wall grow vague and indistinct; here and there a gleam of brilliancy pierces the gray gloom, then all is dissolved in darkness. in the distance a street-organ drones out malbrough; i have hated the tune ever since. the moans grow louder. i lean my head forward upon my knees and stop my ears. what is that? one brief, piercing cry,--and all is still! i creep on tiptoe to papa's room. the door is open. i can see mamma bending over him, kissing him, and lavishing caresses upon him: she is no longer afraid of hurting him. that night a neighbour took me home with her, and when i came back, the next day, papa lay in his black coffin in a darkened room, and candles were burning all around him. he seemed to me to have grown. and what dignity there was in his face! that was the only time i ever saw him look grave. mamma lifted me up that i might kiss him. something cold seemed to touch my cheek, and suddenly i felt i--cannot describe the sensation--an intense dread,--the same terror, only ten times as great, as that which overcame me when i first wakened in the night and was aware of the darkness. screaming, i extricated myself from mamma's arms, and ran out of the room.---- (here the major stopped to brush away the tears before reading on.) ----for a while mamma tried to remain in paris and earn our living by the embroidery in which she was so skilful; but, despite all her trying, she could not do it. the servant-girl was sent away, our rooms grew barer and barer, and more than once i went to bed crying with hunger. in november, uncle paul came to see us, and took us back with him to bohemia. i cannot recall the journey, but our arrival i remember distinctly,--the long drive from the station, along the muddy road, between low hedges, or tall, slim poplars; then through the forest, where the wind tossed about the dry fallen leaves, and a few crimson-tipped daisies still bloomed gaily by the roadside, braving the brown desolation about them; past curious far-stretching villages, their low huts but slightly elevated above the mud about them, their black thatched roofs green in spots with moss, their narrow windows gay with flowers behind the thick, dim panes; past huge manure-heaps, upon which large numbers of gay-coloured fowls were clucking and crowing, and past stagnant ditches where amber-coloured swine were wallowing contentedly. the dogs rush excitedly out of the huts, to run barking after our carriage, while a mob of barefooted, snub-nosed children, their breath showing like smoke in the frosty air, come bustling out of school, and shout after us "praised be jesus christ!" a turn--we have driven into the castle court-yard; krupitschka hastens to open the carriage door. at the top of the steps stands a tall lady in mourning, very majestic in appearance, with a kind face. i see mamma turn pale, shrink--then all is a blank. ii. at the period when i again take up my reminiscences i am entirely at home at zirkow, and almost as familiar with uncle paul and aunt rosa as if i had known them both all my life. winter has set in, and, ah, such a wonderful, beautiful winter,--so bright, and glittering with such quantities of pure white snow! i go sleighing with uncle paul; i make a snow man with krupitschka,--a monk in a long robe, because the legs of the soldier we tried to make would not stand straight; and i help krupitschka's wife to make bread in a large wooden bowl with iron hoops. how delicious is the odour of the fermenting dough, and how delightful it is to run about the long brick-paved corridors and passages, to have so much space and light and air! when one day uncle paul asks me, "which is best, paris or zirkow?" i answer, without hesitation, "zirkow!" uncle paul laughs contentedly, but mamma looks at me sadly. i feel that i have grieved her. now and then i think of papa, especially before i go to sleep at night. then i sometimes wonder if the snow is deep on his grave in the churchyard at montmartre, and if he is not cold in the ground. poor papa!--he loved the sun so dearly! and i look over at mamma, who sits and sews at a table near my bed, and it worries me to see the tears rolling down her cheeks again. poor mamma! she grows paler, thinner, and sadder every day, although my uncle and aunt do everything that they can for her. if i remember rightly, she was seldom with her hosts except at meal-times. she lived in strict retirement, in the two pretty rooms which had been assigned us, and was always trying to make herself useful with her needle to aunt rosa, who never tired of admiring her beautiful, delicate work. towards spring her hands were more than ever wont to drop idly in her lap, and when the snow had gone and everything outside was beginning to stir, she would sit for hours in the bow-window where her work-table stood, doing nothing, only gazing out towards the west,--gazing--gazing. the soiled snow had vanished; the water was dripping from roofs and trees; everything was brown and bare. a warm breath came sweeping over the world. for a couple of days all nature sobbed and thrilled, and then spring threw over the earth her fragrant robe of blossoms. it was my first spring in the country, and i never shall forget my joyful surprise each morning at all that had been wrought overnight. i could not tell which to admire most, buds, flowers, or butterflies. from morning till night i roamed about in the balmy air, amid the tender green of grass and shrubs. and at night i was so tired that i was asleep almost before the last words of my childish prayer had died upon my lips. ah, how soundly i slept! but one night i suddenly waked, with what seemed to me the touch of a soft hand upon my cheek,--papa's hand. i started up and looked about me; there was no one to be seen. the breeze of spring had caressed me,--that was all. how had it found its way in? the moon was at the full, and in its white light everything in the room stood revealed and yet veiled. i sat up uneasily, and then noticed that mamma's bed was empty. i was frightened. "mamma! mamma!" i called, half crying. there was no reply. i sprang from my little bed, and ran into the next room, the door of which was open. mamma was standing there at the window, gazing out towards the west. the window was wide open; our rooms were at the back of the castle, and looked out upon the orchard, where nature was celebrating its resurrection with festal splendour. the huge old apple-trees were all robed in delicate pink-white blossoms, the tender grass beneath them glittered with dew, and above it and among the waving blossoms sighed the warm breeze of spring as if from human lips. mamma stood with extended arms whispering the tenderest words out into the night,--words that sounded as if stifled among sighs and kisses. she wore the same dress in which she had sat by papa's bedside when he wished her to be beautiful at their parting. her hair hung loose about her shoulders. i gasped for breath, and threw my arms about her, crying, "mamma! mamma!" she turned, and seemed about to thrust me from her almost angrily, then suddenly began to weep bitterly like a child just wakened from sleep, and crept back gently and ashamed to our bedroom. without undressing she lay down on her bed, and i covered her up as well as i could. i could not sleep that night, and i heard her moan and move restlessly. the next morning she could not come down to breakfast; a violent nervous fever had attacked her, and ten days afterwards she died. they broke the sad truth to me slowly, first saying that she had gone on a journey, and then that she was with god in heaven. i knew she was dead,--and what that meant. i can but dimly remember the days that followed her death. i dragged myself about beneath the burden of a grief far too great for my poor, childish little heart, and grew more and more weary, until at last i was attacked by the same illness of which my mother had died. when i recovered, the memory of all that had happened before my illness no longer gave me any pain. i looked back upon the past with what was almost indifference. not until long, long afterwards did i comprehend the wealth of love of which my mother's death had deprived me. iii. it really is very entertaining to write one's memoirs. i will go on, although it is not raining to-day. on the contrary, it is very warm,--so warm that i cannot stay out of doors. aunt rosamunda is in the drawing-room, entertaining the colonel of the infantry regiment in garrison at x----. she sent for me, but i excused myself, through krupitschka. when lieutenants of hussars come, she never sends for me. it really is ridiculous: does she suppose my head could be turned by any officer of hussars? the idea! upon my word! still, i should like for once just to try whether miss o'donnel is right, whether i only need wish to have--oh, how delightful it would be to be adored to my heart's content! since, however, there is no prospect of anything of the kind, i will continue to write my memoirs. i have taken off my gown and slipped on a thin white morning wrapper, and the cook, with whom i am a great favourite, has sent me up a pitcher of iced lemonade to strengthen me for my literary labours. my windows are open, and look out upon a wilderness of old trees with wild roses blooming among them. ah, how sweet the roses are! the bees buzz over them monotonously, the leaves scarcely rustle, not a bird is singing. the world certainly is very beautiful, even if one has nothing entertaining to do except to write memoirs. now that i have finished telling of my parents, i will pass on to my nearest relatives.---- ("oho!" said the major. "i am curious to see what she has to say of us.") ----uncle paul is the middle one of three brothers, the eldest of whom is my grandfather. the barons von leskjewitsch are of croatian descent, and are convinced of the antiquity of their family, without being able to prove it. there has never been any obstacle to their being received at court, and for many generations they have maintained a blameless propriety of demeanour and have contracted very suitable marriages. although all the members of this illustrious family are forever quarrelling among themselves, and no one leskjewitsch has ever been known to get along well with another leskjewitsch, they nevertheless have a deal of family feeling, which manifests itself especially in a touching pride in all the peculiarities of the leskjewitsch temperament. these peculiarities are notorious throughout the kingdom,--such, at least, is the firm conviction of the leskjewitsch family. whatever extraordinary feats the leskjewitsches may have performed hitherto, they have never been guilty of any important departure from an ordinary mode of life, but each member of the family has nevertheless succeeded in being endowed from the cradle with a patent of eccentricity, in virtue of which mankind are more or less constrained to accept his or her eccentricities as a matter of course. i am shocked now by what i have here written down. of course i am a leskjewitsch, or i never should allow myself to pass so harsh a judgment upon my nearest of kin. i suppose i ought to erase those lines, but, after all, no one will ever see them, and there is something pleasing in my bold delineation of the family characteristics. the style seems to me quite striking. so i will let my words stand as they are,--especially since the only one of the family who has ever been kind to me--uncle paul--is, according to the universal family verdict, no genuine leskjewitsch, but a degenerate scion. in the first place, his hair and complexion are fair, and, in the second place, he is sensible. among men in general, i believe he passes for mildly eccentric; his own family find him distressingly like other people. to which of the two other brothers the prize for special originality is due, to the oldest or to the youngest,--to my grandfather or to the father of my playmate harry,--the world finds it impossible to decide. both are widowers, both are given over to a craze for travel. my grandfather's love of travel, however, reminds one of the restlessness of a white mouse turning the wheel in its cage; while my uncle karl's is like that of the wandering jew, for whose restless soul this globe is too narrow. my grandfather is continually travelling from one to another of his estates, seldom varying the round; uncle karl by turns hunts lions in the soudan and walruses at the north pole; and in their other eccentricities the brothers are very different. my grandfather is a cynic; uncle karl is a sentimentalist. my grandfather starts from the principle that all effort which has any end in view, save the satisfying of his excellent appetite and the promotion of his sound sleep, is nonsense; uncle karl intends to write a work which, if rightly appreciated, will entirely reform the spirit of the age. my grandfather is a miser; uncle karl is a spendthrift. uncle karl is beginning to see the bottom of his purse; my grandfather is enormously rich. when i add that my grandfather is a conservative with a manner which is intentionally rude, and that uncle karl is a radical with the bearing of a courtier, i consider the picture of the two men tolerably complete. all that is left to say is that i know my uncle karl only slightly, and my grandfather not at all, wherefore my descriptions must, unfortunately, lack the element of personal observation, being drawn almost entirely from hearsay. my grandfather's cynicism could not always have been so pronounced as at present; they say he was not naturally avaricious, but that he became so in behalf of my father, his only son. he saved and pinched for him, laying by thousands upon thousands, buying estate after estate only to assure his favourite a position for which a prince might envy him. finally he procured him an appointment as attaché in the austrian legation in paris, and when papa spent double his allowance the old man only laughed and said, "youth must have its swing." but when my father married a poor girl of the middle class, my grandfather simply banished him from his heart, and would have nothing more to do with him. after this papa slowly consumed the small property he had inherited from his mother, and at his death nothing of it was left. uncle paul was the only one of the family who still clung to my father after his _mésalliance_,--the one eccentricity which had never been set down in the leskjewitsch programme. when mamma in utter destitution applied to him for help, he went to my grandfather, told him of the desperate extremity to which she was reduced, and entreated him to do something for her and for me. my grandfather merely replied that he did not support vagabonds. my cousin heda, whose custom it is to tell every one of everything disagreeable she hears said about them,--for conscience' sake, that they may know whom to mistrust,--furnished me with these details. the upshot of the interview was, first, that my uncle paul quarrelled seriously with my grandfather, and, second, that he resolved to go to paris forthwith and see that matters were set right. aunt rosa maintains that at the last moment he asked krupitschka to sanction his decision. this is a malicious invention; but when heda declares that he brought us to bohemia chiefly with the view of disgracing and vexing my grandfather, there may be some grain of truth in her assertion. many years have passed since our modest entrance here in zirkow, but my amiable grandfather still maintains his determined hostility towards uncle paul and myself. his favourite occupation seems to consist in perfecting each year, with the help of a clever lawyer, his will, by which i am deprived, so far as is possible, of the small share of his wealth which falls to me legally as my father's heir. he has chosen for his sole heir his youngest brother's eldest son, my playmate harry, upon condition that harry marries suitably, which means a girl with sixteen quarterings. i have no quarterings, so if harry marries me he will not have a penny. how could such an idea occur to him? it is too ridiculous to be thought of. but--what if he did take it into his head? oh, i have sound sense enough for two, and i know exactly what i want,--a grand position, an opportunity to play in the world the part for which i feel myself capable,--everything, in short, that he could not offer me. moreover, i am quite indifferent to him. i have a certain regard for him for the sake of old times, and therefore he shall have a chapter of these memoirs all to himself. ----at the end of this chapter the major shook his head disapprovingly. iv. my dearest playmate. the first time that i saw him he was riding upon a pig,--a wonder of a pig; it looked like a huge monster to me,--which he guided by its ears. one is not a leskjewitsch for nothing. it was at komaritz---- but i will describe the entire day, which i remember with extraordinary distinctness. uncle paul himself took me to komaritz in his pretty little dog-cart, drawn by a pair of spirited ponies in gay harness and trappings. of course i sat on the box beside my uncle, being quite aware that this was the seat of honour. i wore an embroidered white gown, long black stockings, and a black sash, and carried a parasol which i had borrowed of aunt rosa, not because i needed it,--my straw hat perfectly shielded my face from the sun,--but because it seemed to me required for the perfection of my toilet. i was very well pleased with myself, and nodded with great condescension to the labourers and schoolchildren whom we met. i have never attempted to conceal from myself or to deny the fact that i am vain. ah, how merrily we bowled along over the white, dusty road! the ponies' hoofs hardly touched the ground. after a while the road grew bad, and we drove more slowly. then we turned into a rough path between high banks. what a road! deep as a chasm; the wheels of the vehicle jolted right and left through ruts overgrown with thistles, brambles, and wild roses. "suppose we should meet another carriage?" i asked my uncle, anxiously. "just what i was asking myself," he replied, composedly; "there is really no room for passing. but why not trust in providence?" the road grows worse, but now, instead of passing through a chasm, it runs along the edge of a precipice. the dog-cart leans so far to one side that the groom gets out to steady it. the wheels grate against the stones, and the ponies shake their shaggy heads discontentedly, as much as to say, "we were not made for such work as this." in after-years, when so bad a road in the midst of one of the most civilized provinces of austria seemed to me inexplicable, uncle paul explained it to me. at one time in his remembrance the authorities decided to lay out a fine road there, but uncle karl contrived to frustrate their purpose; he did not wish to have komaritz too accessible--for fear of guests. a delicious pungent fragrance is wafted from the vine-leaves in the vineyards on the sides of the hills, flocks of white and yellow butterflies hover above them, the grasshoppers chirp shrilly, and from the distance comes the monotonous sound of the sweep of the mower's scythe. the sun is burning hot, and the shadows are short and coal-black. click-clack--click-clack--precipice and ravine lie behind us, and we are careering along a delightful road shaded by huge walnut-trees. a brown, shapeless ruin crowning a vine-clad eminence rises before us. click-clack--click-clack--the ponies fly past a marble st. john, around which are grouped three giant lindens, whose branches scatter fading blossoms upon us; past a smithy, from which issues a strong odour of wagon-grease and burnt hoofs; past a slaughter-house, in front of which a butchered ox is hanging from a chestnut-tree; past pretty whitewashed cottages, some of them two stories high and with flower-gardens in front,--komaritz is a far more important and prosperous village than zirkow; then through a lofty but perilously ruinous archway into a spacious, steeply-ascending court-yard, through the entire length of which runs a broad gutter. yes, yes, it was there--in that court-yard--that i saw him for the first time, and he was riding upon a pig, holding fast by its ears, and the animal, galloping furiously, was doing its best to throw him off. but this was no easy matter, for he sat as if he were part of his steed, and withal maintained a loftiness of bearing that would have done honour to a spanish grandee at a coronation. he was very handsome, very slender, very brown, and wore a white suit, the right sleeve of which was spotted with ink. in front of the castle, at a wooden table fastened to the ground beneath an old pear-tree, sat a yellow-haired young man, with a bloated face and fat hands, watching the spectacle calmly and drinking beer from a stone mug with a leaden cover. when the pig found that it could not throw its rider, it essayed another means to be rid of him. it lay down in the gutter and rolled over in the mud. when harry arose, he looked like the bad boys in "slovenly peter" after they had been dipped in the inkstand. "i told you how it would be," the fat young man observed, phlegmatically, and went on drinking beer. as i afterwards learned, he was harry's tutor, herr pontius. "what does it matter?" said harry, composedly, looking down at the mud dripping from him, as if such a bath were an event of every-day occurrence; "i did what i chose to do." "and now i shall do what i choose to do. you will go to your room and translate fifty lines of horace." harry shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. i now think that he was posing a little for our sakes, for we had just driven up to the castle, but then his composure made a great impression upon me. after he had bowed respectfully to uncle paul from where he stood, he vanished behind a side-door of the castle, at the chief entrance of which we had drawn up. a dignified footman received us in the hall, and a crowd of little black dachshunds, with yellow feet and eyebrows, barked a loud welcome. we were conducted into a large room on the ground-floor,--apparently reception-room, dining-room, and living-room all in one,--whence a low flight of wooden steps led out into the garden. a very sallow but otherwise quite pretty frenchwoman, who reminded me--i cannot tell why--of the black dachshunds, and who proved to be my little cousin's governess, received us here and did the honours for us. my cousin heda, a yellow-haired little girl with portentously good manners, relieved me of my parasol, and asked me if i had not found the drive very warm. whilst i made some monosyllabic and confused reply, i was wondering whether her brother would get through his punishment and make his appearance again before we left. when my uncle withdrew on the pretext of looking after some agricultural matter, heda asked me if i would not play graces with her. she called it _jeu de gráce_, and, in fact, spoke french whenever it was possible. i agreed, she brought the graces, and we went out into the garden. oh, that komaritz garden! how clumsy and ugly, and yet what a dear, old-fashioned garden it was! lying at the foot of the hill crowned by the ancient ruin and the small frame house built for the tutors,--who were changed about every two months,--it was divided into huge rectangular flower-beds, bordered with sage, lavender, or box, from which mighty old apricot-trees looked down upon a luxuriant wilderness of lilies, roses, blue monk's-hood, scarlet verbenas, and whatever else was in season. back of this waste of flowers there were all sorts of shrubs,--hawthorns, laburnums, jessamines, with here and there an ancient hundred-leaved rose-bush, whose heavy blossoms, borne down by their own weight, drooped and lay upon the mossy paths that intersected this thicket. then came a green lawn, where was a swing hung between two old chestnuts, and near by stood a queer old summerhouse, circular, with a lofty tiled roof, upon the peak of which gleamed a battered brass crescent. everywhere in the shade were fastened in the ground comfortable garden-seats, smelling deliciously of moss and mouldering wood, and where you least expected it the ground sloped to a little bubbling spring, its banks clothed with velvet verdure and gay with marsh daisies and spiderwort, sprung from seed which the wind had wafted hither. i cannot begin to tell of the kitchen-garden and orchard; i should never be done. and just as i have here described it as it was fourteen years ago the dear old garden stands to-day, with the exception of some trifling changes; but--they are talking of improvements--poor garden! what memories are evoked when i think of it! again i am six years old and playing with heda,--i intent and awkward, heda elegantly indifferent. if one of her hoops soars away over my head, or falls among the flowers in one of the beds, she shrugs her shoulders with an affected smile, and exclaims, "_monstre!_" at first i offer to creep in among the flowers after the lost hoop, but she rejects my offer with a superior "_quelle idée!_" and assures me that it is the gardener's business. consequently, we soon come to the end of our supply of hoops, and are obliged to have recourse to some other mode of amusing ourselves. "i am quite out of breath," says heda, fanning herself with her pocket-handkerchief. "'tis a stupid don't you think so?" "but if i only could do it!" i sigh. "it is quite out of fashion; nothing is played now but croquet," she informs me. "do you like to play croquet?" "i do not know what croquet is," i confess, much mortified. "ha, ha!" she laughs. "mademoiselle," turning to the governess, who is now seated on the garden-steps, "only think, _ma petite cousine_ does not know what croquet is!--delicious! excuse me," taking my hand, "it is very ill bred to laugh, _mais c'est plus fort que moi_. it is a delightful game, that is played with balls and iron hoops. sometimes you strike your foot, and that hurts; but more often you only pretend that it does, and then the gentlemen all come round you an pity you: it is too delightful. but sit down," pointing with self-satisfied condescension to the steps. we both sit down, and she goes on: "where did you pass the winter?" "at zirkow." "oh, in the country! i pity you." heda--i mention this in a parenthesis--was at this time scarcely ten years old. "no winter in the country for me," this pleasure-loving young person continues. "oh, what a delightful winter i had! i was at twelve balls. it is charming if you have partners enough--oh, when three gentlemen beg for a waltz! but society in prague is nothing to that of vienna--i always say there is only one vienna. were you ever in vienna?" "no," i murmur. suddenly, however, my humiliated self-consciousness rebels, and, setting my arms akimbo, i ask, "and were you ever in paris?" the frenchwoman behind us laughs. down from above us falls a hard projectile upon heda's fair head,--a large purple bean,--and then another. she looks up angrily. harry is leaning out of a window above us, his elbows resting on the sill, and his head between his hands. "what an ill-bred boor you are!" she calls out. "and do you know what you are?" he shouts; "an affected braggart--that's what you are." with which he jumps from the window into the branches of a tree just before it, and comes scrambling down to the ground. "what is your name?" he asks me. "zdena." "i am happy to make your acquaintance, zdena. heda bores you, doesn't she?" i shake my head and laugh; feeling a protector near me, i am quite merry once more. "would you like to take a little ride, zdena?" he asks. "upon a pig?" i inquire, in some trepidation. he laughs, somewhat embarrassed, and shrugs his shoulders. "you do not really suppose that i am in the habit of riding pigs!" he exclaims; "i only do it when my tutor forbids it--it is too ridiculous to suppose such a thing!" and he hurries away. i look after him remorsefully. i am vexed to have been so foolish, and i am sorry to have frightened him away. in a few minutes, however, he appears again, and this time on horseback. he is riding a beautiful pony, chestnut, with a rather dandified long tail and a bushy mane. harry has a splendid seat, and is quite aware of it. apparently he is desirous of producing an impression upon me, for he performs various astounding feats,--jumps through the swing, over a garden-seat and a wheelbarrow,--and then, patting his horse encouragingly on the neck, approaches me, his bridle over his arm. "will you try now?" he asks. of course i will. he lifts me into the saddle, where i sit sideways, buckles the stirrup shorter, quite like a grown-up admirer; and then i ride slowly and solemnly through the garden, he carefully holding me on the while. i become conscious of a wish to distinguish myself in his eyes. "i should like to try it alone," i stammer, in some confusion. "i see you are brave; i like that," he says, resigning the bridle to me. trot, trot goes the pony. "faster, faster!" i cry, giving the animal a dig with my heel. the pony rears, and--i am lying on the ground, with scraped hands and a scratched chin. "it is nothing," i cry, bravely ignoring my pain, when harry hurries up to me with a dismayed face. "we must expect such things," i add, with dignity. "riding is always dangerous; my father was killed by being thrown from his horse." "indeed? really?" harry says, sympathetically, as he wipes the gravel off my hands. "how long has he been dead?" "oh, a long time,--a year." "my mother has been dead much longer," he says, importantly, almost boastfully. "she has been dead three years. and is yours still living?" "n--no." and the tears, hitherto so bravely restrained, come in a torrent. he is frightened, kneels down beside me, even then he was much taller than i,--and wipes away the tears with his pocket-handkerchief. "poor little thing!" he murmurs, "i am so sorry for you; i did not know----" and he puts his arm round me and strokes my hair. suddenly a delightful and strange sensation possesses me,--a feeling i have not had since my poor dear mother gave me her last kiss: my whole childish being is penetrated by it. we have been fond of each other ever since that moment; we are so to-day. "come with me to the kitchen-garden now," he says, "and see my puppies." and he calls to the gardener and commits to his charge the pony, that, quite content with the success of his man[oe]uvre, is quietly cropping the verbena-blossoms. my tears are dried. i am crouching beside the kennel in the kitchen-garden, with four charming little puppies in my lap. there is a fragrance of cucumber-leaves, sorrel, and thyme all about. the bright sunshine gleams on the dusty glass of the hot-bed, on the pumpkins and cucumbers, on the water in the tub under the pump, beside which a weeping willow parades its proverbial melancholy. harry's fair, fat tutor is walking past a trellis where the early peaches are hanging, smoking a long porcelain pipe. he pauses and pinches the fruit here and there, as if to discover when it will be ripe. i hold one after another of the silken, warm dog-babies to my cheek, and am happy, while harry laughs good-humouredly at my enthusiasm and prevents the jealous mother of the puppies from snapping at me. ----"we have been fond of each other ever since." the major smiles contentedly as he reads this. v. komaritz. i was soon at home at komaritz, often passed weeks there, feeling extremely comfortable amid those strange surroundings,--for the life led in the clumsy, unadorned old house upon which the mediæval castle looked down was certainly a strange one. in fact, the modern structure was no whit superior to the castle except in the matter of ugliness and in the fact that it possessed a roof. otherwise it was almost as ruinous as the ruin, and had to be propped up in a fresh place every year. the long passages were paved with worn tiles; the ground-floor was connected with the upper stories by a steep winding staircase. the locks on the doors were either broken or the keys were lost, and the clocks, if they went at all, all pointed to different hours. in a large room called the drawing-room, where the plaster was crumbling down from the ceiling bit by bit, there stood, among three-legged tables and threadbare arm-chairs, many an exquisite antique. in the rooms in use, on the other hand, there was no article of mere luxury: all was plain and useful, as in some parsonage. and yet there was something strangely attractive in this curious home. the rooms were of spacious dimensions; those on the ground-floor were all vaulted. the sunbeams forced their way through leafy vines and creepers into the deep embrasures of the windows. the atmosphere was impregnated with a delicious, mysterious fragrance,--an odour of mould, old wood, and dried rose-leaves. harry maintained that it smelled of ghosts, and that there was a white lady who "walked" in the corner room next to the private chapel. i must confess, in spite of my love for the old barrack, that it was not a fit baronial mansion. no one had ever lived there, save a steward, before uncle karl, who, as the youngest leskjewitsch, inherited it, took up his abode there. he had, when he was first married, planned a new castle, but soon relinquished his intention, first for financial reasons, and then from dread of guests, a dread that seems to have become a chronic disease with him. when his wife died, all thought of any new structure had been given up. from that time he scarcely ever stayed there himself, and the old nest was good enough for a summer residence for the children. with the exception of heda,--besides harry there was a good-for-nothing small boy,--the children thought so too. they had a pathetic affection for the old place where they appeared each year with the flowers, the birds, and the sunshine. they seemed to me to belong to the spring. everything was bright and warm about me when they came. harry was my faithful knight from first to last; our friendship grew with our growth. he tyrannized over me a little, and liked to impress me, i think, with a sense of his superiority; but he faithfully and decidedly stood by me whenever i needed him. he drove me everywhere about the country; his two ponies could either be driven or ridden; he taught me to ride, climbed mountains with me, explored with me every corner of the old ruin on the hill, and then when we came home at night, each somewhat weary with our long tramp, he would tell me stories. how vividly i remember it all! i can fancy myself now sitting beside him on the lowest of the steps leading from the living-room into the garden. at our feet the flowers exhale sweet, sad odours, the pale roses drenched in dew show white amid the dim foliage; above our heads there is a dreamy whisper in the boughs of an old apricot-tree, whose leaves stand out sharp and black against the deep-blue sky, sown with myriads of sparkling stars. and harry is telling me stories. ah, such stories! the most terrible tales of robbers and ghosts, each more shudderingly horrible than its predecessor. oh, how delightful it is to feel one shudder after another creeping down your back in the warm summer evening! and if it grows too fearful, and i begin to be really afraid of the pale, bloodless phantoms which he conjures up before me, i move a little closer to him, and, as if seeking protection, clasp his hand, taking refuge from my ghostly fears in the consciousness of his warm young life. vi. harry's tutors. every sunday the komaritzers come to us at zirkow, driving over in a tumble-down old coach covered with faded blue cloth, hung on spiral springs, and called noah's ark. the coachman wears no livery, except such as can be found in an imposing broad gold band upon a very shabby high hat. of course the children are always accompanied by the governess and the tutor. the first governess whom i knew at komaritz--mademoiselle duval--was bright, well-bred, and very lovable; the tutor was the opposite of all this. he may have been a proficient in ancient languages, but he spoke very poor german. his nails were always in mourning, and he neglected his dress. intercourse with good society made him melancholy. at our table he always took the worst place. uncle paul every sunday addressed the same two questions to him, never remembering his name, but regularly calling him herr paulus, whereas his name was pontius. after the tutor had answered these questions humbly, he never again, so long as dinner lasted, opened his mouth, except to put into it large mouthfuls, or his knife. between the courses he twirled his thumbs and sniffed. he always had a cold in his head. when dinner was over he pushed his chair back against the wall, bowed awkwardly, and retired, never appearing among us during the rest of the afternoon, which he spent playing "pinch" with krupitschka, with a pack of dirty cards which from long usage had lost their corners and had become oval. we often surprised him at this amusement,--harry and i. as soon as he disappeared aunt rosamunda always expressed loudly and distinctly her disapproval of his bad manners. but when we children undertook to sneer at them, we were sternly repressed,--were told that such things were of no consequence, and that bad manners did not in the least detract from a human being's genuine worth. on one occasion harry rejoined, "i'm glad to hear it," and at the next meal sat with both elbows upon the table. moreover, i soon observed that herr pontius was by no means the meek lamb he seemed to be, and this i discovered at the harvest-home. there was a dance beneath the lindens at the farm, where herr pontius whirled the peasant-girls around, and capered about like a very demon. his face grew fierce, and his hair floated wildly about his head. we children nearly died of laughing at him. soon afterwards he was dismissed, and in a great hurry. when i asked harry to tell me the cause of his sudden disappearance, he replied that it was love that had broken herr pontius's neck. but when i insisted upon a more lucid explanation, harry touched the tip of my nose with his forefinger and said, sententiously, "too much knowledge makes little girls ugly." he was not the only one among harry's tutors whose neck was broken through love: the next--a very model of a tutor--followed the example in this respect of the dance-loving herr pontius. his name was ephraim schmied; he came from hildesheim, and was very learned and well conducted,--in short, by long odds the best of all harry's tutors. if he did not retain his position, it may well be imagined that it was the fault of the position. as with every other fresh tutor, harry set himself in opposition to him at first, and did his best to discover ridiculous traits in him. his efforts in this direction were for a time productive of no results, and herr schmied, thanks to his untiring patience combined with absolute firmness, was in a fair way to master his wayward pupil, when matters took an unexpected and unfortunate turn. harry, in fact, had finally discovered the weak place in herr schmied's armour, and it was in the region of the heart. herr schmied had fallen in love with mademoiselle duval. to fall in love was in harry's eyes at that time the extreme of human stupidity (he ought to have rested in that conviction). uncle paul shared it. he chuckled when harry one fine day told him of his discovery, and asked the keen-sighted young good-for-naught upon what he founded his supposition. "he sings schubert's 'wanderer' to her every evening, and yesterday he brought her a vase from x----," harry replied: "there the fright stands." uncle paul took the vase in his hands, an odd smile playing about his mouth the while. it was decorated with little naked cupids hopping about in an oval wreath of forget-me-nots. "how sentimental!" said uncle paul, adding, after a while, "if the little wretches only had wings, they might pass for angels, but as they are they leave something to be desired." then, putting down the vase, he told me to be a good girl (he had just brought me over to stay a little while at komaritz), got into his dog-cart, and drove off. scarcely had the door closed behind him when harry brought from the next room a long quill pen and a large inkstand, and went to work eagerly and mysteriously at the vase. at about five in the afternoon all assembled for afternoon coffee. finally herr schmied appeared, a book in his hand. "what are you doing there?" he asked his pupil, unsuspectingly. "i am giving these naughty boys swimming-breeches, herr schmied. uncle paul thought it hardly the thing for you to have presented this vase to a lady, and so----" the sentence was never finished. there was a low laugh from the other end of the room, where mademoiselle duval, ensconced behind the coffee-equipage, had been an unobserved spectator of the scene. herr schmied flushed crimson, and, quite losing his usual self-control, he gave harry a sounding box on the ear, and harry--well, harry returned it. herr schmied seized him by the shoulders as if to shake and strike him, then bit his lip, drew a long breath, released the boy, and left the room. but harry's head drooped upon his breast, and he ate no supper that night. he knew that what had occurred could not be condoned, and he was sorry. at supper herr schmied informed mademoiselle duval that he had written to baron leskjewitsch that unforeseen circumstances made imperative his return to germany. "i did not think it necessary to be more explicit as to the true cause of my sudden departure," he added. harry grew very pale. after supper, as i was sitting with heda upon the garden-steps, looking for falling stars that would not fall, we observed herr schmied enter the room behind us; it was quite empty, but the lamp was lighted on the table. soon afterwards, harry appeared. neither of them noticed us. slowly, lingeringly, harry approached his tutor, and plucked him by the sleeve. herr schmied looked around. "must you really go away, herr schmied?" the boy asked, in distress. "yes," the tutor replied, very gravely. harry bit his lip, seemed undecided what to do or say, and finally, leaning his head a little on one side, asked, caressingly, "even if i beg your pardon?" herr schmied smiled, surprised and touched. he took the boy's hand in his, and said, sadly, "even then, harry. yet i am sorry, for i was beginning to be very fond of you." the tears were in harry's eyes, but he evidently felt that no entreaty would be of any avail. in fact, the next morning herr schmied took his departure. a few days afterwards, however, harry received a letter from him with a foreign post-mark. he had written four long pages to his former pupil. harry flushed with pride and joy as he read it, and answered it that very evening. herr schmied is now professor of modern history in a foreign university, his name is well known, and he is held in high honour. he still corresponds with harry, whose next tutor was a french abbé. the cause of the abbé's dismissal i have forgotten; indeed, i remember only one more among the numerous preceptors, and he was the last,--a german from bohemia, called ewald finke. his name was not really ewald, but michael, but he called himself ewald because he liked it better. he had studied abroad, which always impressed us favourably, and, as uncle karl was told, he had already won some reputation in leipsic by his literary efforts. he was looking for a situation as tutor merely that he might have some rest from intellectual labours that had been excessive. "moreover," his letter of recommendation from a well-known professor went on to say, "the herr baron will not be slow to discover that he is here brought into contact with a rarely-gifted nature, one of those in intercourse with whom allowance must be made for certain peculiarities which at first may prove rather annoying." uncle karl instantly wrote, in reply, that "annoying peculiarities" were of no consequence,--that he would accord unlimited credit in the matter of allowance to the new tutor. in fact, he took such an interest in the genius thus offered him that he prolonged his stay in komaritz to two weeks, instead of departing at the end of three days, as he had at first intended, solely in expectation of the new tutor. by the way, those who are familiar with my uncle's morbid restlessness may imagine the joy of his household at his prolonged stay in komaritz. not knowing how otherwise to kill his time, he hit upon the expedient of shooting it, and, as the hunting season had not begun, he shot countless butterflies. we found them lying in heaps among the flowers, little, shapeless, shrivelled things, mere specks of brilliant dust. when weary of this amusement, he would seat himself at the piano and play over and over again the same dreary air, grasping uncertainly at the chords, and holding them long and firmly when once he had got them. harry assured me that he was playing a funeral march for the dead butterflies, and i supposed it to be his own composition. this, however, was not the case, and the piece was not a funeral march, but a polonaise,--"the last thought of count oginski," who is said to have killed himself after jotting down this music. at last herr finke made his appearance. he was a tall, beardless young man, with hair cut close to his head, and a sallow face adorned with the scars of several sabre-cuts, a large mouth, a pointed nose, the nostrils quivering with critical scorn, and staring black eyes with large round spectacles, through which they saw only what they chose to see. uncle karl's reception of him was grandiloquent. "enter," he exclaimed, going to meet him with extended hands. "my house is open to you. i delight in grand natures which refuse to be cramped within the limits of conventionality." herr finke replied to this high-sounding address only by a rather condescending nod, shaking the proffered hand as if bestowing a favour. after he had been refreshed with food and drink, uncle karl challenged him to a fencing-match, which lasted upward of an hour, at the end of which time my uncle confessed that the new tutor was a master of fence, immediately wrote to thank the illustrious professor to whom he owed this treasure of learning, and left komaritz that same evening. herr finke remained precisely three weeks in his new situation. so far as lessons went he seemed successful enough, but his "annoying peculiarities" ended in an outbreak of positive insanity, during which he set fire to the frame house on the hill where he was lodged, and was carried off to a mad-house in a strait-waistcoat, raving wildly. uncle karl was sadly disappointed, and suddenly resolved to send harry to a public school, being convinced that no good could come of tutors. from this time forward the young leskjewitsches came to komaritz only for the vacations. vii. we were very good friends, harry and i,--there's no denying that. we told each other all our secrets,--at least i told him mine,--and we divided all our bon-bons with each other. sometimes on sunday afternoons we played at marriage, the ceremony giving occasion for a deal of delightful "dressing up." moreover, we had long been agreed that, sooner or later, this play should become earnest, and that we would marry each other. but when the first down became perceptible on harry's upper lip, our mutual friendship began to flag. it was just about the time that harry went to a public school. his indifference grieved me at first, then i became consoled, and at last i was faithless to him. a cousin of harry's, who came to komaritz to spend the holidays, gave occasion for this breach of faith. his name was lato, count treurenberg. the name alone kindled my enthusiasm. he had scarcely been two days in komaritz, where i too was staying at the time, when hedwig confided to me that she was in love with him. "so am i," i replied. i was firmly convinced that this was so. my confession was the signal for a highly dramatic scene. hedwig, who had frequently been to the theatre in prague, ran about the room wringing her hands and crying, "both with the same man! both!--it is terrible! one of us must resign him, or the consequences will be fearful." i diffidently offered to sacrifice my passion. she shrieked, "no, i never can accept such a sacrifice from you! fate shall decide between us." whereupon we put one white and one black bean in a little, broken, handle-less coffee-pot which we found in the garret, and which hedwig called an urn. the decisive moment made my heart beat. we cast lots for precedence in drawing from the urn. it fell to me, and i drew out a black bean! the moment was thrilling. heda sank upon a sofa, and fanned her joyful face with her pocket-handkerchief. she declared that if she had drawn the black bean she would have attempted her life. this declaration dispelled my despair; i shuddered at the idea of being the cause of anything so horrible. from that day heda never spoke to lato von treurenberg without drooping her head on one side and rolling her eyes languishingly,--conduct which seemed to cause the young fellow some surprise, but which he treated with great courtesy, while harry used to exclaim, "what is the matter with you, heda? you look like a goose in a thunder-storm!" my behaviour towards lato underwent no change: i had drawn the "black ball," and, in consequence, the most cordial friendship soon subsisted between us. it would have been difficult not to like lato, for i have never met a more amiable, agreeable young fellow. he was about seventeen years old, very tall, and stooped slightly. his features were delicately chiselled; his smile was quite bewitching in its dreamy, all-embracing benevolence. there was decided melancholy in his large, half-veiled eyes, which caused hedwig to liken him to lord byron. his complexion was rather dark,--which was odd, as his hair was light brown touched with gold at the temples. his neck was too long, and his arms were uncommonly long. all his appointments, from his coats to his cigar-case, were extremely elegant, testifying to a degree of fastidiousness thitherto quite unknown in komaritz. nevertheless, he seemed very content in this primitive nest, ignoring all discomfort, and making no pretension. heda, who was quick to seize upon every opportunity to admire him, called my attention to his amiable forbearance, or, i confess, i should not have noticed it. from hedwig i learned much concerning the young man; among other things, she gave me a detailed account of his family circumstances. his mother was, she informed me, a "mediatisirte."[ ] she uttered the word reverently, and, when i confessed that i did not know what it meant, she nearly fainted. his father was one of the most fascinating men in austria. he is still living, and is by no means, it seems, at the end of his fascinations, but, being a widower, hovers about from one amusing capital to another, breaking hearts for pastime. it seems to be a wonderfully entertaining occupation, and, when one once indulges in it, the habit cannot be got rid of,--like opium-eating. while he thus paraded his brilliant fascinations in the gay world, he did not, of course, find much time to interest himself in his boy, who was left to the care of distant relatives, and who, when found to be backward in his studies, was placed, i believe by uncle karl's advice, under the care of a prague professor by the name of suwa, who kept, as harry once told me, a kind of orthopædic institution for minds that lacked training. beside lato, during that vacation there were two other guests at komaritz, one a very distant cousin of harry's, and the other a kind of sub-tutor whose duty it was to coach harry in his studies. we could not endure the sub-tutor. his name was franz tuschalek; he was about nineteen, with hands and feet like shovels, and a flat, unmeaning face. his manner was intensely servile, and his coat-sleeves and trousers were too short, which gave him a terribly indigent air. one could not help regarding him with a mixture of impatience and sympathy. by my radical uncle's express desire, he and harry called each other by their christian names. still, obnoxious as poor tuschalek was to us, he was more to our minds than the distant cousin. this last was a pole, about twenty years old, with a sallow face and long oblique eyes, which he rolled in an extraordinary way. his hair was black, and he curled it with the curling-tongs. he was redolent of musk, and affected large plaid suits of clothes. his german was not good, and his french was no better, but he assured us that he was a proficient in chinese and arabic. he was always playing long and difficult concertos on the table, but he never touched the piano at komaritz, declaring that the instrument was worn out. he was always short of funds, and was perpetually boasting of the splendour of his family. he frequently sketched, upon some stray piece of paper, a magnificent and romantic structure, which he would display to us as his polish home,--"our ancestral castle." sometimes this castle appeared with two turrets, sometimes with only one, a fact to which harry did not fail to call his attention. his distinguished ancestry was a topic of never-failing interest to him; he was never weary of explaining his connection with various european reigning dynasties, and his visiting-cards bore the high-sounding names "le comte ladislas othon fainacky de chrast-bambosch," although, as harry confided to us, he had no right to the title of comte, being the son of a needy polish baron. although franz tuschalek was almost as obnoxious to harry as the "braggart sarmatian," as lato called the pole, he never allowed his antipathy to be seen, but treated him with great consideration, as he did all inferiors, scarcely allowing himself to give vent to his distaste for him even in his absence. but he paraded his dislike of fainacky, never speaking of him as a guest, but as an "invasion," and always trying to annoy him by some boyish trick. at length, one sunday, the crisis in harry's first vacation occurred. we had all been to early mass, and the celebrant had accompanied us back to komaritz, as was his custom, to breakfast. after a hasty cup of coffee he took his leave of us children, and betook himself to the bailiff's quarters, where we more than suspected him of a quiet game of cards with that official and his underlings. the door of the dining-room leading out into the garden was wide open, and delicious odours from the moist flower-beds floated in and mingled with the fragrance of the coffee. it had rained in the night, but the sun had emerged from the clouds and had thrown a golden veil over trees and shrubs. we were just rising from table when the "braggart sarmatian" entered, booted and spurred, smelling of all the perfumes of arabia, and with his hair beautifully curled. he had not been to mass, and had breakfasted in his room in the frame house on the hill, which had been rebuilt since the fire. after he had bidden us all an affected good-morning, he said, turning to harry,-- "has the man come with the mail?" "yes," harry replied, curtly. "did no registered letter come for me?" "no." "strange!" "very strange," harry sneered. "you have been expecting that letter a long time. if i were you, i'd investigate the matter." "there's something wrong with the post," the pole declared, with an air of importance. "i must see about it. i think i had best apply to my uncle the cabinet-minister." harry made a curious grimace. "there is no need to exercise your powers of invention for me," he observed. "i know your phrase-book and the meaning of each individual sentence. 'has no registered letter come for me?' means 'lend me some money.' my father instructed me to supply you with money if you needed it, but never with more than ten guilders at a time. here they are, and, if you wish to drive to x----, tell the bailiff to have the drag harnessed for you. we--in fact, we will not look for you before evening. good-bye." "i shall have to call you to account some day, harry," fainacky said, with a frown; then, relapsing into his usual languid affectation of manner, he remarked, over his shoulder, to mademoiselle duval, "_c'est un enfant_," put away the ten-guilder piece in a gorgeous leather pocket-book, and left the room. scarcely had the door closed behind him when harry began to express in no measured terms his views with regard to the "polish invasion." then he set his wits to work to devise some plan of getting rid of fainacky, but it was not until the afternoon, when we were assembled in the dining-room again, that a brilliant idea occurred to him while reading heine's "romancero," a book which he loved to read when heda and i were by because it was a forbidden volume to us. suddenly, starting up from his half-reclining position in a large arm-chair, he snapped his fingers, waved his book in the air, and exclaimed, "eureka!" "what is it?" lato asked, good-naturedly. "i have found something to drive the pole wild!" cried harry, rubbing his hands with delight. whereupon he began to spout, with immense enthusiasm and shouts of laughter, heine's "two knights," a poem in which he pours out his bitterest satire upon the poles, their cause, and their country. this precious poem harry commanded tuschalek to write out in his finest round hand upon a large sheet of paper, which was then to be nailed upon the door of fainacky's sleeping-apartment. i did not like the poem. i confess my polish sympathies were strong, and i did not approve of ridiculing the "braggart sarmatian's" nation by way of disgusting him with komaritz; but nothing that i could say had any effect. the poem was written out upon the largest sheet of paper that the house afforded, and was the first thing to greet the eyes of fainacky when he retired to his room for the night. in consequence, the sarmatian declared, the next morning, at breakfast, that the insult thus offered to his nation and himself was not to be endured by a man of honour, and that he should leave komaritz that very day. nevertheless, he stayed four weeks longer, during which time, however, he never spoke to harry except upon three occasions when he borrowed money of him. tuschalek departed at an earlier date. harry's method for getting rid of him was much simpler, and consisted of a letter to his father. as well as i can recollect, it ran thus: "my dear father,-- "i pray you send tuschalek away. i assure you i will study diligently without him. to have about you a fellow hired at ten guilders a month, who calls you by your christian name, is very deleterious to the character. "your affectionate son, "harry. "p.s.--pray, if you can, help him to another situation, for i can't help pitying the poor devil." about this time lato sprained his ankle in leaping a ditch, and was confined for some days to a lounge in the dining-room. heda scarcely left his side. she brought him flowers, offered to write his letters for him, and finally read aloud to him from the "_journal des demoiselles_." whether he was much edified i cannot say. he left komaritz as soon as his ankle was strong again. i was really sorry to have him go; for years we heard nothing more of him.---- "the gypsy!" exclaimed the major. "how fluently she writes! who would have thought it of her! i remember that fainacky perfectly well,--a genuine polish coxcomb! lato was a charming fellow,--pity he should have married in trade!" at this moment a loud bell reminded the old cavalryman that the afternoon coffee was ready. he hurriedly slipped his niece's manuscript into a drawer of his writing-table, and locked it up before joining his family circle, where he appeared with the most guileless smile he could assume. zdena seemed restless and troubled, and confessed at last that she had lost her diary, which she was quite sure she had put into her work-basket. she had been writing in the garden, and had thrust it into the basket in a hurry. the major seemed uninterested in the loss, but, when the girl's annoyance reached its climax in a conjecture that the cook had, by mistake, used the manuscript for kindling, he comforted her, saying, "nonsense! the thing will surely be found." he could not bring himself to resign the precious document,--he was too much interested in reading it. the next day, after luncheon, while frau rosamunda was refreshing herself with an afternoon nap and zdena was in the garden posing for the baron von wenkendorf as the goddess of spring, the major retired to his room and locked himself in, that he might not be disturbed. "could she possibly have fallen in love with that lato? some girls' heads are full of sentimental nonsense. but i hardly think it--and so--" he went on muttering to himself whilst finding the place where he had left off on the previous day. the next chapter of this literary _chef-d'[oe]uvre_ began as follows: viii. i had a long letter to-day from miss o'donnel in italy, full of most interesting things. one of the two nieces whom she is visiting is being trained as an opera-singer. she seems to have a brilliant career before her. in italy they call her "_la patti blonde_," and her singing-teacher, to whom she pays thirty-five francs a lesson, declares that she will certainly make at least a hundred thousand francs a year as a prima donna. what an enviable creature! i, too, have an admirable voice. ah, if uncle paul would only let me be trained! but his opinions are so old-fashioned! and everything that miss o'donnel tells me about the mode of life of the misses lyall interests me. they live with their mother in italy, and receive every evening, principally gentlemen, which, it seems, is the italian custom. the elder miss lyall is as good as engaged to a distinguished milanese who lost his hair in the war of ' ; while the younger, the blonde patti, will not hear of marriage, but contents herself with turning the head of every man who comes near her. ah! i have arrived at the conviction that there can be no finer existence than that of a young girl in training for a prima donna, who amuses herself in the mean time by turning the head of every man who comes near her.---- ("goose!" exclaimed the major at this point.) ----to-day i proposed to uncle paul that he should take me to italy for the winter, to have me educated as a singer. there was a great row. never before, since i have known him, has he spoken so angrily to me.---- ("i should think not!" growled the major at this point.) ----the worst was that he blamed miss o'donnel for putting such "stuff" (thus he designated my love for art) into my head, and threatened to forbid her to correspond with me. ah, i wept for the entire afternoon amid the ruins of my shattered hopes. i am very unhappy. after a long interruption, the idea has occurred to me to-day of continuing my memoirs. ix. harry becomes a soldier. uncle karl finally yielded to harry's entreaties, and allowed him to enter the army. that very autumn after the summer which lato and fainacky passed at komaritz he was to enter a regiment of hussars. it had been a problem for uncle karl, the taming of this eager young nature, and i think he was rather relieved by the military solution thus afforded. as harry of course had nothing to do in town before joining his regiment, he stayed longer than usual this year in komaritz,--stayed all through september and until late in october. komaritz was quite deserted: lato had gone, the pole had gone; but harry still stayed on. and, strange to say, now, when we confronted our first long parting, our old friendship gradually revived, stirred, and felt that it had been living all this time, although it had had one or two naps. how well i remember the day when he came to zirkow to take leave of us--of me! it was late in october, and the skies were blue but cold. the sun shone down upon the earth kindly, but without warmth. a thin silvery mist floated along the ground. the bright-coloured leaves shivered in the frosty air. on the wet lawn, where the gossamers gleamed like steel, lay myriads of brown, red, and yellow leaves. the song-birds were gone, the sparrows twittered shrilly, and in the midst of the brown autumnal desolation there bloomed in languishing loveliness a white rose upon a leafless stalk. with a scarlet shawl about my shoulders and my head bare i was sauntering about the garden, wandering, dreaming through the frosty afternoon. i heard steps behind me, and when i looked round i saw harry approaching, his brows knitted gloomily. "i only want to bid you 'good-bye,'" he called out to me. "we are off to-morrow." "when are you coming back?" i asked, hastily. "perhaps never," he said, with an important air. "you know--a soldier----" "yes, there is a threatening of war," i whispered, and my childish heart felt an intolerable pang as i spoke. he shrugged his shoulders and tried to laugh. "and, at all events, you, when i come back, will be a young lady with--lovers--and you will hardly remember me." "oh, harry, how can you talk so!" rather awkwardly he holds out to me his long slender hand, in which i place my own. ah, how secure my cold, weak fingers feel in that warm strong hand! why do i suddenly recall the long-past moonlit evenings in komaritz when we sat together on the garden-steps and harry told me ghost-stories, in dread of which, when they grew too ghastly, i used to cling close to him as if to find shelter in his strong young life from the bloodless throng of spirits he was evoking? thus we stand, hand in hand, before the white rose, the last which autumn had left. it droops above us, and its cheering fragrance mingles with the autumnal odours around us. i pluck it, stick it in harry's button-hole, and then suddenly begin to sob convulsively. he clasps me close, close in his arms, kisses me, and murmurs, "do not forget me!" and i kiss him too, and say, "never--never!" while around us the faded leaves fall silently upon the grass. x. my education. now follow a couple of very colourless years. there was nothing more to anticipate from the summers. for, although heda regularly appeared at komaritz as soon as the city was too hot or too deserted, she did not add much to my enjoyment. komaritz itself seemed changed when harry was no longer there to turn everything upside-down with his good-humoured, madcap ways. and there was a change for the worse in our circumstances; affairs at zirkow were not so prosperous as they had been. to vary the monotony of his country life, my uncle had built a brewery, from which he promised himself a large increase of income. it was to be a model brewery, but after it was built the startling discovery was made that there was not water enough to work it. for a while, water was brought from the river in wagons drawn by four horses, but, when this was found to be too expensive, the brewery was left to itself. for years now it has remained thus passive, digesting in triumphant repose the sums of money which it swallowed up. the monster! whenever there is any little dispute between my uncle and my aunt, she is certain to throw his brew-house in his face. but, instead of being crushed by the mischief he has wrought, he declares, "the project was admirable: my idea was a brilliant one if it had only succeeded!" but it did not succeed. the consequence was--retrenchment and economy. my aunt dismissed two servants, my uncle kept only a pair of driving horses, and my new gowns were made out of my aunt thérèse's old ones. the entire winter we spent at zirkow, and my only congenial friend was my old english governess, the miss o'donnel already mentioned, who came shortly before harry's entrance into the army, not so much to teach me english as to learn german herself. born in ireland, and a catholic, she had always had excellent situations in the most aristocratic english families. this had given her, besides her other acquirements, a great familiarity with the curious peculiarities of the british peerage, and with social distinctions of rank in england, as to which she enlightened me, along with much other valuable information. at first i thought her quite ridiculous in many respects,--her general appearance,--she had once been a beauty, and still wore corkscrew curls,--her way of humming to herself old irish ballads, "nora creina," "the harp that once through tara's halls," etc., with a cracked voice and unconscious gestures, her formality and sensitiveness. after a while i grew fond of her. what quantities of books she read aloud to me in the long evenings in january and december, while my wooden needles clicked monotonously as i knitted woollen comforters for the poor!--all walter scott's novels, dickens and thackeray, many of the works of english historians, from the academic, fluent gibbon to that strange prophet of history, carlyle, and every day i had to study with her one act of shakespeare, which bored me at first. she was so determined to form my literary taste that while my maid was brushing my hair she would read aloud some lighter work, such as "the vicar of wakefield" or doctor johnson's "rasselas." as uncle paul was very desirous to perfect my education as far as possible, he was not content with these far-reaching efforts, but, with a view to further accomplishments on my part, sent me thrice a week to x----, where an old pianiste, who was said to have refused a russian prince, and was now humpbacked, gave me lessons on the piano; and a former _ballerina_, at present married to the best caterer in x----, taught me to dance. this last was a short, fat, good-humoured person with an enormous double chin and a complexion spoiled by bad rouge. when a ballet-dancer she had been known as angiolina chiaramonte; her name now is frau anna schwanzara. she always lost her breath, and sometimes the buttons off her waist, when she danced for her pupils, and she prided herself upon being able to teach every known dance, even to the cancan. i did not learn the cancan, but i did learn the fandango, the czardas, and the highland fling, with many another national dance. waltzes and polkas i did not learn, because we had no one for a partner to practise with me; frau schwanzara was too short-breathed, although she was very good-humoured and did her best. sometimes i thought it very hard to have to get up so early and drive between high walls of snow in a rattling inspector's wagon (uncle paul would not allow his last good carriage to be used on these journeys) two long leagues to x----, but it was, at all events, a break in the monotony of my life. if i was not too sleepy, we argued the whole way, miss o'donnel and i, usually over some historic event, such as the execution of louis xvi. or cromwell's rebellion. sometimes we continued our debate as we walked about the town, where we must have been strange and yet familiar figures. miss o'donnel certainly was odd in appearance. she always wore a long gray cloth cloak, under which, to guard against dirt, she kilted up her petticoats so high that her red stockings gleamed from afar. on her head was perched a black velvet bonnet with a scarlet pompon, and in summer and winter she carried the same bulgy green umbrella, which she called her "gamp." once we lost each other in the midst of a particularly lively discussion. nothing daunted, she planted herself at a street-corner, and, pounding the pavement with her umbrella, called, lustily, "zdena! zdena! zdena!" until a policeman, to whom i described her, conducted me to her. in addition to miss o'donnel's peculiarities, the extraordinary structure of our vehicle must have attracted some attention in x----. it was a long, old-fashioned coach hung on very high springs, and it looked very like the shabby carriages seen following the hearse at third-class funerals. twin sister of the komaritz "noah's ark," it served a double purpose, and could be taken apart in summer and used as an open carriage. sometimes it fell apart of itself. once when we were driving quickly through the market-square and past the officers' casino in x----, the entire carriage window fell out upon the pavement. the coachman stopped the horses, and a very tall hussar picked up the window and handed it in to me, saying, with a smile, "you have dropped something, mademoiselle!" i was deeply mortified, but i would not for the world have shown that i was so. i said, simply, "thank you; put it down there, if you please," pointing to the opposite seat,--as if dropping a window out of the carriage were the most ordinary every-day occurrence. upon my reply to him he made a profound bow, which i thought all right. he was a late arrival in the garrison; the other officers knew us or our carriage by sight. every one of them, when he came to x----, paid his respects to my uncle, who in due course of time returned the visit, and there was an end of it. the officers were never invited to zirkow. sometimes the roads were so blocked with snow that we could not drive to town, nor could we walk far. for the sake of exercise, or what miss o'donnel called our "daily constitutional," we used then to walk numberless times around the house, where the gardener had cleared a path for us. as we walked, miss o'donnel told me stories from the arabian nights or ovid's metamorphoses, varied sometimes by descriptions of life among the british aristocracy. when once she was launched upon this last topic, i would not let her finish,--i besieged her with questions. she showed me the picture of one of her pupils, the lady alice b----, who married the duke of g---- and was the queen of london society for two years. "'tis odd how much you look like her," she often said to me. "you are sure to make a sensation in the world; only have patience. you are born to play a great part." if uncle paul had heard her, i believe he would have killed her. every evening we played a rubber of whist. miss o'donnel never could remember what cards were out, and, whenever we wished to recall a card or to transgress some rule of the game, aunt rosamunda always said, "that is not allowed at the jockey club." once my uncle and aunt took me upon a six weeks' pleasure-tour,--or, rather, an educational excursion. we thoroughly explored the greater part of germany and italy on this occasion, travelling very simply, with very little luggage, never speaking to strangers, having intercourse exclusively with pictures, sculptures, and valets-de-place. after thus becoming acquainted, in baedeker's society, with a new piece of the world, as aunt rosamunda observed with satisfaction, we returned to zirkow, and life went on as before. and really my lonely existence would not have struck me as anything extraordinary, if hedwig had not been at hand to enlighten me as to my deprivations. she had been introduced into society, and wrote me of her conquests. last summer she brought a whole trunkful of faded bouquets with her to komaritz,--ball-trophies. besides this stuff, she brought two other acquisitions with her to the country, a sallow complexion and an adjective which she used upon every occasion--"impossible!" she tossed it about to the right and left, applying it to everything in the dear old nest which i so dearly loved, and which she now never called anything save "mon exil." the house at komaritz, the garden, my dress,--all fell victims to this adjective. two of her friends shortly followed her to komaritz, with a suitable train of governesses and maids,--countesses from prague society, mimi and franziska zett. they were not nearly so affected as heda,--in fact, they were not affected at all, but were sweet and natural, very pretty, and particularly pleasant towards me. but we were not congenial; we had nothing to say to one another; we had no interests in common. they were quite indifferent to my favourite heroes, from the gracchi to the first consul; in fact, they knew hardly anything about them, and i knew still less of the rudis, nikis, taffis, and whatever else the young gentlemen were called, with whom they danced and flirted at balls and parties, and about whom they now gossiped with heda. they, too, brought each a trunkful of faded bouquets, and one day they piled them all up on the grass in the garden and set fire to them. they declared that it was the custom in society in vienna thus to burn on ash wednesday every relic of the carnival. to be sure, it was not ash wednesday in komaritz, and the carnival was long past, but that was of no consequence. the favourite occupation of the three young ladies was to sit in the summer-house, with a generous supply of iced raspberry vinegar, and make confession of the various _passions funestes_ which they had inspired. i sat by and listened mutely. once mimi amiably asked me to give my experience. i turned my head away, and murmured, ashamed, "no one ever made love to me." mimi, noticing my distress, put her finger beneath my chin, just as if she had been my grand-aunt, and said, "only wait until you come out, and you will bear the palm away from all of us, for you are by long odds the prettiest of us all." when afterwards i looked in the glass, i thought she was right. "until you go into society," mimi had said. good heavens! into society!--i! for some time a suspicion had dawned upon me that uncle paul did not mean that i should ever "go into society." when, the day after mimi's portentous speech, i returned to zirkow, i determined to put an end to all uncertainty upon the subject. after dinner--it had been an uncommonly good one--i put my hand caressingly within my uncle's arm, and whispered, softly, "uncle, do you never mean to take me to balls, eh?" he had been very gay, but he at once grew grave, as he replied,-- "what good would balls do you? make your eyes droop, and your feet ache! i can't endure the thought of having you whirled about by all the young coxcombs of prague and then criticised afterwards. marriages are made in heaven, zdena, and your fate will find you here, you may be sure." "but i am not thinking of marriage," i exclaimed, indignantly. "i want to see the world, uncle dear; can you not understand that?" and i tenderly stroked his coat-sleeve. he shook his curly head energetically. "be thankful that you know nothing of the world," he said, with emphasis. and i suddenly recalled the intense bitterness in my mother's tone as she uttered the word "world," when i waked in the dark night and found her kneeling, crying, at my bedside in our old paris home. "is it really so very terrible--the world?" i asked, meekly, and yet incredulously. "terrible!" he repeated my word with even more energy than was usual with him. "it is a hot-bed of envy and vanity, a place where one learns to be ashamed of his best friend if he chance to wear an ill-made coat; that is the world you are talking of. i do not wish you to know anything about it." this was all he would say. it might be supposed that the unattractive picture of the world drawn by uncle paul would have put a stop at once and forever to any desire of mine for a further acquaintance with it, but--there is ever a charm about what is forbidden. at present i have not the faintest desire to visit pekin, but if i were forbidden to go near that capital i should undoubtedly be annoyed. and day follows day. nearly a year has passed since that unedifying conversation with my uncle. the only amusement that varied the monotony of our existence was a letter at long intervals from harry. for a time he was stationed in salzburg; for a year he has been in garrison in vienna, where, of course, he is absorbed in the whirl of viennese society. i must confess that it did not greatly please me when i first learned that he had entered upon that brilliant worldly scene: will he not come to be like hedwig? my uncle declares that the world is the hot-bed of envy and vanity; and yet there must be natures upon which poisonous atmospheres produce no effect, just as there are men who can breathe with impunity the air of the pontine marshes; and harry's nature is one of these. at least so it would seem from his letters, they are so cordial and simple, such warm affection speaks in every line. a little while ago he sent me his photograph. i liked it extremely, but i did not say so; all the more loudly, however, did my uncle express his admiration. he offered to wager that harry is the handsomest officer in the entire army, and he shouted loudly for krupitschka, to show him the picture. harry told us one interesting piece of news,--i forget whether it was this winter or the last; perhaps it was still longer ago, for harry was stationed in enns at the time, and the news related to our old friend treurenberg. he had married a girl in the world of trade,--a fräulein selina von harfink. harry, whom lato had bidden to his marriage, and who had gone for old friendship's sake from enns to vienna to be the escort in the church of the first of the eight bridesmaids, made very merry in his letter over the festivity. we were all intensely surprised; we had not heard a word of lato's betrothal, and the day after harry's letter came the announcement of the marriage. uncle paul, who takes most of the events of life very philosophically, grew quite angry on learning of this marriage. since lato has married for money, he cares nothing more for him. "i should not care if he had made a fool of himself and married an actress," he exclaimed, over and over again, "but to sell himself--ugh!" when i suggested, "perhaps he fell in love with selina," my uncle shrugged his shoulders, and seemed to consider any such possibility entirely out of the question. we talked for two weeks at zirkow about lato treurenberg's marriage. now we have almost forgotten it. since lato has been married he has been quite estranged from his former associations. to-day is my birthday. i am nineteen years old. how kind my uncle and aunt are to me! how they try to give me pleasure! my heap of presents was really grand. arrayed about my cake, with its lighted candles, i found two new gowns, a hat which heda had purchased for me in prague,--and which, by the way, would be highly appreciated upon the head of a monkey in a circus,--several volumes of english literature sent me by miss o'donnel from italy, and, in a white silk sachet upon which mimi zett had embroidered a bird of paradise in the midst of a snow-scene (a symbol of my melancholy condition), a card, upon which was written, "a visit to some watering-place, by the way of vienna and paris." i uttered a shriek of delight and threw my arms around my uncle's neck. the three young girls from komaritz came over to zirkow to dine, in honour of the occasion; we drank one another's health in champagne, and in the afternoon we had coffee in the woods, which was very inconvenient but very delightful. then we consulted the cards as to our future, and heda lost her temper because the oracle declared that she would marry an apothecary. what nonsense it was! the cards prophesied to me that i should marry for love;--i! as if i should think of such a thing! but i was not in the least vexed, although i knew how false it was. towards eight o'clock the girls drove home, and i concluded the evening by taking my new bonnet to pieces and then scribbling here at my writing-table. i cannot make up my mind to go to bed. i am fairly tingling to my finger-tips with delightful anticipations. to think of seeing paris once more,--paris, where i was born, the very centre of the civilized world! oh, it is too charming! something extraordinary will happen during this trip,--i am sure of it. i shall meet some one who will liberate me from my solitude and set me upon the pedestal for which i long; an english peer, perhaps, or a russian prince, oh, it will of course be a russian prince--who spends most of his time in paris. i shall not mind his not being very young. elderly men are more easily managed.---- (at this point the major frowns. "i should not have thought it of her, i really should not have thought it of her. well, we shall see whether she is in earnest." and he goes on with his reading.) june , ----. i have a piece of news to put down. the frau von harfink who bought dobrotschau a while ago--the estate that adjoins zirkow, a fine property with a grand castle but poor soil--is no other than lato treurenberg's mother-in-law. she called upon us to-day. when krupitschka brought the cards of the baroness melanie von harfink and her daughter paula, aunt rosa denounced the visit as a presumption upon the part of the ladies. she had been engaged all day long in setting the house "to rights," preparatory to our departure, and had on a very old gown in which she does not often appear; wherefore she would fain have denied herself. but i was burning with curiosity to see lato's mother-in-law: so i remarked, "uncle paul and i will go and receive the ladies, while you dress." this made my aunt very angry. "it never would occur to me to dress for these wealthy _parvenues_. this gown is quite good enough for them." and she smoothed the faded folds of her skirt so that a neatly-darned spot was distinctly conspicuous. the ladies were immediately shown in; they were extremely courteous and amiable, but they found no favour in my aunt's eyes. there really was no objection to make to mamma von harfink, who is still a very handsome woman, except that her manner was rather affected. the daughter, however, was open to criticism of various kinds, and subsequently became the subject of a serious dispute between my aunt and uncle. my aunt called fräulein paula disagreeable, absolutely hideous, and vulgar; whereupon my uncle, slowly shaking his head, rejoined,---- "say what you please, she may not be agreeable, but she is very pretty." upon this my aunt grew angry, and called fräulein paula a "red-haired kitchen-maid." my uncle shrugged his shoulders, and observed, "nevertheless, there have been kitchen-maids who were not ugly." then my aunt declared, "i can see nothing pretty about such fat creatures; but, according to her mother's account, you are not alone in your admiration. madame harfink had hardly been here five minutes when she informed me that professor x----, of vienna, had declared that her daughter reminded him of titian's penitent magdalen in the borghese gallery in rome, and she asked me whether i was not struck with the resemblance." my uncle grinned--i could not see at what and said, "h'm! the magdalen, perhaps; but whether penitent or not----" and he pinched my cheek. the dispute continued for a while longer, and ended with my aunt's emphatic declaration that men always had the worst possible taste with regard to young girls. my uncle burst into a laugh at this, and replied, "true. i gave proof of it on the st of may, ." it was his marriage-day. of course my aunt laughed, and the quarrel ended. the subject was changed, and we discussed lato treurenberg's marriage, which had puzzled us all. my aunt declared that since she had seen the family treurenberg's choice appeared to her more incomprehensible than ever. my uncle shook his head sagely, and observed, "if selina treurenberg at all resembles her sister, it explains much to me, especially when i recall the poor fellow's peculiarities. it makes me more lenient towards him, and--i pity him from my heart." they evidently did not wish to say anything more upon the subject before me. june . this afternoon we start. i am in a fever of anticipation. how delightful! i seem to have come to the turning-point of my existence. something wonderful is surely going to happen. meanwhile, i take my leave of my little book,--i shall have no time to write in it while we are away. july . here we are back again in the old nest! nothing either wonderful or even extraordinary happened upon the journey; on the contrary, everything was quite commonplace. i did not meet the russian prince, but i have brought home with me a conviction of the beauty and delights of the world, and the certainty that, if fate would only grant me the opportunity, i could play a most brilliant part in it. but my destiny has nothing of the kind to offer. i am restless and discontented, and i have great trouble in concealing my mood from my uncle and aunt. i am likewise disgusted with my ingratitude. i know that the expenses of our trip weighed heavily upon my uncle. he has bought himself no new horses, although the old ones are lame in all four legs; and my aunt has given up her pilgrimage to bayreuth, that i might go to the baths. she expected so much for me from this trip, and now---- still, prosaic and commonplace as it all was, i will put it down here conscientiously in detail. various pleasant little circumstances may recur to me as i write which have escaped me in my general discontent that has tinged everything. our few days in vienna were the pleasantest part of the entire trip, little as i liked the city at first. we arrived at ten in the evening, rather exhausted by the heat, and of course we expected to see harry at the railroad-station, my uncle having advised him of our arrival. but in vain did we peer in every direction, or rather in vain did aunt rosamunda thus peer (for i did nothing of the kind); there was no harry to be seen. while my aunt loudly expressed her wonder at his non-appearance, i never uttered a word, but was secretly all the more vexed at what seemed to me harry's laziness and want of consideration. of course, i attributed his absence to the fact that a young man who passed his time in flying from one fête to another in the world (which i was not to know) could hardly be very anxious to meet a couple of relatives from the country. perhaps he had come to be just like heda, and i shrugged my shoulders indifferently at the thought. what could it possibly matter to me? meanwhile, my aunt had given our luggage-tickets to a porter and got with me into an open carriage, where we quietly and wearily awaited our trunks. around us the lights flickered in the warm, dim, night air, which was almost as close as an in-door atmosphere, and smelled most unpleasantly of dust, dried leaves, and all sorts of exhalations. on every hand crowded houses of indescribable clumsiness and ugliness; i was depressed by the mere eight of them, and suddenly experienced the most painful sensation of shrivelling up. the deafening noise and bustle were in harmony with the houses: i never had heard anything like it. everybody jostled everybody else, all were in a hurry, and no one paid the slightest regard to anybody. it seemed as if they were one and all bound for some great entertainment and feared to be too late. at the hotel the reason for harry's absence was explained. we found two beautiful bunches of roses in our rooms, and a note, as follows: "i am more sorry than i can tell, not to be able to welcome you at the station. i am, unfortunately, on duty at a garden-party at the archduke s----'s.... i shall report myself to you, however, at the earliest opportunity. "harry." i supped with a relish, and slept soundly. my aunt had breakfasted in our sitting-room and was reading the paper, when i had scarcely begun to dress. i was just about to brush my hair,--i have very long hair, and it is quite pretty, light brown with a dash of gold,--in fact, i was standing before the mirror in my white peignoir, with my hair hanging soft and curling all around me, very well pleased with my reflection in the glass, when suddenly i heard the jingling of spurs and sabre, and a voice which was familiar and yet unfamiliar. i trembled from head to foot. "zdena, hurry, and come!" called my aunt. "here is a visitor!" i knew well enough who it was, but, as if i did not know, i opened the door, showed myself for a moment in my white wrapper and long, loose hair,--only for a moment,--and then hastily retreated. "come just as you are. 'tis only harry; it is not as if it were a stranger. come!" called my aunt. but i was not to be persuaded. not for worlds would i have had harry suspect that--that--well, that i was in any great hurry to see him. i dressed my hair with the most scrupulous care. not before twenty minutes had passed did i go into the next room. how plainly i see it all before me now,--the room, half drawing-room, half dressing-room; a trunk in one corner, in another an old piano, the key of which we were obliged to procure from the kellner; in an arm-chair a bundle of shawls, over the back of a sofa our travelling-wraps, our well-polished boots in front of the porcelain stove, great patches of misty sunshine lying everywhere, the breakfast-table temptingly spread near the window, and there, opposite my aunt, his sabre between his knees, tall, slender, very brown, very handsome, an officer of hussars,--harry. i like him, and am a little afraid of him. he suddenly springs up and advances a step or two towards me. his eyes--the same eyes that had glanced at me as i appeared in my wrapper--open wide in amazement; his gaze is riveted upon my face. all my fear has gone; yes, i confess it to this paper,--i am possessed by an exultant consciousness of power. he is only my cousin, 'tis true, but he is the first man upon whom i have been able to prove my powers of conquest. i put my hands in his, so cordially extended, but when he stooped as if to kiss me, i shook my head, laughing, and said, "i am too old for that." he yielded without a word, only touching my hand respectfully with his lips and then releasing me; whereupon i went directly to the breakfast-table. but, as he still continued to gaze at me, i asked, easily,---- "what is it, harry? is my hair coming down?" he shook his head, and said, in some confusion, "not at all. i was only wondering what you had done with all your magnificent hair!" i made no reply, but applied myself to my breakfast. it was really delightful, our short stay in vienna. harry was with us all the while. he went about with us from morning till night; patiently dragged with us to shops, picture-galleries, and cathedrals, and to the dusty, sunny prater, where the vegetation along the drive seemed to have grown shabby. we drove together to schönbrunn, the huge, dreamy, imperial summer residence, and wandered about the leafy avenues there. we fed the swans; we fed the monkeys and the bears, while my aunt rested near by, baedeker in hand, upon any bench she could find. she rested a great deal, and grew more tired with every day of our stay in vienna, and with very good reason; she can hardly endure the pavement in walking, and she refuses, from fastidiousness, to take advantage of the tramway, and, from economy, to hire a carriage. the sunset has kindled flames in all the windows of the castle, and we are still wandering in the green avenues, talking of all sorts of things, music, and literature. harry's taste is classic; mine is somewhat revolutionary. i talk more than he; he listens. sometimes he throws in a word in the midst of my nonsense; at other times he laughs heartily at my paradoxes, and then again he suddenly looks askance at me and says nothing. then i become aware that he understands far more than i of the matter in hand, and i fall silent. the sun has set; the rosy reflection on the grass and at the foot of the old trees has faded; there is only a pale, gray gleam on the castle windows. all nature seems to sigh relieved. a cool mist rises from the basins of the fountains, like the caress of a water-nymph; the roses, petunias, and mignonette exhale delicious fragrance, which rises as incense to heaven; the lisp of the leaves and the plash of the fountain interpose a dreamy veil of sound, as it were, between us and some aggressive military music in the distance. the twilight falls; the nurses are all taking their charges home. here and there on the benches a soldier and a nursemaid are sitting together. it is too dark to see to read baedeker any longer. my aunt calls to us: "do come, children; the carriage has been waiting ever so long, and i am very hungry." and the time had seemed so short to me. my aunt is so easily fatigued, and her aversion to tramways is so insurmountable, that she stays at home half the time in the hotel, and i make many a little expedition with harry alone. then i take his arm. we stroll through the old part of the city, with its sculptured monuments, its beautiful gray palaces standing side by side with the commonest lodging-houses; about us people are thronging and pushing; we are in no hurry; we should like to have time stand still,--harry and i; we walk very slowly. i am so content, so filled with a sense of protection, when i am with him thus. it is delightful to cling to him in the crowd. it seems to me that i should like to spend my life in slowly wandering thus in the cool of the evening through the streets, where the lights are just beginning to be lighted, where a pair of large, kindly eyes rest upon my face, and the sound of distant military music is in my ears. the last evening before our departure arrived. we were sitting in our small drawing-room, and harry and i were drinking iced coffee. my aunt had left hers untouched; the fever of travelling was upon her; she wandered from one room to another, opening trunks, drawers, and wardrobes, and casting suspicious glances under the piano and the sofas, sure that something would be left behind. the kellner brought in two cards,--countess zriny and fräulein tschaky,--a cousin of uncle paul's, with her companion. we had called upon the countess the day before, and had rejoiced to find her not at home. my aunt now elevated her eyebrows, and murmured, plaintively, "it can't be helped!" then she hurriedly carried two bundles of shawls and a hand-bag into the next room, and the ladies were shown in. countess zriny is a very stout, awkward old maid, with the figure of a meal-sack and the face of a portly abbot. harry maintains that she has holy water instead of blood in her veins, and that she has for ten years lived exclusively upon eau de lourdes and count mattei's miraculous pills. it is odd that she should have grown so stout upon such a diet. there is nothing to say of fräulein tschaky. aunt rosamunda received the ladies with a majestic affability peculiarly her own, and presented me as "our child,--fritz's daughter!" the countess gave me her hand, a round, fat little hand that felt as if her swedish glove were stuffed with wadding, then put up her eyeglass and gazed at me, lifting her eyebrows the while. "all her father!" she murmured,--"especially her profile." then she dropped her eyeglass, sighed, "poor fritz! poor fritz!" seated herself on the sofa with my aunt, and began to whisper to her, looking steadily at me all the while. the sensitive irritability of my nature was at once aflame. if she had pitied my father only for being snatched away so early in his fair young life, for being torn so suddenly from those whom he loved! but this was not the case. she pitied him solely because he had married my mother. oh, i knew it perfectly well; and she was whispering about it to my aunt before me,--she could not even wait until i should be away. i could hear almost every word. my heart suddenly grew heavy,--so heavy with the old grief that i would fain forget, that i could hardly bear it. but even in the midst of my pain i observed that harry was aware of my suffering and shared it. of course my cousin zriny--for she is my cousin, after all--was otherwise extremely amiable to me. she turned from her mysterious conversation with aunt rosamunda, and addressed a couple of questions to me. she asked whether i liked country life, and when i replied, curtly, "i know no other," she laughed good-humouredly, just as some contented old monk might laugh,--a laugh that seemed to shake her fat sides and double chin, as she said, "_elle a de l'esprit, la petite; elle n'est pas du tout banale_." how she arrived at that conclusion from my brief reply, i am unable to say. after a quarter of an hour she rose, took both my hands in hers by way of farewell, put her head on one side, sighed, "poor fritz!" and then kissed me. when the door had closed behind her, my aunt betook herself to the next room to make ready for a projected evening walk. i was left alone with harry. as i could not restrain my tears, and did not know how else to conceal them, i turned my back to him and pretended to arrange my hair at the pier-glass, before which stood a vase filled with the la france roses that he had brought me the day before. it was a silly thing to do. he looked over my shoulder and saw in the mirror the tears on my cheeks, and then--he put his arm around my waist and whispered, "you poor little goose! you sensitive little thing! why should you grieve because a kindhearted, weak-minded old woman was silly?" then i could not help sobbing outright, crying, "ah, it is always the same,--i know it! i am not like the other girls in your world. people despise me, and my poor mother too." "but this is childish," he said, gravely,--"childish and foolish. no one despises you. and--don't scratch my eyes out, zdena--it is not your heart, merely, that is wounded at present, but your vanity, the vanity of an inexperienced little girl who knows nothing of the world or of the people in it. if you had knocked about in it somewhat, you would know how little it signifies if people in general wink and nod, and that the only thing really to care for is, to be understood and loved by those to whom we cling with affection." he said this more gently and kindly than i can write it. he suddenly seemed very far above me in his earnest kindness of heart and his sweet reasonableness. i was instantly possessed with a feeling akin to remorse and shame, to think how i had teased him and tyrannized over him all through those last few days. and i cannot tell how it happened, but he clasped me close in his arms and bent down and kissed me on the lips,--and i let him do it! ah, such a thrill passed through me! and i felt sheltered and cared for as i had not done since my mother's clasping arms had been about me. i was for the moment above all petty annoyances,--borne aloft by a power i could not withstand. it lasted but a moment, for we were startled by the silken rustle of my aunt's gown, and did he release me? did i leave him? i do not know; but when aunt rosamunda appeared i was adjusting a rose in my breast, and harry was--looking for his sabre!----. (when the major reached this point, he stamped on the floor with delight.) "aha, rosel, which of us was right?" he exclaimed aloud. he would have liked to summon his wife from where he could see her walking in the garden, to impart to her his glorious discovery. on reflection, however, he decided not to do so, chiefly because there was a good deal of manuscript still unread, and he was in a hurry to continue the perusal of what interested him so intensely.) ----i avoided being alone with harry all the rest of the evening, but the next morning at the railway-station, while my aunt was nervously counting over the pieces of luggage for the ninety-ninth time, i could not prevent his leaning towards me and saying, "zdena, we were so unfortunately interrupted last evening. you have not yet told me--that----" i felt myself grow scarlet. "wait for a while!" i murmured, turning my head away from him, but i think that perhaps--i pressed his hand---- i must have done so, for happier eyes than those which looked after our train as it sped away i have never seen. ah, how silly i had been! i carried with me for the rest of the journey a decided regret.---- (the major frowned darkly. "why, this looks as if she would like to withdraw her promise! but let me see, there really has no promise passed between them." he glanced hurriedly over the following leaves. "descriptions of travel--compositions," he muttered to himself. "paris--variations upon baedeker--the little goose begins to be tiresome----ah, here is something about her parents' grave--poor thing! and here----" he began to read again.) ----a few hours after our arrival we drove to the graveyard at montmartre, an ugly, gloomy graveyard, bordering directly upon a business-street, so that the noise and bustle of the city sound deafeningly where the dead are reposing. the paths are as straight as if drawn by a ruler, and upon the graves lie wreaths of straw flowers or stiff immortelles. these durable decorations seem to me heartless,--as if the poor dead were to be provided for once for all, since it might be tiresome to visit them often. my parents' grave lies a little apart from the broad centre path, under a knotty old juniper-tree. i heaped it with flowers, and amid the fresh blossoms i laid the roses, now faded, which harry gave me yesterday when we parted. i was enchanted with paris. my aunt was delighted with the shops. she spent all her time in them, and thought everything very reasonable. at the end of four days she had bought so many reasonable articles that she had to purchase a huge trunk in which to take them home, and she had scarcely any money left. she was convinced that she must have made some mistake in her accounts, and she worked over them half through an entire night, but with no consoling result. the upshot of it was that she wanted to go home immediately; but since the trip had been undertaken chiefly for my health and was to end in a visit to some sea-side resort, she wrote to my uncle, explaining the state of affairs--that is, of her finances--and asking for a subsidy. my uncle sent the subsidy, but requested us to leave paris as soon as possible, and to choose a modest seaside resort. the next day we departed from babylon. after inquiring everywhere, and studying the guidebook attentively, my aunt finally resolved to go to st. valery. the evening was cold and windy when we reached the little town and drew up in the omnibus before the hôtel de la plage. the season had not begun, and the hotel was not actually open, but it received us. as no rooms were taken, all were placed at our disposal, and we chose three in the first story, one for my aunt, one for me, and one for our trunks. the furniture, of crazy old mahogany, had evidently been bought of some dealer in second-band furniture in rouen, but the beds were extremely good, and the bed-linen, although "coarse as sacking," as uncle paul would have expressed it, was perfectly clean and white. from our windows we looked out upon the sea and upon the little wooden hut where the safety-boat was kept, and also upon the little town park, about a hundred square yards in extent; upon the casino, quite an imposing structure on the shore; upon the red pennons which, designating the bathing-place, made a brilliant show in the midst of the prevailing gray, and upon a host of whitewashed bath-houses waiting for the guests who had not yet arrived. how indeed could they arrive? one had need to have come from bohemia, not to go directly home, in such cold, damp weather as we had; but we wanted to get value from our expensive trip. the casino was no more open than the hotel, it was even in a decided _négligé_, but it was busily dressing. a swarm of painters and upholsterers were decorating it. the upholsterers hung the inside with crimson, the painters coloured the outside red and white. the proprietor, a broad-shouldered young man answering to the high-sounding name of raoul donval, daily superintended the work of the--artists. he always wore a white cap with a broad black visor, and a stick in the pocket of his short jacket, and plum-coloured knickerbockers; and i think he considered himself very elegant. they were draping and beautifying and painting our hotel too. everything was being painted instead of scrubbed,--the stairs, the doors, the floors; everywhere the dirt was hidden beneath the same dull-red colour. aunt rosa declared that they seemed to her to be daubing the entire house with blood. just at this time she was wont to make most ghastly comparisons, because, for lack of other literature, she was reading an historical romance in the _petit journal_. she was in a far more melancholy mood than i at st. valery. since it had to be, i made up my mind to it, consoling myself with the reflection that i was just nineteen, and that there was plenty of time for fate, if so minded, to shape my destiny brilliantly. unfortunately, my aunt had not this consolation, but, instead, the depressing consciousness of having given up bayreuth. it was hard. i was very sorry for her, and did all that i could to amuse her. i could always find something to laugh at in our visits to the empty casino and in our walks through the town, but instead of cheering her my merriment distressed her. she had seen in the french journal which she studied faithfully every day an account of a sensitive trombone-player at the famous yearly festival at neuilly who had broken his instrument over the head of an arrogant englishman who had allowed himself to make merry over some detail of the festival. therefore i could scarcely smile in the street without having my aunt twitch my sleeve and say,-- "for heaven's sake don't laugh at these frenchmen!--remember that trombone at neuilly." during the first fortnight i had the whole shore, with the bath-houses and bathing-men, entirely to myself. it was ghastly! the icy temperature of the water seemed to bite into my flesh, my teeth chattered, and the bather who held me by both my hands was as blue as his dress. our mutual isolation had the effect of establishing a friendship between the bather and myself. he had formerly been a sailor, and had but lately returned from tonquin; he told me much that was interesting about the war and the cholera. he was a good-looking fellow, with a fair complexion and a tanned face. after my bath i ran about on the shore until i got warm, and then we breakfasted. my aunt did not bathe. she counted the days like a prisoner. when the weather permitted, we made excursions into the surrounding country in a little wagon painted yellow, drawn by a shaggy donkey, which i drove myself. the donkey's name was jeanne d'arc,--which horrified my aunt,--and she had a young one six months old that ran after us as we drove along. for more than two weeks we were the sole inmates of the hôtel de la plage. the manager of the establishment--who was likewise the head of the kitchen--drove to the station every day to capture strangers, but never brought any back. i see him now,--short and enormously broad, with a triple or quadruple chin, sitting on the box beside the coachman, his hands on his thighs. he always wore sky-blue trousers, and a short coat buckled about him with a broad patent-leather belt. the chambermaid, who revered him, informed me that it was the dress of an english courier. one day he brought back to the host, who daily awaited the guests, two live passengers,--an old woman and a young man. the old woman was very poor, and took a garret room. she must have been beautiful formerly, and she looked very distinguished. she positively refused to write her name in the strangers' book. by chance we learned afterwards that she was a comtesse d'ivry, from versailles, who had had great misfortunes. she had a passion for sunsets; every afternoon she had an arm-chair carried out on the shore, and sat there, wrapped in a thick black cloak, with her feet on a hot-water bottle, to admire the majestic spectacle. when it rained, she still persisted in going, and sat beneath a large ragged umbrella. upon her return she usually sighed and told the host that the sunsets here were not nearly so fine as at trouville,--appearing to think that this was his fault. at last the weather brightened and it grew warm; the sun chased away the clouds, and allured a crowd of people to the lonely shore. and such people! i shudder to think of them. we could endure the solitude, but such society was unendurable. the next day i took my last bath. on our return journey, at cologne, an odd thing happened. it was early, and i was sleepy. i was waiting for breakfast in melancholy mood, and was contemplating a huge pile of elegant hand-luggage which a servant in a very correct dark suit was superintending, when two ladies, followed by a maid, made their appearance, one fair, the other dark, from the dressing-room, which had been locked in our faces. in honour of these two princesses we had been obliged to remain unwashed. ah, how fresh and neat and pretty they both looked! the dark one was by far the handsomer of the two, but she looked gloomy and discontented, spoke never a word, and after a hurried breakfast became absorbed in a newspaper. the fair one, on the contrary, a striking creature, with a very large hat and a profusion of passementerie on her travelling-cloak, talked a great deal and very loudly to a short, fat woman who was going with her little son to frankfort, and who addressed the blonde as "frau countess." the name of the short woman was frau kampe, and the name of the countess, which i shortly learned, shall be told in due time. the countess complained of the fatigue of travelling; frau kampe, in a sympathetic tone, declared that it was almost impossible to sleep in the railway-carriages at this time of year, they were so overcrowded. but the countess rejoined with a laugh,-- "we had as much room as we wanted all the way; my husband secures that by his fees. he is much too lavish, as i often tell him. since i have been travelling with him we have always had two railway-carriages, one for me and my maid, and the other for him and his cigars. it has been delightful." "even upon your wedding tour?" asked her handsome, dark companion, looking up from her reading. "ha, ha, ha! yes, even upon our wedding tour," said the other. "we were a very prosaic couple, entirely independent of each other,--quite an aristocratic match!" and she laughed again with much self-satisfaction. "where is the herr count?" asked frau kampe. "i should like to make his acquaintance." "oh, he is not often to be seen; he is smoking on the platform somewhere. i scarcely ever meet him; he never appears before the third bell has rung. a very aristocratic marriage, you see, frau kampe,--such a one as you read of." the countess's beautiful companion frowned, and the little kampe boy grinned from ear to ear,--i could not tell whether it was at the aristocratic marriage or at the successful solution of an arithmetical problem which he had just worked out on the paper cover of one of walter scott's novels. i must confess that i was curious to see the young husband who even upon his marriage journey had preferred the society of his cigars to that of his bride. my aunt had missed the interesting conversation between frau kampe and her young patroness; she had rushed out to see the cathedral in the morning mist. i had manifested so little desire to join her in this artistic but uncomfortable enterprise that she had dispensed with my society. she now came back glowing with enthusiasm, and filled to overflowing with all sorts of information as to gothic architecture. scarcely had she seated herself to drink the coffee which i poured out for her, when a tall young man, slightly stooping in his gait, and with a very attractive, delicately-chiselled face, entered. was he not----? well, whoever he was, he was the husband of the aristocratic marriage. he exchanged a few words with the blonde countess, and was about to leave the room, when his glance fell upon my aunt. "baroness, you here!--what a delight!" he exclaimed, approaching her hastily. "lato!" she almost screamed. she always talks a little loud away from home, which annoys me. it was, in fact, our old friend lato treurenberg. before she had been with him two minutes my aunt had forgotten all her prejudice against him since his marriage,--and, what was more, had evidently forgotten the marriage itself, for she whispered, leaning towards him with a sly twinkle of her eye and a nod in the direction of the ladies,-- "what noble acquaintances you have made!--from frankfort, or hamburg?" my heart was in my mouth. no one except aunt rosamunda could have made such a blunder. the words had hardly escaped her lips when she became aware of her mistake, and she was covered with confusion. lato flushed scarlet. at that moment the departure of our train was announced, and lato took a hurried leave of us. i saw him outside putting the ladies into a carriage, after which he himself got into another. we travelled second-class, and therefore had the pleasure of sharing a compartment with the man-servant and maid of the countess lato treurenberg. my aunt took it all philosophically, while i, i confess, had much ado to conceal my ungrateful and mean irritation. i succeeded, however; i do not think my aunt even guessed at my state of mind. she went to sleep; perhaps she dreamed of cologne cathedral. i--ah, i no longer dreamed; i had long since awakened from my dreams, and had rubbed my eyes and destroyed all my fine castles in the air. the trip from which i had promised myself so much was over, and what had been effected? nothing, save a more distinct appreciation of our straitened circumstances and an increase of my old gnawing discontent. i recalled the delightful beginning of our trip, the long, dreamy summer days in vienna, the evening at schönbrunn. again i saw about me the fragrant twilight, and heard, through the plash of fountains and the whispering of the linden leaves, the sound of distant military music. i saw harry--good heavens! how plainly i saw him, with his handsome mouth, his large, serious eyes! how he used to look at me! and i recalled how beautiful the world had seemed to me then, so beautiful that i thought i could desire nothing better than to wander thus through life, leaning upon his arm in the odorous evening air, with the echo of distant military music in my ear. then ambition rose up before me and swept away all these lovely visions, showing me another picture,--harry, borne down by cares, in narrow circumstances, his features sharpened by anxiety, with a pale, patient face, jesting bitterly, his uniform shabby, though carefully brushed. ah, and should i not love him ten times more then than now! he would always be the same noble, chivalric---- but i could not accept such a sacrifice from him. i could not; it would be unprincipled. specious phrases! what has principle to do with it? i do not choose to be poor--no, i will not be poor, and therefore i am glad that we were interrupted at the right moment in vienna. he cannot possibly imagine--ah, if he had imagined anything he would have written to me, and we have not had a line from him since we left him. he would have regretted it quite as much as i, if---- it never would occur to him to resign all his grandfather's wealth for the sake of my golden hair. young gentlemen are not given to such romantic folly nowadays; though, to be sure, he is not like the rest of them. the result of all my reflections was an intense hatred for my grandfather, who tyrannized over me thus instead of allowing affairs to take their natural, delightful course; and another hatred, somewhat less intense, for the brewery, which had absorbed half of uncle paul's property,--that is, much more than would have been necessary to assure me a happy future. when i saw from the railway the brew-house chimney above the tops of the old lindens, i shook my fist at it. my uncle was waiting for us at the station. he was so frankly rejoiced to have us back again that it cheered my heart. his eyes sparkled as he came to me after greeting my aunt. he gazed at me very earnestly, as if he expected to perceive some great and pleasant change in me, and then, putting his finger under my chin, turned my face from side to side. suddenly he released me. "you are even paler than you were before!" he exclaimed, turning away. he had expected the sea-bathing to work miracles. "do i not please you as i am, uncle dear?" i asked, putting my hand upon his arm. then he kissed me; but i could see plainly that his pleasure was dashed. now we have been at home four days, and i am writing my memoirs, because i am tired of having nothing to do. it does not rain to-day; the sun is burning hot,--ah, how it parches the august grass! the harvest was poor, the rye-straw is short, and the grains of wheat are small. and everything was so promising in may! my uncle spends a great deal of time over his accounts. august . something quite extraordinary has happened. we have a visitor, a cousin of aunt rosamunda's,--baron roderich wenkendorf. he is a very amiable old gentleman, about forty-five years old. he interests himself in everything that interests me,--even in carlyle's 'french revolution,' only he cannot bear it. moreover, he is a wagnerite; that is his only disagreeable characteristic. every day he plays duets with aunt rosamunda from the 'götterdämmerung,' which makes uncle paul and morl nervous. besides, he paints, of course only for pleasure, but very ambitiously. last year he exhibited one of his pictures in vienna--napoleon at st. helena--no, charles the fifth in the cloister. i remember, he cannot endure the corsican upstart. he declares that napoleon had frightful manners. we had a dispute about it. we often quarrel; but he entertains me, he pleases me, and so, perhaps---- august . it might be worth while to take it into consideration. for my sake he would take up his abode in bohemia. i do not dislike him, and my aunt says that marry whom you will you can never get used to him until after marriage. harry and i should always be just the same to each other; he would always be welcome as a brother in our home, of course. i cannot really see why people must marry because they love each other. chapter iii. an arrival. when the major reached this point in his niece's memoirs, he rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. "h'm!" he murmured; "why must people marry because they love each other? by jove! on the whole, it is well that i now have some idea of what is going on in that insane little head." after this wise the major quieted his scruples as to the unpardonable indiscretion he had committed. the reading of zdena's extraordinary production had so absorbed his attention that he had failed to hear the approach of some heavy vehicle which had drawn up before the castle, or the rhythmic beat of the hoofs of two riding-horses. now he was suddenly startled by a firm step to the accompaniment of a low jingling sound in the corridor outside his room-door, at which there came a knock. "come in!" he called out. a young officer of hussars in a blue undress uniform entered. "harry! is it you?" the major exclaimed, cordially. "let me have a look at you! what has put it into your head to drop down upon us so unexpectedly, like the _deus ex machinâ_ in the fifth act of a melodrama?" the young fellow blushed slightly. "i wanted to surprise you," he said, laughing, in some confusion. "and you will stay a while with us? how long is your leave?" "six weeks." "that's right. and you're glad to be at home once more?" said the major, smiling broadly, and rubbing his hands. he seemed to his nephew to be rather _distrait_, which he certainly was, for all the while he was thinking of matters of which no mention was made. "my uncle has either been taking a glass too much or he has drawn the first prize in a lottery," harry thought to himself as he said, aloud, "hedwig has just come over, and aunt melanie." "ah, the zriny: has she quartered herself upon you?" the major asked, with something of a drawl. "i escorted her here from vienna. aunt rosamunda deputed me to inform you of our relative's arrival, and to beg you to come immediately to the drawing-room." "h'm, h'm!--i'll go, i'll go," murmured the major, and he left the room apparently not very well pleased. in the corridor he suddenly turned to his nephew, who was following at his heels. "have you seen zdena yet?" he asked, with a merry twinkle of his eye. "n--o." "well, go find her." "where shall i look for her?" "in the garden, in the honeysuckle arbour. she is posing for her elderly adorer that he may paint her as zephyr, or flora, or something of the kind." "her elderly adorer? who is he?" harry asked, with a frown, his voice sounding hard and sharp. "a cousin of my wife's, baron wenkendorf is his name, an enormously rich old bachelor, and head over ears in love with our girl. he calls himself a painter, in spite of his wealth, and he has induced the child to stand for some picture for him. he makes love to her, i suppose, while she poses." "and she--what has she to say to his homage?" asked harry, feeling as if some one were choking him. "oh, she's tolerably condescending. she does not object to being made love to a little. he is an agreeable man in spite of his forty-six years, and it certainly would be an excellent match." as the major finished his sentence with an expression of countenance which harry could not understand, the paths of the two men separated. harry hurried down into the garden; the major walked along the corridor to the drawing-room door. "h'm! i have warmed him up," the major said to himself; "'twill do no harm if they quarrel a little, those two children: it will bring the little goose to her senses all the sooner. there is only _one_ healthy solution for the entire problem. you----!" he shook his forefinger at the empty air. "why must people marry because they love each other? only wait, you ultrasensible little goose; i will remind you of that one of these days." chapter iv. a quarrel. meanwhile, harry has rushed out into the garden. he is very restless, very warm, very much agitated. it never occurs to him that his uncle has been chaffing him a little; he cannot suspect that the major has any knowledge of his sentiments. "she cannot be so worthless!" he consoles himself by reflecting, while his eyes search for her in the distance. with this thought filling his mind, the young officer hurries on. he does not find her at first; she is not in the honeysuckle arbour. the sultriness of the august afternoon weighs upon the dusty vegetation of the late summer. the leaves of the trees and shrubs droop wearily; the varied luxuriance of bloom is past; the first crop of roses has faded, the next has not yet arrived at maturity. only a few red verbenas and zinnias gleam forth from the dull green monotony. at a turn of the path harry suddenly starts, and pauses,--he has found what he is looking for. directly in the centre of the hawthorn-bordered garden-path there is an easel weighted with an enormous canvas, at which, working away diligently, stands a gentleman, of whom harry can see nothing but a slightly round-shouldered back, the fluttering ribbons of a scotch cap set on the back of a head covered with short gray hair, and a gigantic palette projecting beyond the left elbow; while at some distance from the easel, clearly defined against the green background, stands a tall, graceful, maidenly figure draped in a loose, fantastic robe, her arms full of wild poppies, a large hat wreathed with vine-leaves on her small head, her golden-brown hair loose upon her shoulders,--zdena! her eyes meet harry's: she flushes crimson,--the poppies slip from her arms and fall to the ground. "you here!" she murmurs, confusedly, staring at him. she can find no more kindly words of welcome, and her face expresses terror rather than joyful surprise, as a far less sharp-sighted lover than harry leskjewitsch could not fail to observe. he makes no reply to her words, but says, bluntly, pointing to the artist at the easel, "be kind enough to introduce me." with a choking sensation in her throat, and trembling lips, zdena stammers the names of her two adorers, the old one and the young one. the gentlemen bow,--harry with angry formality, baron wenkendorf with formal amiability. "aunt rosa tells me to ask you to come to the drawing-room," harry says, dryly. "have any guests arrived?" asks zdena. "only my sister and aunt zriny." "oh, then i must dress myself immediately!" she exclaims, and before harry is aware of it she has slipped past him and into the house. baron wenkendorf pushes his scotch cap a little farther back from his forehead, which gives his face a particularly amazed expression, and gazes with the same condescending benevolence, first at the vanishing maidenly figure, and then at the picture on the easel; after which he begins to put up his painting-materials. harry assists him to do so, but leaves the making of polite remarks entirely to the "elderly gentleman." he is not in the mood for anything of the kind. he sees everything at present as through dark, crimson glass. although zdena's distress arises from a very different cause from her cousin's, it is none the less serious. "oh, heavens!" she thinks to herself, as she hurries to her room to arrange her dishevelled hair, "why must he come before i have an answer ready? he surely will not insist upon an immediate decision! it would be terrible! anything but a forced decision; that is the worst thing in the world." such, however, does not seem to be the opinion of her hot-blooded cousin. when, a quarter of an hour afterwards, she goes out into the corridor and towards the drawing-room door, she observes a dark figure standing in the embrasure of a window. the figure turns towards her, then approaches her. "harry! ah!" she exclaims, with a start; "what are you doing here? are you waiting for anybody?" "yes," he replies, with some harshness, "for you!" "ah!" and, without looking at him, she hurries on to the door of the drawing-room. "there is no one there," he informs her; "they have all gone to the summer-house in the garden. wenkendorf proposes to read aloud the libretto of 'parzifal.'" he pauses. "and did you stay here to tell me this?" she stammers, trying to pass him, on her way to the steps leading into the garden. "it was very kind of you; you seem destined to play the part of sheep-dog to-day, to drive the company together." they go into the garden, and the buzz of voices reaches their ears from the summer-house. they have turned into a shady path, above which arches the foliage of the shrubs on either side. suddenly harry pauses, and seizing his cousin's slender hands in both his own, he gazes steadily and angrily into her eyes, saying, in a suppressed voice,-- "zdena, how can you hurt me so?" her youthful blood pulsates almost as fiercely as does his own; now, when the moment for an explanation has come, and can no longer be avoided, now, one kind word from him, and all the barriers which with the help of pure reason she has erected to shield her from the insidious sweetness of her dreams will crumble to dust. but harry does not speak this word: he is far too agitated to speak it. instead of touching her heart, his harshness irritates her pride. throwing back her head, she darts an angry glance at him from her large eyes. "i do not know what you mean." "i mean that you are letting that old coxcomb make love to you," he murmurs, angrily. she lifts her eyebrows, and replies, calmly, "yes!" the young officer continues to gaze searchingly into her face. "you are thoughtless," he says, slowly, with emphasis. "in your eyes wenkendorf is an old man; but he does not think himself so old as you think him, and--and----" suddenly, his forced composure giving way, he bursts forth: "at the least it is ridiculous! it is silly to behave as you are doing!" in the entire dictionary harry could have found no word with which to describe zdena's conduct that would have irritated her more than "silly." if he had called her unprincipled, devilish, odious, cruel, she could have forgiven him; but "silly!"--that word she never can forgive; it makes her heart burn and smart as salt irritates an open wound. "i should like to know by what right you call me thus to account!" she exclaims, indignantly. "by what right?" he repeats, beside himself. "can you ask that?" she taps the gravel of the pathway defiantly with her foot and is obstinately silent. "what did you mean by your treatment of me in vienna? what did you mean by all your loving looks and kind words? what did you mean when you--on the evening before you left----" zdena's face is crimson, her cheeks and ears burn with mortification. "we grew up together like brother and sister," she murmurs. "i have always considered you as a brother----" "ah, indeed! a brother!" his pulses throb wildly; his anger well-nigh makes him forget himself. suddenly an ugly idea occurs to him,--an odious suspicion. "perhaps you were not aware there in vienna that by a marriage with you i should resign my brilliant prospects?" they confront each other, stiff, unbending, both angry, each more ready to offend than to conciliate. around them the august heat broods over the garden; the bushes, the flowers, the shrubbery, all cast black shadows upon the smooth-shaven, yellowing grass, where here and there cracks in the soil are visible. everything is quiet, but in the distance can be heard the gardener filling his large watering-can at the pump, and the jolting along the road outside the garden of the heavy harvest-wagons laden with grain. "did you know it then?" he asks again, more harshly, more contemptuously. of course she knew it, quite as well as she knows it now; but what use is there in her telling him so, when he asks her about it in such a tone? instead of replying, she frowns haughtily and shrugs her shoulders. for one moment more he stands gazing into her face; then, with a bitter laugh, he turns from her and strides towards the summer-house. "harry!" she calls after him, in a trembling undertone, but his blood is coursing too hotly in his veins--he does not hear her. although he is one of the softest-hearted of men, he is none the less one of the most quick-tempered and obstinate. we leave it to the reader to judge whether the major would have been very well satisfied with this result of his cunning diplomacy. whilst the two young people have been thus occupied in playing at hide-and-seek with their emotions and sentiments, the little summer-house, where the reading was to be held, has been the scene of a lively dispute. countess zriny and baron wenkendorf have made mutual confession of their sentiment with regard to wagner. the countess is a vehement opponent of the prophet of bayreuth, in the first place because in her youth she was a pupil of cicimara's and consequently cannot endure the 'screaming called singing' introduced by wagner; secondly, because wagner's operas always give her headache; and thirdly, because she has noticed that his operas are sure to exercise an immoral influence upon those who hear them. wenkendorf, on the contrary, considers wagner a great moral reformer, the first genius of the century in germany,--bismarck, of course, excepted. as he talks he holds in his hand the thick volume of wagner's collected librettos, with his forefinger on the title-page of 'parzifal,' impatiently awaiting the moment when he can begin to read aloud. hitherto, since the countess and wenkendorf are both well-bred people, their lively dispute has been conducted in rather a humorous fashion, but finally wenkendorf suggests a most reprehensible and, in the eyes of the countess, unpardonable idea. "whatever may be thought of wagner's work, it cannot be denied," he says, with an oratorical flourish of his hand, "that he is at the head of the greatest musical revolution ever known; that he has, so to speak, delivered music from conventional catholicism, overladen as it is with all sorts of silly old-world superstition. he is, if i may so express myself, the luther of music." at the word 'luther,' uttered in raised tones, the bigoted countess nearly faints away. in her eyes, luther is an apostate monk who married a nun, a monster whom she detests. "oh, if you so compare him, wagner is indeed condemned!" she exclaims, flushing with indignation, and trembling through all her mass of flesh. at this moment zdena and her cousin enter. countess zriny feels it her duty to embrace the girl patronizingly. hedwig says something to her about her new gown. "did you get it in paris?" she asks. "i saw one like it in vienna last summer,--but it is very pretty. you carry yourself much better than you used to, zdena,--really a great improvement!--a great improvement!" at last all are seated. baron wenkendorf clears his throat, and opens the portly volume. "now we can begin," frau rosamunda observes. the baron begins. he reads himself into a great degree of enthusiasm, and is just pronouncing the words,-- "then after pain's drear night comes morning's glorious light; before me gleams brightly the sacred wave, the blessed daylight beams, from night of pain to save gawain----" when frau rosamunda, who has been rummaging in her work-basket, rises. "what is the matter, rosamunda?" the baron asks, impatiently. he is the only one who addresses her by her beautiful baptismal name unmutilated. "excuse me, my dear roderich, but i cannot find my thimble. zdena, be so kind as to go and get me my thimble." while zdena has gone to look for it, frau von leskjewitsch turns to her cousin, who is rather irritated by this interruption, and exclaims, "very interesting!--oh, extremely interesting! do you not think so?" turning for confirmation of her opinion to the other listeners. but the other listeners do not respond. countess zriny, who, with her hands as usual encased in swedish gloves, is knitting with thick, wooden needles something brown for the poor, only drops her double chin majestically upon her breast, and harry--usually quite unsurpassable in the well-bred art of being bored with elegance and decorum--is tugging angrily at his moustache. zdena shortly returns with the missing thimble. the reading begins afresh, and goes quite smoothly for a time; wenkendorf is satisfied with his audience. "oh, wonderful and sacred one!" he is reading, with profound emotion. everyone is listening eagerly. hark! a scratching noise, growing louder each minute, and finally ending in a pounding at the summer-house door, arouses the little company from its rapt attention. a smile lights up frau rosamunda's serene features: "it is morl. let him in, harry." morl, the hostess's black poodle, is admitted, goes round the circle, laying his paw confidingly upon the knee of each member of it in turn, is petted and caressed by his mistress, and finally, after he has vainly tried to oust the countess zriny from the corner of the sofa which he considers his own special property, establishes himself, with a low growl, in the other corner of that piece of furniture. wenkendorf, meanwhile, drums the march from 'tannhäuser' softly on the cover of his thick book and frowns disapprovingly. harry observes his annoyance with satisfaction, watching him the while attentively, and reflecting on the excellent match in view of which zdena has forgotten her fleeting attachment for the playmate of her childhood. "a contemptible creature!" he says to himself: "any man is good enough to afford her amusement. who would have thought it? fool that i was! i'm well out of it,--yes, really well out of it." and whilst he thus seriously attempts to persuade himself that, under the circumstances, nothing could be more advantageous for him than this severance of all ties with his beautiful, fickle cousin, his heart burns like fire in his breast. he has never before felt anything like this torture. his glance wanders across to where zdena sits sewing, with bent head and feverish intentness, upon a piece of english embroidery. the reading is interrupted again,--this time by krupitschka, who wants more napkins for afternoon tea. wenkendorf has to be assured with great emphasis that they all think the text of 'parzifal' extremely interesting before he can be induced to open the book again. suddenly the gravel outside crunches beneath approaching footsteps. the major's voice is heard, speaking in courteous tones, and then another, strange voice, deep and guttural. the summer-house door is opened. "a surprise, rosel," the major explains. "baroness paula!" the first to go forward and welcome the young lady cordially is harry. chapter v. baroness paula. the unexpected entrance of the famous beauty produces two important results,--the final cessation of the reading of 'parzifal,' and a temporary reconciliation between wenkendorf and countess zriny. whilst frau rosamunda receives her guest, not without a degree of formal reserve, the two aforesaid worthy and inquisitive individuals retire to a corner to consult together as to where these harfinks come from, to whom they are related, the age of their patent of nobility, and where they got their money. since neither knows much about the harfinks, their curiosity is ungratified. meanwhile, baroness paula, lounging in a garden-chair beside the majestic hostess, chatters in a lively fashion upon every conceivable topic, as much at her ease as if she had been a daily guest at zirkow for years. her full voice is rather loud, her fluent vocabulary astounding. she wears a green russia linen gown with turkish embroidery on the skirt and a venetian necklace around her throat, with an artistically-wrought clasp in front of her closely-fitting waist. the effect of her cosmopolitan toilet is considerably enhanced by a very peaked paris bonnet--all feathers--and a pair of english driving-gloves. she has come in her pony-carriage, which she drives herself. not taking into account her dazzling toilet, paula is certainly a pretty person,--very fully developed and well grown, with perhaps too short a waist and arms a trifle too stout. her features are regular, but her face is too large, and its tints of red and white are not sufficiently mingled; her lips are too full, the dimples in her cheeks are too deep when she smiles. her hair is uncommonly beautiful,--golden, with a shimmer of titian red. her manner corresponds with her exterior. there is not a trace of maidenly reserve about her. her self-satisfaction is impregnable. she talks freely of things of which young girls do not usually talk, and knows things which young girls do not usually know. she is clever and well educated,--left school with honours and listened to all possible university lectures afterwards. she scatters about latin quotations like an old professor, and talks about everything,--the new battle panorama in vienna, the latest greenroom scandal in pesth, the most recent scientific hypothesis, and the last interesting english divorce case. one cannot help feeling that she has brought a certain life into the dead-and-alive little company which had failed to be enlivened by the reading of 'parzifal.' "_quelle type!_" wenkendorf remarks to countess zriny. "_Épouvantable!_" she whispers. "_Épouvantable!_" he responds, staring meanwhile at the brilliant apparition. "her figure is not bad, though," he adds. "not bad?" the countess repeats, indignantly. "why, she has the figure of a country bar-maid; involuntarily one fancies her in short petticoats, with her arms full of beer-mugs." the baron shakes his head, as if reflecting that there is nothing so very unattractive in the image of the young lady in the costume of a bar-maid; at the same time, however, he declares with emphasis that these harfinks seem to be odious _canaille_, which, although it is perhaps his conviction, does not hinder him from admiring paula. all the gentlemen present admire her, and all three, the major, the baron, and harry, are soon grouped about her, while the ladies at the other end of the room converse,--that is, make disparaging remarks with regard to the baroness paula. harry, of the three men, is most pressing in his attentions, which amount almost to devotion. whatever he may whisper to her she listens to with the unblushing ease which makes life so smooth for her. sometimes she represses him slightly, and anon provokes his homage. the ladies hope for a while, but in vain, that she will go soon. she is pleased to take a cup of afternoon tea, after which all return to the house, where at harry's request she makes a display of her musical acquirements. first she plays, with extreme force and much use of the pedals, upon the venerable old piano, unused to such treatment, even from the major, the ride of the valkyrias, after which she sings a couple of soprano airs from 'tannhäuser.' harry admires her splendid method; countess zriny privately stops her ears with a little cotton-wool. hour after hour passes, and krupitschka finally announces supper. baroness paula begins hurriedly to put on her driving-gloves, but when frau leskjewitsch, with rather forced courtesy, invites her to stay to supper, she replies, "with the greatest pleasure." and now the supper is over. harry's seat, meanwhile, has been next to paula's, and he has continued to pay her extravagant compliments, which he ought not to have done; and, moreover, without eating a morsel, he has drunk glass after glass of the good old bordeaux of which the major is so proud. all this has produced a change in him. the gnawing pain at his heart is lulled to rest; his love for zdena and his quarrel with her seem relegated to the far past. for the present, here is this luxuriant beauty, with her flow of talk and her titian hair. without being intoxicated, the wine has mounted to his brain; his limbs are a little heavy; he feels a pleasant languor steal over him; everything looks rather more vague and delightful than usual; instead of a severe, exacting beauty beside him, here is this wonderful creature, with her dazzling complexion and her green, naiad-like eyes. countess zriny and hedwig have already ordered their old-fashioned coach and have started for home. harry's horses--his own and his groom's--are waiting before the entrance. it is ten o'clock,--time for bed at zirkow. frau rosamunda rubs her eyes; zdena stands, unheeded and weary, in one of the window embrasures in the hall, looking out through the antique, twisted grating upon the brilliant august moonlight. paula is still conversing with the gentlemen; she proposes a method for exterminating the phylloxera, and has just formulated a scheme for the improvement of the austrian foundling asylums. they are waiting for her pony-carriage to appear, but it does not come. at last, the gardener's boy, who is occasionally promoted to a footman's place, comes, quite out of breath, to inform his mistress that baroness paula's groom is in the village inn, so drunk that he cannot walk across the floor, and threatening to fight any one who interferes with him. "very unpleasant intelligence," says paula, without losing an atom of her equanimity. "there is nothing left to do, then, but to drive home without him. i do not need him; he sits behind me, and is really only a conventional encumbrance, nothing more. good-night, baroness! thanks, for the charming afternoon. goodnight! good-night! now that the ice is broken, i trust we shall be good neighbours." so saying, she goes out of the open hall door. frau rosamunda seems to have no objections to her driving without an escort to dobrotschau, which is scarcely three-quarters of an hour's drive from zirkow, and even the major apparently considers this broad-shouldered and vigorous young woman to be eminently fitted to make her way in the world alone. but harry interposes. "you don't mean to drive home alone?" he exclaims. "well, i admire your courage,--as i admire every thing else about you," he adds, _sotto voce_, and with a blight inclination of his head towards her,--"but i cannot permit it. you might meet some drunken labourer and be exposed to annoyance. do me the honour to accept me as your escort,--that is, allow me to take the place of your useless groom." "by no means!" she exclaims. "i never could forgive myself for giving you so much trouble. i assure you, i am perfectly able to take care of myself." "on certain occasions even the most capable and clever of women lose their capacity to judge," harry declares. "be advised this time!" he implores her, as earnestly as though he were praying his soul out of purgatory. "my groom will accompany us. he must, of course, take my horse to dobrotschau. have no scruples." as if it would ever have occurred to baroness paula to have "scruples"! oh, harry! "if you really would be so kind then, baron harry," she murmurs, tenderly. "thank god, she has gone at last!" sighs frau rosamunda, as she hears the light wagon rolling away into the night. "at last!" chapter vi. entrapped. before harry seated himself beside the robust paula in the pony-carriage, a slender little hand was held out to him, and a pale little face, half sad, half pouting, looked longingly up at him. he saw neither the hand nor the face. oh, the pity of it! the night is sultry and silent. the full moon shines in a cloudless, dark-blue sky. not a breath of air is stirring; the leaves of the tall poplars, casting coal-black shadows on the white, dusty highway, are motionless. the harvest has been partly gathered in; sometimes the moonlight illumines the bare fields with a yellowish lustre; in other fields the sheaves are stacked in pointed heaps, and now and then a field of rye is passed, a plain of glimmering, silvery green, still uncut. the bearded stalks stand motionless with bowed heads, as if overtaken by sleep. from the distance comes the monotonous rustle of the mower's scythe; there is work going on even thus far into the night. the heavy slumberous air has an effect upon harry; his breath comes slowly, his veins tingle. ten minutes have passed, and he has not opened his lips. paula harfink looks at him now and then with a keen glance. she is twenty-seven years old, and, although her life has been that of a perfectly virtuous woman of her class, existence no longer holds any secrets for her. endowed by nature with intense curiosity, which has been gradually exalted into a thirst for knowledge, she has read everything that is worth reading in native and foreign modern literature, scientific and otherwise, and she is consequently thoroughly conversant with the world in which she lives. harry's exaggerated homage during the afternoon has suggested the idea that he contemplates a marriage with her. that other than purely sentimental reasons have weight with him in this respect she thinks highly probable, but there is nothing offensive to her in the thought. she knows that, in spite of her beauty, she must buy a husband; why then should she not buy a husband whom she likes? nothing could happen more opportunely than this drive in the moonlight. she is quite sure of bringing the affair to a satisfactory conclusion. click-clack--the ponies' hoofs beat the dusty road in monotonous rhythm, tossing light silvery clouds of dust into the moonlight. harry is still silent, when--a plump hand is laid upon his arm. "please," paula murmurs, half laughing, and handing him the reins, "drive for me. the ponies are so fresh to-night, they almost pull my hands off." harry bows, the ponies shake their manes, snort proudly, and increase their speed, seeming to feel a sympathetic hand upon the reins. "and i fancied i could drive!" paula says, with a laugh; "it is a positive pleasure to see you handle the reins." "but such toys as these ponies!" he remarks, with a rather impatient protest. "can you drive four-in-hand?" she asks, bluntly. "yes, and five-in-hand, or six-in-hand, for that matter," he replies. "of course! how stupid of me to ask! did you not drive five-in-hand on the prater, three years ago on the first of may? three chestnuts and two bays, if i remember rightly." "yes; you certainly have an admirable memory!" harry murmurs, flattered. "not for everything," she declares, eagerly; "i never can remember certain things. for instance, i never can remember the unmarried name of peter the great's mother." "she was a narischkin, i believe," says harry, who learned the fact on one occasion when some foolish narischkin was boasting of his imperial connections. heaven knows what induces him to make a display to paula of his historical knowledge. he usually suppresses everything in that direction which he owes to his good memory, as a learned marriageable girl will hold her tongue for fear of scaring away admirers. harry thinks it beneath his dignity to play the cultured officer. he leaves that to the infantry. "you distance me in every direction," paula says; "but as a whip you inspire me with the most respect. i could not take my eyes off your turn-out that day in the prater. how docile and yet how spirited those five creatures were under your guidance! and you sat there holding the reins with as much indifference apparently as if they had been your shake at a state ceremony. i cannot understand how you contrive to keep the reins of a five-in-hand disentangled." "i find it much more difficult to understand how a man can play the guitar," harry says, dryly. paula laughs, though with a sense of vexation at being still so far from the attainment of her purpose. she takes off her tall hat, tosses it carelessly into the seat behind them, and slowly pulls the gloves off her white hands. "that is refreshing!" she says, and then is silent. for the nonce it is her wisest course. harry's eyes seek her face, then take in her entire figure, and then again rest upon her face. the moon is shining with a hard, bluish brilliancy, almost like that of an electric light, and it brings into wondrous relief the girl's mature beauty. its intense brightness shimmers about her golden hair; the red and white of her complexion blend in a dim, warm pallor. her white hands rest in her lap as she leans back among the cushions of the phaeton. click-clack--click-clack--the hoofs of the horses fly over the smooth, hard road; duller and less regular grows the beat of the horses' hoofs behind the wagon,--of harry's steed and that of his groom. the fields of grain have vanished. they are driving now through a village,--a silent village, where every one is asleep. the dark window-panes glisten in the moonlight; the shadows of the pointed roofs form a black zigzag on the road, dividing it into two parts,--one dark, one light. only behind one window shines a candle; perhaps a mother is watching there beside a sick or dying child. the candle-light, with its yellow gleam, contrasts strangely with the bluish moonlight. a dog bays behind a gate; otherwise, all is quiet. and now the village lies behind them,--a chaos of black roofs, whitewashed walls, and dark lindens. to the right and left are pasture-lands, where countless wild chamomile-flowers glitter white and ghostly among the grass, in the midst of which rises a rude wooden crucifix. the pungent fragrance of the chamomile-flowers mingles with the odour of the dust of the road. then the pastures vanish, with the chamomile-flowers and the oppressive silence. a forest extends on either side of the road,--a forest which is never silent, where even in so quiet a night as this the topmost boughs murmur dreamily. it sounds almost like the dull plaint of human souls, imprisoned in these ancient pines,--the souls of men who aspired too high in life, seeking the way to the stars which gleamed so kindly when admired from afar, but which fled like glittering will-o'-the-wisps from those who would fain approach them. the moonlight seems to drip down the boles of the monarchs of the wood like molten silver, to lie here and there upon the underbrush around their feet. a strong odour rises from the warm woodland earth,--the odour of dead leaves, mingling deliciously with all other forest fragrance. "how wonderful!" paula whispers. "yes, it is beautiful," says harry; and again his eyes seek the face of his companion. "and do you know what is still more beautiful?" she murmurs. "to feel protected, safe,--to know that some one else will think for you." the road grows rough; the wheels jolt over the stones; the little carriage sways from side to side. paula clutches harry's arm. her waving hair brushes his cheek; it thrills him. she starts back from him. "pardon me," she murmurs, as if mortified. "pardon me, baroness," he says. "i had no idea that the forest-road was so rough; it is the shortest. did you not come by it to zirkow?" "no." "you ought to have warned me." "i had forgotten it." again the wheels creak; tire ponies snort their dissatisfaction, the little vehicle sways, and paula trembles. "i am afraid it will be rougher yet," says harry. "how stupid of me not to have thought of it! there!--the mud is really deep. who could have supposed it in this drought? we are near the poacher's ditch: i can perceive the swampy odour in the air." "the poacher's ditch?" paula repeats, in a low tone. "is that the uncanny place where the will-o'-the-wisps dance?" "are you afraid?" "yes." "so brave an amazon--afraid?" "yes, for the first time in my life. i do not know what has come over me," she whispers. "a poor compliment for me!" he says, then pauses and looks at her. she turns away her head as if she were blushing. the tall pines crowd closer and closer on either side of the road; the strip of moon-lit sky grows narrower overhead; the damp odour of decaying vegetation poisons the air. the gloom is intense, the moonbeams cannot find their way hither. in particular the road and the lower portion of the tree-trunks are veiled in deep shade. a tiny blue flame flickers up from the ground, dances among the trees,--then another--and another---- "ah!" paula screams and clings like a maniac to harry. he puts his arm round her, and soothes her, half laughing the while. did his lips actually seek hers? a sudden, lingering kiss bewilders him, like the intoxicating perfume of a flower. it lasts but a second, and he has released her. "forgive me!" he cries, distressed, confused. does she really not understand him? at all events she only shakes her head at his words, and murmurs, "forgive?--what is there to forgive? it came so unexpectedly. i had no idea that you loved me, harry." his cheeks burn. the forest has vanished, the road is smooth; click-clack--the ponies' hoofs fly through the dust, and behind comes the irregular thud of eight other hoofs along the road. harry looks round, and sees the groom, whom he had forgotten. the dim woodland twilight has been left far behind; the moon floods the landscape with silvery splendour. all is silent around; not a leaf stirs; only the faint, dying murmur of the forest is audible for a few moments. ten minutes later harry draws up before the dobrotschau castle. "you will come to see mamma to-morrow?" paula whispers, pressing her lover's hand. but harry feels as if he could annihilate her, himself, and the whole world. chapter vii. an invitation. "my dear baroness,-- "will you and all your family give us the pleasure of your company at dinner on sunday next, at six o'clock? we wish to surprise you with the revelation of a secret that will, we think, interest you. "i hear you have a friend with you. it would, of course, be an added pleasure if baron wenkendorf would join us on sunday. "hoping for a favourable reply, i am "sincerely yours, "emilie harfink." this note the baroness leskjewitsch takes from an envelope smelling of violets and adorned with an edelweiss, and reads aloud in a depressed tone to her husband, her niece, and her cousin, all of whom listen with a more or less contemptuous expression of countenance. not that the note is in itself any more awkward and pretentious than other notes of invitation,--no; but the fact that it comes from baroness harfink is quite sufficient to make the zirkow circle suspicious and ironical. three days have passed since the afternoon when harry and zdena quarrelled, and zdena has had time thoroughly to repent her experiment. the little company is assembled at the breakfast-table in a small summer-house whence there is a view of a tiny fountain leaping about a yard into the air from an oval basin. frau rosamunda thinks the view of this fountain refreshing; the major despises the plaything, calls this breakfast-arbour the "wash-house," or, when he means to be particularly disagreeable, "wash-basin hall," assuming the attitude, as he so designates it, of a kangaroo,--his elbows pressed to his sides, the palms of his hands turned outwards,--and availing himself of his most elegant german accent, which is unfortunately rather unnatural. "surprise us? what surprise can the baroness harfink prepare for us in which we shall take any interest?" frau rosamunda says, musingly, laying the note down beside her plate. "oh, leave me out! she knows that you are prone to curiosity, and she is doing what she can to attract you to her house," the major declares. "the 'surprise' is the bit of cheese in the dobrotschau mouse-trap,--that is all. it may be a new service of old china, or some japanese rug with golden monsters and chimeras sprawling about on it." "no; there is a tone of exultation about the note which indicates something far grander," says frau rosamunda, thoughtfully, buttering a piece of bread. "i rather think there is a new son-in-law to the fore." "h'm! fräulein paula's betrothal would certainly be a matter of special importance to us," the major says, contemptuously. "perhaps it might make harry ill. he made violent love to her the other day!" and the old cuirassier glances at zdena. she is sipping a cup of tea, however, and her face cannot be seen. "i thought perhaps," frau rosamunda observes, "that harry might----" "no, rosa. your genius is really too great," the major interrupts her, "if you can fancy for a moment that harry meant anything serious by his attentions to that village bar-maid." zdena has put down her teacup; her delicate nostrils quiver disdainfully, her charming mouth expresses decided scorn. how could harry suppose----? nonsense! "well, stranger things have come to pass," observes frau rosamunda, sagely. "do not forget that lato treurenberg has married into the harfink family." "oh, he--he was in debt--h'm!--at least his father was in debt," the major explains. "that is entirely different. but a man like harry would never risk his colossal inheritance from his uncle for the sake of paula harfink. if it were for some one else, he might do so; but that red-cheeked dromedary--ridiculous!" "i really do not understand you. you seemed perfectly devoted to her the other day," rejoins frau rosamunda. "you all languished at her feet,--even you too, roderich." baron wenkendorf looks up from a pile of letters and papers which he has been sorting. "what is the subject under discussion?" he asks. dressed in the extreme of fashion, in a light, summer suit, a coloured shirt with a very high collar, a thin, dark-blue cravat with polka-dots, and the inevitable scotch cap, with fluttering ribbons at the back of the neck, he would seem much more at home, so far as his exterior is concerned, on the shore at trouville, or in a magnificent park of ancient oaks with a feudal castle in the background, than amidst the modest zirkow surroundings. he suspects this himself, and, in order not to produce a crushing effect where he is, he is always trying to display the liveliest interest in all the petty details of life at zirkow. "what is the subject under discussion?" he asks, with an amiable smile. "oh, the harfink." "still?" says wenkendorf, lifting his eyebrows ironically. "the young lady's ears must burn. she seems to me to have been tolerably well discussed during the last three days." "i merely observed that you were all fire and flame for her while she was here," frau rosamunda persists, "and that consequently i do not understand why you now criticise her so severely." "the impression produced upon men by that kind of woman is always more dazzling than when it is lasting," says the major. "h'm!--she certainly is a very beautiful person, but--h'm!--not a lady," remarks wenkendorf; and his clear, full voice expresses the annoyance which it is sure to do whenever conversation touches upon the mushroom growth of modern _parvenues_. "who are these harfinks, after all?" "people who have made their own way to the front," growls the major. "how?" "by good luck, industry, and assurance," replies the major. "old harfink used to go regularly to his work every morning, with his pickaxe on his shoulder; he slowly made his way upward, working in the iron-mines about here; then he married a wealthy baker's daughter, and gradually absorbed all the business of the district. he was very popular. i can remember the time when every one called him 'peter.' next he was addressed as 'sir,' and it came to be the fashion to offer him your hand, but before giving you his he used to wipe it on his coat-tail. he was comical, but a very honest fellow, a plain man who never tried to move out of his proper sphere. i think we never grudged him his wealth, because it suited him so ill, and because he did not know what to do with it." and the major reflectively pours a little rum into his third cup of tea. "i do not object to that kind of _parvenu_," says wenkendorf. "the type is an original one. but there is nothing to my mind more ridiculous than the goldfish spawned in a muddy pond suddenly fancying themselves unable to swim in anything save eau de cologne. h'm, h'm! and that plain, honest fellow was, you tell me, the father of the lovely paula?" "god forbid!" exclaims the major, bursting into a laugh at the mere thought. "you have a tiresome way of beginning far back in every story you tell, paul," frau rosamunda complains. "you begin all your pedigrees with adam and eve." "and you have a detestable habit of interrupting me," her husband rejoins, angrily. "if you had not interrupted me i should have finished long ago." "oh, yes, we all know that. but first you would have given us a description of old harfink's boots!" frau rosamunda persists. "they really were very remarkable boots," the major declares, solemnly. "they always looked as if, instead of feet, they had a peck of onions inside them." "i told you so. now comes the description of his cap," sighs frau rosamunda. "and the lovely paula's origin retreats still further into obscurity," wenkendorf says, with well-bred resignation. "she is old harfink's great-grand-daughter," says zdena, joining for the first time in the conversation. "old harfink had two sons," continues the major, who hates to have the end of his stories told prematurely; "two sons who developed social ambition, and both married cultivated wives,--wives who looked down upon them, and with whom they could not agree. if i do not mistake, there was a sister, too. tell me, rosel, was there not a sister who married an italian?" "i do not know," replies frau rosamunda. "the intricacies of the harfink genealogy never inspired me with the faintest interest." the major bites his lip. "one thing more," says wenkendorf. "how have you managed to avoid an acquaintance with the harfinks for so long, if the family has belonged to the country here for several generations?" "harfink number two never lived here," the major explains. "and they owned the iron-mines, but no estate. only last year the widow harfink bought dobrotschau,--gallery of ancestral portraits, old suits of armour, and all. the mines have been sold to a stock company." "not a very pleasing neighbourhood, i should say," observes wenkendorf. "'surprise you with the revelation of a secret,'" frau rosamunda reads, thoughtfully, in a low tone from the note beside her plate. and then all rise from table. zdena, who has been silent during breakfast, twitches her uncle's sleeve, and, without looking at him, says,-- "uncle dear, can i have the carriage?" the major eyes her askance: "what do you want of the carriage?" "i should like to drive over to komaritz; hedwig will think it strange that i have not been there for so long." "h'm! don't you think hedwig might do without you for a little while longer?" says the major, who is in a teasing humour. "oh, let her drive over," frau rosamunda interposes. "i promised to send the housekeeper there a basket of reine-claudes for preserving, and zdena can take them with her. and, zdena, you might stop at dobrotschau; i will leave it to your diplomatic skill to worm out the grand secret for us. i protest against assisting on sunday at its solemn revelation." "then shall i refuse the invitation for you?" "yes; tell them that we expect guests ourselves on sunday. and invite the komaritz people to come and dine, that it may be true," the major calls after the girl. she nods with a smile, and trips into the castle. it is easy to see that her heart is light. "queer little coquette!" thinks the major, adding to himself, "but she's a charming creature, for all that." chapter viii. the secret. an hour later zdena, a huge red silk sunshade held over her handsome head, is driving rapidly towards dobrotschau. she intends to make peace with her cousin. the exaggerated attentions which he paid to paula vexed her for the moment, but now she remembers them with only a smile of contempt. "poor harry!" she murmurs, in a superior, patronizing way. "poor harry! he is a thoroughly good fellow, and so devoted to me!" the carriage rolls swiftly along the smooth road, upon which the last traces of a recent shower are fast fading beneath the august heat. the sky is blue and cloudless. the sun is rising higher; the stubble-fields to the right and left lie basking in its light; the shadows of the trees grow shorter and blacker, and the dark masses of the distant forests stand out in strong contrast with the sunny fields. avoiding the rough forest road, the coachman takes the longer course along the highway. an hour and a quarter passes before zdena drives through an arched gate-way, surmounted by a crest carved in the stone, into a picturesque court-yard, where between two very ancient lindens stands a saint john of nepomuk, whose cross has fallen out of his marble arms, and at whose feet an antique fountain, plashing dreamily, tells of long-gone times,--times that possess no interest for the present inmates of the castle. zdena does not waste a glance upon the picturesque beauty of her surroundings. two riding-horses, very much heated, and led up and down the old-fashioned court-yard, at once engage her attention. are those not harry's horses? what is harry doing here? a slight sensation of anxiety assails her. then she smiles at her nonsensical suspicions, and is glad that she shall thus meet harry sooner than she had hoped. a footman in a plain and tasteful livery hurries forward to open her carriage door; the ladies are at home. zdena trips up the steps to the spacious, airy hall, where, among antique, heavy-carved furniture, a couple of full suits of armour are set up, sword in gauntlet, like a spellbound bit of the middle ages, on either side of a tall clock, upon whose brass face the effigy of a grinning death--his scythe over his shoulder--celebrates his eternal, monotonous triumph. on the walls hang various portraits, dim with age, of the ancestors of the late possessor, some clad in armour, some with full-bottomed wigs, and others again wearing powdered queues; with ladies in patch and powder, narrow-breasted gowns, and huge stiff ruffs. "if these worthies could suddenly come to life, how amazed they would be!" thinks zdena. she has no more time, however, for profound reflections; for from one of the high oaken doors, opening out of the hall, comes harry. they both start at this unexpected encounter; he grows deadly pale, she flushes crimson. but she regains her self-possession sooner than he can collect himself, and while he, unable to utter a word, turns his head aside, she approaches him, and, laying her hand gently upon his arm, murmurs, in a voice sweet as honey, "harry!" he turns and looks at her. how charming she is! with the arch condescension of a princess certain of victory, she laughs in his face and whispers,-- "are you not beginning to be sorry that you said such hateful things to me the other day?" he has grown paler still; his eyes alone seem blazing in his head. for a while he leaves her question unanswered, devouring her lovely, laughing face with his gaze; then, suddenly seizing her almost roughly by both wrists, he exclaims,-- "and are you not beginning to be sorry that you gave me cause to do so?" at this question, imprudent as it is, considering the circumstances, zdena hangs her golden head, and whispers, very softly, "yes." it is cold and gloomy in the hall; the two suits of armour cast long dark-gray shadows upon the black-and-white-tiled floor; two huge bluebottle flies are buzzing on the frame of an old portrait, and a large moth with transparent wings and a velvet body is bumping its head against the ceiling, whether for amusement or in despair it is impossible to say. zdena trembles all over; she knows that she has said something conclusive, something that she cannot recall. she is conscious of having performed a difficult task, and she expects her reward. something very sweet, something most delicious, is at hand. he must clasp her in his arms, as on that evening in vienna. ah, it is useless to try to deceive herself,--she cannot live without him. but he stands as if turned to stone, ashy pale, with a look of horror. a door opens. paula harfink enters the hall, tall, portly, handsome after her fashion, in a flowered pompadour gown, evidently equipped for a walk, wearing a pair of buckskin gloves and a garden-hat trimmed with red poppies and yellow gauze. "ah! have you been waiting for me up-stairs, harry?" she asks; then, perceiving zdena, she adds, "a visitor!--a welcome visitor!" to zdena's amazement and terror, she finds herself tenderly embraced by paula, who, looking archly from one to the other of the cousins, asks, "shall we wait until sunday for the grand surprise, harry? let your cousin guess. come, baroness zdena, what is the news at dobrotschau?" for one moment zdena feels as if a dagger were plunged into her heart and turned around in the wound; then she recovers her composure and smiles, a little contemptuously, perhaps even haughtily, but naturally and with grace. "oh, it is not very difficult to guess," she says. "what is the news? why, a betrothal. you have my best wishes, baroness; and you too, harry,--i wish you every happiness!" chapter ix. an encounter. no one can bear pain with such heroic equanimity as can a woman when her pride or her sense of dignity is aroused. full twenty minutes have elapsed since the light has been darkened in zdena's sky, her thought of the future embittered, and every joy blotted out of her existence. during these twenty minutes she has talked and laughed; has walked in the park with paula and harry; has pointed out to the betrothed couple the comically human physiognomy of a large pansy in a flower-bed; has looked on while paula, plucking a marguerite, proceeds, with an arch look at harry, to consult that old-fashioned oracle, picking off the petals one by one, with, "he loves me, he loves me not." yes, when urged to partake of some refreshment, she has even delicately pared and cut up with a silver knife a large peach, although she could not swallow a mouthful of it. how could she, when she felt as if an iron hand were throttling her! and now she is in the carriage again, driving towards home. as she drove off she had a last glimpse of paula and harry standing side by side in the picturesque court-yard before the castle, beside the fountain, that vies with the lindens in murmuring its old tales,--tales that no longer interest any one. they stood there together,--paula waving her hand and calling parting words after the visitor; harry stiff and mute, lifting his cap. then paula put her hand upon his arm to go back into the castle with him,--him, her lover, her property! and zdena is alone at last. the pain in her heart is becoming torture. her breath comes short and quick. at the same time she has the restless, impatient sensation which is experienced by all who are unaccustomed to painful emotion, before they can bring themselves to believe in the new and terrible trouble in which they find themselves,--a sensation of being called upon to shake off some burden unjustly imposed. but the burden can neither be shifted nor shaken off. her consciousness is the burden, the burden of which she cannot be rid except with life itself. life,--it has often seemed to her too short; and, in spite of all her transitory girlish discontent, she has sometimes railed at fate for according to mankind so few years in which to enjoy this lovely, sunny, laughing world. but now her brief earthly future stretches out endlessly before her,--an eternity in which joy is dead and everything black and gloomy. "good god! will this torture last forever?" she asks herself. no, it is not possible that such pain can last long: she will forget it, she must! it seems to her that she can at least be rid of some of it if she can only weep her fill in solitude. yes, she must cry it out before she goes back to zirkow, before she meets again the keen, kindly eyes that would fain pry into her very soul. meanwhile, she has told the coachman to drive to komaritz. the carriage rolls through the long village. the air tastes of straw and hay; the rhythmic beat of the thrashers' flails resounds from the peasants' small barns. zdena stops her ears; she cannot bear the noise,--the noise and the garish, cruel light. at last the village lies behind her. the sound of flails is still heard in the distance; to zdena they seem to be beating the summer to death with clubs. the carriage drives on, drives towards the forest. on the edge of the wood stands a red-and-white signpost, the two indexes of which point in opposite directions through the depths of the leafy thicket: one pathway is tolerably smooth, and leads to komaritz; the other, starting from the same point, is rough, and leads to zirkow. she calls to the coachman. he stops the horses. "drive on to komaritz and leave the plums there," she orders him, "and i will meanwhile take the short path and walk home." so saying, she descends from the vehicle. he sees her walk off quickly and with energy; sees her tall, graceful figure gradually diminish in the perspective of the zirkow woodland path. for a while he gazes after her, surprised, and then he obeys her directions. if krupitschka had been upon the box he would have opposed his young mistress's order as surely as he would have disobeyed it obstinately. he would have said, "the baroness does not understand that so young a lady ought not to go alone through the forest--the herr baron would be very angry with me if i allowed it, and i will not allow it." but schmidt is a new coachman. he does as he is bidden, making no objection. zdena plunges into the wood, penetrates deeper and deeper into the thicket, aimlessly, heedlessly, except that she longs to find a spot where she can hide her despair from human eyes. she does not wish to see the heavens, nor the sun, nor the buzzing insects and wanton butterflies on the edge of the forest. at last the shade is deep enough for her. the dark foliage shuts out the light; scarcely a hand's-breadth of blue sky can be seen among the branches overhead. she throws herself on the ground and sobs. after a while she raises her head, sits up, and stares into space. "how is it possible? how could it have happened?" she thinks. "i cannot understand. from waywardness? from anger because i was a little silly? oh, god! oh, god! yes, i take pleasure in luxury, in fine clothes, in the world, in attention. i really thought for the moment that these were what i liked best,--but i was wrong. how little should i care for those things, without him! oh, god! oh, god! how could he find it in his heart to do it!" she finally exclaims, while her tears flow afresh down her flushed cheeks. suddenly she hears a low crackling in the underbrush. she starts and looks up. before her stands an elderly man of medium height, with a carefully-shaven, sharp-cut face, and a reddish-gray peruke. his tall stove-pipe hat is worn far back on his head, and his odd-looking costume is made up of a long green coat, the tails of which he carries under his left arm, a pair of wide, baggy, nankeen trousers, a long vest, with buttons much too large, and a pair of clumsy peasant shoes. the most remarkable thing about him is the sharp, suspicious expression of his round, projecting eyes. "what do you want of me?" stammers zdena, rising, not without secret terror. "i should like to know what you are crying for. perhaps because you have quarrelled with your cousin henry," he says, with a sneer. he addresses her familiarly: who can he be? evidently some one of unsound mind; probably old studnecka from x----, a former brewer, who writes poems, and who sometimes thinks himself the prophet elisha, under which illusion he will stop people in the road and preach to them. this must be he. she has heard that so long as his fancies are humoured he is perfectly gentle and harmless, but that if irritated by contradiction he has attacks of maniacal fury, and has been known to lay violent hands upon those who thus provoke him. before she finds the courage to answer him, he comes a step nearer to her, and repeats his question with a scornful smile which discloses a double row of faultless teeth. "how do you know that i have a cousin?" asks zdena, still more alarmed, and recoiling a step or two. "oh, i know everything, just as the gypsies do." "of course this is the prophet," the girl thinks, trembling. she longs to run away, but tells herself that the prudent course will be to try to keep him in good humour until she has regained the path out of this thicket, where she has cut herself off from all human aid. "do you know, then, who i am?" she asks, trying to smile. "oh, yes," replies this strange prophet, nodding his head. "i have long known you, although you do not know me. you are the foolish daughter of a foolish father." "how should he have any knowledge of me or of my family?" she reflects. the explanation is at hand. she remembers distinctly that the prophet studnecka was one of the eccentric crowd that baron franz leskjewitsch was wont to assemble about him for his amusement during the three or four weeks each year when the old man made the country around unsafe by his stay here. "you know my grandfather too, then?" she continues. "yes, a little," the old man muttered. "have you any message to send him? i will take it to him for you." "i have nothing to say to him!--i do not know him!" she replies. her eyes flash angrily, and she holds her head erect. "h'm i he does not choose to know you," the old man remarks, looking at her still more keenly. "the unwillingness is mutual. i have not the least desire to know anything of him," she says, with emphasis. "ah!--indeed!" he says, with a lowering glance from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. "shall i tell him so, from you?" "if you choose!" she replies. suddenly an idea strikes her; she observes him in her turn more keenly than hitherto, his face, his figure, his hands, tanned and neglected, but slender and shapely, with almond-shaped nails. there is something familiar in his features. is he really the brewer studnecka, the fool? and if no fool, who can it be that ventures thus to address her? something thrills her entire frame. a portrait recurs to her memory,--a portrait of the elder leskjewitsch, which, since the family embroilment, has hung in the lumber-room at zirkow. there is not a doubt that this crazy old creature is her grandfather. he sees that she has recognized him. her bearing has suddenly become haughty and repellent. she adjusts her large straw hat, which has been hanging at the back of her neck. "then i am to tell him from you that you do not wish to have anything to do with him?" the old man asks again. "yes." her voice is hard and dull. "and besides," he asks, "have you nothing else to say to him?" he looks at her as if to read her soul. she returns his look with eyes in whose brown depths the tears so lately shed are still glistening. she knows that she is putting the knife to her own throat, but what matters it? the gathered bitterness of years overflows her heart and rises to her lips. "and besides,"--she speaks slowly and provokingly,--"besides, i should like to tell him that i consider his conduct cold-hearted, petty, and childish; that after he has tormented to death two people, my father and my mother, he might, in his old age, attempt by love and kindness to make some amends for his wickedness, instead of going on weaving fresh misery out of his wretched hatred and obstinacy, and--that never whilst i live will i make one advance towards him!" she bows slightly, turns, and leaves him. he looks after her graceful figure as it slowly makes its way among the underbrush and is finally lost to sight. "a splendid creature! what a carriage! what a figure! and what a bewitching face! no wonder she has turned the brain of that silly lad at komaritz. he knows what's what. the child shows race," he mutters; "she's a genuine leskjewitsch. all fritz.--poor fritz!" the old man passes his hand across his forehead, and then gazes after her once more. is that her blue dress glimmering among the trees? no, it is a bit of sky. she has vanished. zdena manages to slip up to her own room unobserved when she reaches zirkow. she makes her first appearance at table, her hair charmingly arranged, dressed as carefully as usual, talkative, gay. the most acute observer would hardly suspect that a few hours previously she had all but cried her eyes out. "and did you bring us the piece of news from dobrotschau?" asks frau rosamunda during the soup, which zdena leaves untasted. "oh, yes. and most extraordinary it is," she replies. "paula harfink is betrothed." "to whom?" "to harry," says zdena, without the quiver of an eyelash, calmly breaking her bread in two as she speaks. "to harry? impossible!" shouts the major. "not at all," zdena declares, with a smile. "i saw him with her. she already calls him by his first name." "i do not understand the world nowadays," growls the old soldier, adding, under his breath, "that d--d driving about in the moonlight!" frau von leskjewitsch and her cousin wenkendorf content themselves during the remainder of the meal with discussing the annoying consequences for the family from such a connection, partaking, meanwhile, very comfortably of the excellent dinner. the major glances continually at his niece. it troubles him to see her smile so perpetually. is it possible that she is not taking the matter more seriously to heart? after dinner, when frau von leskjewitsch has carried her cousin off to the greenhouse to show him her now gloxinias, the major chances to go into the drawing-room, which he supposes empty. it is not so. in the embrasure of a window stands a figure, motionless as a statue,--quite unaware of the approach of any one. the major's heart suffers a sharp pang at sight of that lovely, tender profile, the features drawn and pinched with suppressed anguish. he would like to go up to his darling,--to take her in his arms. but he does not dare to do so. how can one bestow caresses upon a creature sore and crushed in every limb? he leaves the room on tiptoe, as one leaves the room of an invalid who must not be disturbed. "god have mercy on the poor child!" he murmurs. chapter x. a garrison town. as was formerly remarked at the sale of the effects of mademoiselle pauline c----, "very little body-linen and very many diamonds," so it may be said of the population of x----: very few inhabitants, but very many hussars. the town consists of a barracks and a casino; the post-office, church, and school-house, as well as all the big and little houses, new and tasteless, or old and ruinous, are merely a secondary affair. the ugly square barracks, painted red, is situated upon what is called "the ring," a spacious, uneven square, unpaved but trodden hard, and, besides, covered with dust, straw, remains of bundles of hay, and all kinds of dirt pertaining to a stable. opposite the barracks is the casino, also called "_hostinee u bylé ruze_," or "the white rose inn." the barracks stands alone, haughtily exclusive. adjoining the casino and the post-office, however, are various ugly or half-ruinous structures, and opposite the post-office there is a line of unedifying building, describing a spacious circle,--low huts, two-storied houses, houses with mansard roofs, houses painted yellow, light green, or light pink, with a saint in a blue niche over the front door, and houses with creaking weathercocks on the roof, all half ruinous, but clinging affectionately to one another, like drunken recruits bent upon mutual support. it is noon. from the open windows of the most pretentious of these houses come the notes of a waltz, with a loud sound of shuffling and scraping, alternating with screaming and laughter. the story goes that the wife of the steward of the casino, frau albina schwanzara, former _prima ballerina_ at troppau, is teaching the cancan behind those same windows to one of the celebrities of the little town, the wife of a wealthy tallow-chandler, and that the lady in question, for the entertainment of the corps of officers now stationed at x----, is to dance the aforesaid beautiful dance at the next "sociable," dressed as a chimney-sweeper. "fast at any price!" is the device of the celebrity. the lively music is the only animate circumstance in "the ring;" the sultry august heat has stricken dead everything else. the kellner at the door of the casino, the sentinel at the gate of the barracks, are nodding where they stand. in a corner of the square is the wagon of a troupe of strolling players,--a green-painted house on wheels,--to which is harnessed a one-eyed steed with very long legs and a tail like a rat's. the prima donna of the troupe, a slovenly woman in shabby dancing-slippers, is squatting on a bundle of hay, flirting with a cavalry sergeant. a lank youth with long, straight, fair hair is thrashing with his suspenders a pig tied at the back of the wagon, while he holds up his trousers over his stomach with his left hand. several other children of thespis lie stretched out snoring, among various drums and ropes, in the dust. all the people who happen to be in the square stare at them. the universal interest is shortly diverted, however, by the arrival of two equipages and a luggage-wagon, all three driving down a side street to rein up before the post-office. in the first of the two vehicles, a large convenient landau, two ladies are seated with a young man opposite them. the second carriage is occupied by a valet and two maids. they have come from the nearest railway-station, and have merely stopped at the post-office for any letters and papers that may be awaiting them. while the servant is procuring these within the building, the young man alights from the landau and enters into conversation with the postmaster, eagerly inquiring what regiment is at present in garrison at x----. the curiosity of an increasing public becomes almost morbid. all crowd around the post-office. the young actress has lost her admirer,--the sergeant has rushed up to the young man. "oh, herr lieutenant!" he calls out, eagerly; then, ashamed of his want of due respect, he straightens himself to the correct attitude and salutes with his hand at his cap. two officers, each with a billiard-cue in his hand, come hastily out of the casino, followed by a third,--harry leskjewitsch. the stranger receives the first two with due courtesy; harry he scans eagerly. "you here, harry!" he exclaims, going up to him with outstretched hands. the lady on the right in the landau lowers the red bilk parasol with which she has hitherto shielded her face from public curiosity, and takes out her eye-glass; the other leans forward a little. both ladies are in faultless travelling-dress. the one on the right is a beauty in her way, fair, with a good colour, a full figure, and regular features, although they may be a trifle sharp. her companion is beautiful, too, but after an entirely different style,--a decided brunette, with a pale face and large eyes which, once gazed into, hold the gazer fast, as by the attraction one feels to solve a riddle. "treurenberg!" harry exclaims, grasping the stranger's hands in both his own. "i thought you were in vienna," treurenberg replies. "i cannot tell you how glad i am to see you! when did we meet last?" "at your marriage," says harry. "true! it seems an eternity since then." treurenberg sighs. "only fancy, i had to shoot my 'old tom' last winter!" at this moment a little cavalcade passes across the square to reach the barracks,--an amazon in a tight, very short riding-dress, followed and accompanied by several gentlemen. treurenberg's attention is attracted by the horse-woman, who, although much powdered, rather faded, and with a feverish glow in her large, dark eyes, shows traces of very great beauty. "is not that lori trauenstein?" lato asks his new-found friend. "yes,--now countess wodin, wife of the colonel of the regiment of hussars in garrison here." "an old flame of mine," lato murmurs. "strange! i scarcely recognized her. this is the first time i have seen her since----" he laughs lightly--"since she gave me my walking-ticket! is wodin the same as ever?" "how could he be anything else!" "and is she very fast?" "very," harry assents. the ladies in the landau have both stretched their necks to look after the amazon. but while the face of the blonde expresses merely critical curiosity, in her companion's dark eyes there is sad, even horrified, surprise. the amazon and her train disappear beneath the arched gate-way of the barracks. "lato!" the portly blonde calls to treurenberg from the landau. he does not hear her. "do you remember my 'old tom'?" he asks his friend, returning to his favourite theme. "i should think so. a chestnut,--a magnificent creature!" "magnificent! a friend,--an actual friend. that fat rhoden--a cousin of my wife's--broke his leg in riding him at a hunt. but, to speak of something pleasanter, how are they all at komaritz? your cousin must be very pretty by this time?" and treurenberg looks askance at his friend. "very," harry replies, and his manner suddenly grows cold and constrained. "but allow me to speak to your wife," he adds. "by the way, who is the young lady beside her?" "h'm! a relative,--a cousin of my wife's." "present me, i pray," says harry. he then pays his respects to the countess treurenberg and to her companion, whose name he now learns is olga dangeri. the countess offers him her finger-tips with a gracious smile. olga dangeri, nodding slightly, raises her dark, mysterious eyes, looks him full in the face for a moment, and then turns away indifferent. the servant comes out of the post-office with a great bundle of letters, which the countess receives from him, and with two or three packages, which he hands over to the maids. "what are you waiting for, lato? get in," the countess says. "drive on. i shall stay here with leskjewitsch for a while," treurenberg replies. "mamma is waiting breakfast for us." "i shall breakfast in the casino. my respects to your mother." "as you please." the young countess bows to harry stiffly, with a discontented air, the horses start, a cloud of dust rises, and the landau rolls away. with his eyes half closed, harry looks after the heavy brown carriage-horses. "lato, that off horse is spavined." "for heaven's sake don't notice it! my mother-in-law bought the pair privately to surprise me. she paid five thousand guilders for them." "h'm! who persuaded her to buy them?" "pistasch kamenz. i do not grudge him his bargain," murmurs lato, adding, with a shake of the head, "'tis odd, dogs and horses are the only things in which we have the advantage over the financiers." with which he takes his friend's arm and crosses the square to the casino. chapter xi. an old friend. they are sitting in the farthest corner of the smoky dining-hall of the casino, harry and his friend, by a window that looks out upon a little yard. harry is smoking a cigar, and sits astride of a chair; lato contrives to sprawl over three chairs, and smokes cigarettes, using about five matches to each cigarette. two glasses, a siphon, and a bottle of cognac stand upon a rickety table close by. the room is low, the ceiling is almost black, and the atmosphere suggests old cheese and stale cigar-smoke. between the frames of their imperial majesties a fat spider squats in a large gray web. at a table not far from the two friends a cadet, too thin for his uniform, is writing a letter, while a lieutenant opposite him is occupied in cutting the initials of his latest flame, with his english penknife, on the green-painted table. before a bohemian glass mirror in a glass frame stands another lieutenant, with a thick beard and a bald pate, which last he is endeavouring artistically to conceal by brushing over it the long thick hair at the back of his neck. his name is spreil; he has lately been transferred to the hussars from the infantry, and he is the butt for every poor jest in the regiment. "i cannot tell you how glad i am to see you," treurenberg repeats to his friend. as he speaks, his cigarette goes out; he scrapes his twenty-fourth match in the last quarter of an hour, and breaks off its head. "the same old lack of fire!" harry says, by way of a jest, handing him his lighted cigar. "yes, the same old lack of fire!" treurenberg repeats. lack of fire! how often he has been reproached with it as a boy! lack of fire; that means everything for which fire stands,--energy, steadfastness, manly force of will. there is no lack of passion, on the other hand; of dangerous inflammable material there is too much in his nature; but with him passion paralyzes effort instead of spurring to action. one need only look at him as he half reclines there, smiling dreamily to himself, scarcely moving his lips, to know him for what he is, indolent, impressionable, yet proud and morbidly refined withal; a thoroughly passive and very sensitive man. he is half a head taller than harry, but carries himself so badly that he looks shorter; his face, framed in light brown hair and a soft pointed beard, is sallow; his large gray eyes are veiled beneath thick lids which he rarely opens wide. his hands are especially peculiar, long, slender, soft, incapable of a quick movement; hands formed to caress, but not to fight,--hardly even to clasp firmly. it is said that the colonel of the regiment of uhlans, in which lato served before his marriage to selina harfink, once declared of him, "treurenberg ought to have been a woman, and then, married to a good husband, something might perhaps have been made of him." this criticism, which ought to have been uttered by a woman rather than by a logical, conventional man, went the round of treurenberg's comrades. "the same old lack of fire," lato repeats, smiling to himself. he has the mouth and the smile of a woman. harry knows the smile well, but it has changed since the last time he saw it. it used to be indolent, now it is sad. "have you any children?" harry asks, after a while. treurenberg shivers. "i had a boy, i lost him when he was fifteen months old," he says, in a low, strained tone. "my poor fellow! what did he die of?" harry asks, sympathetically. "of croup. it was over in one night,--and he was so fresh and healthy a child! my god! when i think of the plump little arms he used to stretch out to me from his little bed every morning," lato goes on, hoarsely, "and then, as i said, in a few hours--gone! the physician did all that he could for the poor little fellow,--in vain; nothing did any good. i knew from the first that there was no hope. how the poor little chap threw himself about in his bed! i sometimes dream that i hear him gasping for breath, and he clung to me as if i could help him!" treurenberg's voice breaks; he passes his hand over his eyes. "he was very little; he could hardly say 'papa' distinctly, but it goes terribly near one's heart when one has nothing else in the world,--i--i mean, no other children," he corrects the involuntary confession. "well, all days have not yet ended in evening," harry says, kindly, and then pauses suddenly, feeling--he cannot tell why--that he has made a mistake. meanwhile, the lieutenant at the table has finished his initials, and has, moreover, embellished them with the rather crude device of a heart. he rises and saunters aimlessly about the large, low room, apparently seeking some subject for chaff, for boyish play. he kills a couple of flies, performs gymnastic exercises upon two chairs, and finally approaches the cadet, who, ensconced in a corner, behind a table, is scribbling away diligently. "whom are you writing to?" he asks, sitting astride of a chair just opposite the lad. the cadet is silent. "to your sweetheart?" the cadet is still silent. "i seem to have guessed rightly," says the lieutenant, adding, "but tell me, does your present flame--here the sun called wodin--tolerate a rival sun?" "i am writing to my mother," the cadet says, angrily. at the mention of the name of wodin he flushes to the roots of his hair. "indeed!--how touching!" the lieutenant goes on. "what are you writing to her? are you asking her for money? or are you soothing her anxiety with an account of the solid character of your principles? do show me your letter." the cadet spreads his arms over the sheet before him, thereby blotting the well-formed characters that cover it. "i tell you what, stein----!" he bursts forth at his tormentor, his voice quivering with anger. meanwhile, lato turns towards him. "toni!" he exclaims, recognizing a relative in the irate young fellow,--"toni flammingen!--can it be? the last time i saw you, you were in your public-school uniform. you've grown since then, my boy." stein turns away from this touching family scene, and, taking his place behind lieutenant spreil, who is still occupied in dressing his hair, observes, in a tone of great gravity,-- "don't you think, spreil, that you could make part of your thick beard useful in decorating that bald head of yours? comb it up each side and confine it in place with a little sticking-plaster. it might do." spreil turns upon him in a fury. "it might do for me to send you a challenge!" he thunders. "by all means: a little extra amusement would be welcome just now," stein retorts, carelessly. spreil bows, and leaves the room with majesty. "for heaven's sake, stein, what are you about?" harry, who has been observing the scene, asks the idle lieutenant. "i have made a vow to rid our regiment of the fellow,--to chaff him out of it," stein replies, with the sublime composure which results from the certainty of being in the right. "we do not want the infantry cad. if he is determined to mount on horseback, let him try a velocipede, or sit astride of pegasus, for all i care; but in our regiment he shall not stay. you'll be my second, les?" "of course, if you insist upon it," harry replies; "but it goes against the grain. i detest this perpetual duelling for nothing at all. it is bad form." "you need not talk; you used to be the readiest in the regiment to fight. i remember you when i was in the dragoons. but a betrothed man must, of course, change his views upon such subjects." at the word "betrothed" harry shrinks involuntarily. treurenberg looks up. "betrothed!" he exclaims. "and to whom?" "guess," says the lieutenant, who is an old acquaintance of treurenberg's. "it is not hard to guess. to your charming little cousin zdena." the lieutenant puckers his lips as if about to whistle, and says, "not exactly. guess again." meanwhile, harry stands like a man in the pillory who is waiting for a shower of stones, and says not a word. "then--then--" treurenberg looks from the lieutenant to his friend, "i have no idea," he murmurs. "to the baroness paula harfink," says the lieutenant, his face devoid of all expression. there is a pause. treurenberg's eyes try in vain to meet those of his friend. from without come the clatter of spurs and the drone of a hand-organ grinding out some popular air. "is it true?" asks treurenberg, who cannot rid himself of the idea that the mischievous lieutenant is jesting. and harry replies, as calmly as possible,-- "it is not yet announced. i am still awaiting my father's consent. he is abroad." "ah!" the lieutenant pours out a thimbleful of brandy from the flask on the table, mixes it with seltzer-water and sugar, and, raising it to his lips, says, gravely, "to the health of your betrothed, leskjewitsch,--of your sister-in-law, treurenberg." "this, then, was the news of which my mother-in-law made such mysterious mention in her last letters," lato murmurs. "this is the surprise of which she spoke. i--i hope it will turn out well," he adds, with a sigh. harry tries to smile. from the adjoining billiard-room come the voices of two players in an eager dispute. the malicious lieutenant pricks up his ears, and departs for the scene of action with the evident intention of egging on the combatants. "lato," harry asks, clearing his throat, "how do you mean to get home? i have my drag here, and i can drop you at dobrotschau. or will you drive to komaritz with me?" "with the greatest pleasure," treurenberg assents. "how glad i shall be to see the old place again!" he is just making ready for departure, when several officers drop in at the casino, almost all of them old friends of his. they surround him, shake hands with him, and will not let him go. "can you wait a quarter of an hour for me?" he asks his friend. harry nods. he takes no part in the general conversation. he scarcely moves his eyes from the spider-web between the imperial portraits. a fly is caught in it and is making desperate efforts to escape. the bloated spider goes on spinning its web, and pretends not to see it. "have a game of bézique? you used to be so passionately fond of bézique," harry hears some one say. he looks around. it is count wodin, the husband of the pretty, coquettish horsewoman, who is speaking. lato turns to harry. "can you wait for me long enough?" he asks, and his voice sounds uncertain and confused. "one short game." harry shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, "as you please." then, standing with one knee on a chair in the attitude of a man who is about to take leave and does not think it worth while to sit down again, he looks on at the game. the first game ends, then another, and another, and treurenberg makes no move to lay the cards aside. his face has changed: the languid smile has gone, his eyes are eager, watchful, and his face is a perfectly expressionless mask. his is the typical look of the well-bred gambler who knows how to conceal his agitation. "_cent d'as_--double bézique!" thus it goes on to the accompaniment of the rustle of the cards, the rattle of the counters, and from the adjoining room the crack of the ivory balls against one another as they roll over the green cloth. "well, lato, are you coming?" asks harry, growing impatient. "only two games more. can you not wait half an hour longer?" asks treurenberg. "to speak frankly, i am not much interested in listening to your 'two hundred and fifty,'--'five hundred,'--and so on." "naturally," says lato, with his embarrassed smile. he moves as if to rise. wodin hands him the cards to cut. "go without me. i will not keep you any longer. some one here will lend me a horse by and by. shall we see you to-morrow at dobrotschau?" with which treurenberg arranges his twelve cards, and harry nods and departs. "tell me, did you ever see a more blissful lover?" asks the teasing lieutenant, who has just returned from the billiard-room. as the disputants, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, have made up their quarrel, there is nothing more for him to do there. "he seems inspired indeed at the thought of his beloved." and he takes a seat on the table nearest the players. "every point in trumps," says treurenberg, intent upon his game. "it is my impression that he would like to drink her health in aconite," the lieutenant continues. "that betrothal seems to me a most mysterious affair," mutters wodin. "i do not understand leskjewitsch: he was not even in debt." the lieutenant bites his lip, makes a private sign to wodin, and takes pains not to look at treurenberg. lato flushes, and is absorbed in polishing his eyeglass, which has slipped out of his eye. "i lose three thousand," he says, slowly, consulting his tablets. "shall we have another game, wodin?" chapter xii. a graveyard in paris. paris, in the middle of august. at about five in the afternoon, an old gentleman in a greenish-black overcoat that flutters about his thickset figure almost like a soutane, trousers that are too short, low shoes with steel buckles, and an old-fashioned high hat beneath which can be seen a rusty brown wig, issues from a quiet hotel much frequented by strangers of rank. his features are marked and strong. his brown skin reminds one of walnut-shells or crumpled parchment. beneath his bushy eyebrows his prominent eyes glance suspiciously about him. it would be difficult to guess at this man's social position from his exterior. to the superficial observer he might suggest the peasant class. the ease, however, with which he bears himself among the fashionably-dressed men in the street, the despotic abruptness of his manner, the irritability with which he disputes some petty item in his hotel bill, while he is not at all dismayed by the large sum total, give the kellner, who stands in the door-way looking after him, occasion for reflection. "he's another of those miserly old aristocrats who suppress their title for fear of being plundered," he decides, with a shrug, as he turns back into the hotel, stopping on his way to inform the _concierge_ that, in his opinion, the old man is some half-barbaric russian prince who has come to europe to have a look at civilization. the name in the strangers' book is simply franz leskjewitsch. meanwhile, the stranger has walked on through the rue de rivoli to the corner of the rue castiglione, where he pauses, beckons to a fiacre, and, as he puts his foot heavily and awkwardly upon its step, calls to the driver, "_cimetière montmartre!_" the vehicle starts. the old man's eyes peer about sharply from the window. how changed it all is since he was last in this babylon, twenty-two years ago, while the imperial court was in its splendour, and fritz was still alive! "yes, yes, it is all different,--radically different," he murmurs, angrily. "the noise is the same, but the splendour has vanished. paris without the empire is like baden-baden without the gaming-tables. ah, how fine it was twenty-two years ago, when fritz was living!" yes, he was not only living, but until then he had never been anything but a source of pleasure to his father; the same fritz who had afterwards so embittered life for him that the same father had stricken him from his heart and had refused him even a place in his memory. but it is dangerous to try to rid ourselves of the remembrance of one whom we have once loved idolatrously. we may, for fear of succumbing to the old affection, close our hearts and lock them fast against all feeling of any kind. but if they do not actually die in our breasts, there will, sooner or later, come a day when memory will reach them in spite of our locks, and will demand for the dead that tribute of tears which we have refused to grant. there are few things more ghastly in life than tears shed for the dead twenty years too late. "yes, a frivolous fellow, fritz was,--frivolous and obstinate," the old man says to himself, staring at the brilliant shop-windows in the rue de la paix and at the gilded youths sauntering past them; "but when was there ever a man his equal? what a handsome, elegant, charming fellow, bubbling over with merriment and good humour and chivalric generosity! and the fellow insisted on marrying a shop-girl!" he mutters, between his teeth. the thought even now throws him into a fury. he had been so proud of the lad, and then--in one moment it was all over; no future to look to, the young diplomat's career cut short, the family pride levelled in the dust. the old rage had well-nigh filled his soul, when a lovely, pallid face rises upon his memory. could manette duval have really been as charming as that golden-haired girl he had met awhile ago in the woods? the little witch looked as like fritz as a delicate girl can look like a bearded man, and she had, withal, a foreign grace, the like of which had never hitherto characterized any leskjewitsch child, and which might perhaps be an inheritance from her parisian mother. and suddenly the father's conscience, silenced through all these long years, asserts itself. yes, the marriage had been a folly, and fritz had ruined his career by it. but suppose fritz had, through his own fault, broken both his arms, or put out his eyes, or done anything else that would have destroyed his future, would it have been for his father to turn from him, reproaching him angrily for his folly, saying, "you have annihilated your happiness by your own fault; you have blasted the hopes i had for you; henceforth be as wretched as you deserve to be; i will have none of you, since i can no longer be proud of you!" the old man bites his lip and hangs his head. the carriage rolls on. the weather is excessively warm. in front of the shabby cafés on the boulevard clichy some people are sitting, brown and languid. behind the dusty windows of the shops the shop-girls stand gazing drearily out upon their weary world, as if longing for somewhat of which they have read or dreamed,--something fresh and green; long shadows upon moist, fragrant lawns; gurgling brooks mirroring the sun. an emotion of compassion stirs in the old man's breast at sight of these "prisoners," and if one by chance seems to him prettier, paler, sadder than the rest, he asks himself, "did she perhaps look so? no wonder fritz pitied the poor creature! he had such a warm, tender heart!" the fiacre stops; the old man rubs his eyes. "how much?" he asks the driver. the man scans his fare from head to foot with a knowing glance: "five francs." baron leskjewitsch takes four francs from the left pocket of his waistcoat, and from the right pocket of his trousers, where he keeps his small change, one sou, as a gratuity. these he gives to the driver, and sternly dismisses him. the man drives off with a grin. "the old miser thinks he has made a good bargain," he mutters. the 'miser' meanwhile paces slowly along the broad, straight path of the cemetery, between the tall chestnuts planted on either side. how dreary, how desolate a church-yard this is, upon which the noise and bustle of the swarming city outside its gates clamorously intrude!--a church-yard where the dead are thrust away as troublesome rubbish, only to put them where they can be forgotten. it is all so bare and prosaic; the flat stones lie upon the graves as if there was a fear lest, if not held down in such brutal fashion, the wretched dead would rise and return to a world where there is no longer any place for them, and where interests hold sway in which they have no part. urns and other pagan decorations are abundant; there are but few crosses. the tops of the chestnut-trees are growing yellow, and here and there a pale leaf falls upon the baked earth. a gardener with a harshly-creaking rake is rooting out the sprouting grass from the paths; some gossiping women are seated upon the stone seats, brown, ugly, in starched and crimped white muslin caps, the gaps made by missing teeth in their jaws repulsively apparent as they chatter. a labouring man passes with a nosegay half concealed in the breast of his coat, and in his whole bearing that dull shamefacedness which would fain bar all sympathy, and which is characteristic of masculine grief. the old baron looks about him restlessly, and finally goes up to the raking gardener and addresses him, asking for the superintendent of the place. after much circumlocution, gesticulation, and shouting on both sides, the two at last understand each other. "_monsieur cherche une tombe, la tombe d'un étranger décédé à paris?_ when? fifteen years ago. that is a very long time. and no one has ever asked after the grave before? had the dead man no relatives, then? ah, such a forgotten grave is very sad; it will be difficult to identify it. maybe--who knows?--some other bodies have been buried there. here is the guard." "for what is monsieur looking?" "a grave." "the name?" "baron frédéric leskjewitsch." the old man's voice trembles: perhaps it is too late; perhaps he has again delayed too long. but no: the guard's face immediately takes on an intelligent expression. "_tres bien, monsieur; par id, monsieur_. i know the grave well. some one from the austrian embassy comes every year to look after it on the part of the relatives, and this year, not long ago,--oh, only a short time ago,--two ladies came and brought flowers; an elderly lady, and one quite young--oh, but very lovely, monsieur. _par ici, par ici_." following the attendant, the old man turns aside from the broad, principal path into a labyrinth of narrow foot-ways winding irregularly in and out among the graves. here the church-yard loses its formal aspect and becomes pathetic. all kinds of shrubbery overgrow the graves. some flowers--crimson carnations, pale purple gillyflowers, and yellow asters--are blooming at the feet of strangely-gnarled old juniper-trees. the old man's breath comes short, a sort of greed possesses him, a wild burning longing for the bit of earth where lies buried the joy of his life. the labouring man with hanging head has reached his goal the first. he is already kneeling beside a grave,--tiny little grave, hardly three feet long, and as yet unprovided with a stone. the man passes his hard hand over the rough earth tenderly, gently, as if he were touching something living. then he cowers down as if he would fain creep into it himself, and lays his head beside the poor little nosegay on the fresh soil. "_par ici_, monsieur,--here is the grave," calls the attendant. the old baron shivers from head to foot. "where?" "here." a narrow headstone at the end of another stone lying flat upon the ground and enclosed by an iron palisade fence,--this is all--all! a terrible despair takes possession of the father. he envies the labourer, who can at least stroke the earth that covers his treasure, while he cannot even throw himself upon the grave from which a rusty iron grating separates him. nothing which he can press to his heart,--nothing in which he can take a melancholy delight. all gone,--all! a cold tombstone enclosed in a rusty iron grating,--nothing more--nothing! chapter xiii. at dobrotschau. it is the day after treurenberg's meeting with harry in the dusty little garrison town. lato is sitting at his writing-table, counting a package of bank-notes,--his yesterday's winnings. he divides them into two packets and encloses them in two letters, which he addresses and seals and sends by a servant to the post. he has thus wiped out two old debts. no sooner have the letters left his hand than he brushes his fingers with his handkerchief, as if he had touched something unclean. poor treurenberg! he has never been a spendthrift, but he has been in debt ever since his boyhood. his pecuniary circumstances, however, have never been so oppressive, never have there been such disagreeable complications in his affairs, as since he has had a millionaire for a wife. he leans his elbows on his writing-table and rests his chin on his hands. angry discontent with himself is tugging at his nerves. is it not disgusting to liquidate an old debt to his tailor, and to pay interest to a usurer, with his winnings at play? what detestable things cards are! if he loses he hates it, and if he wins--why, it gives him a momentary satisfaction, but his annoyance at having impoverished a friend or an acquaintance is all the greater afterwards. every sensible disposition of the money thus won seems to him most inappropriate. money won at cards should be scattered about, squandered; and yet how can he squander it,--he who has so little and needs so much? how often he has resolved never to touch cards again! if he only had some strong, sacred interest in life he might become absorbed in it, and so forget the cursed habit. he has not the force of character that will enable him to sacrifice his passion for play to an abstract moral idea. his is one of those delicate but dependent natures that need a prop in life, and he has never had one, even in childhood. "what is the use of cudgelling one's brains till they ache, about what cannot be helped?" he says at last, with a sigh, "or which i at least cannot help," he adds, with a certain bitterness of self-accusation. he rises, takes his hat, and strolls out into the park. a huge, brown-streaked stag-hound, which had belonged to the old proprietor of the castle and which has dogged lato's heels since the previous evening, follows him. from time to time he turns and strokes the animal's head. then he forgets---- at the same time, paula is sitting in her study, on the ground-floor. it looks out on the court-yard, and is hung with sad-coloured leather, and decorated with a couple of good old pictures. she is sitting there clad in a very modern buff muslin gown, with a fiery red sash, listening for sounds without and with head bent meanwhile over shakespeare's 'romeo and juliet.' the noise of distant hoofs falls upon her ear, and a burning blush suffuses her plump cheek. upon the white shade, which is pulled down, falls the shadow of a horse's head, and then the upper portion of his rider's figure. the hoofs no longer sound. through the sultry summer stillness--breaking the monotonous plashing of the fountain and the murmur of the old linden--is heard the light, firm pat of a masculine hand upon a horse's neck, the caress with which your true horseman thanks his steed for service rendered; then an elastic, manly tread, the clatter of spurs and sabre, a light knock at the door of paula's room, and harry leskjewitsch enters. paula, with a smile, holds out to him both her hands; without smiling he dutifully kisses one of them. a pair of lovers in meissen porcelain stands upon a bracket above paula's writing-table,--lovers who have been upon the point of embracing each other for something more than a century. above their heads hovers a tiny ray of sunshine, which attracts harry's attention to the group. he and paula fall into the very same attitudes as those taken by the powdered dandy in the flowered jacket and the little peasant-girl in dancing-slippers,--they are on the point of embracing; and for the first time in his life harry wishes he were made of porcelain, that he might remain upon the point. his betrothal is now eight days old. the first day he thought it would be mere child's play to loosen the knot tied by so wild a chance, but now he feels himself fast bound, and is conscious that each day casts about him fresh fetters. in vain, with every hour passed with his betrothed, does he struggle not to plunge deeper into this labyrinth, from which he can find no means of extricating himself. in vain does he try to enlighten paula as to his sentiments towards her by a stiff, repellent demeanour, never lying to her by look, word, or gesture. but what does it avail him to stand before her like a saint on a pedestal? before he is aware, she has drawn his head towards her and kissed him on both eyes, whereupon both lovers sigh,--each for a different reason,--and then sit down opposite each other. paula, however, does not long endure such formality. she moves her chair closer to his, and at last lays her hand on the young officer's shoulder. harry is positively wretched. no use to attempt to deceive himself any longer: paula harfink is in love with him. although she brought about the betrothal by means of cool cunning and determination, daily intercourse with the handsome, chivalric young fellow has kindled a flame in her mature heart, and her passion for him grows with every hour passed in his society. it is useless to say how little this circumstance disposes him in her favour. love is uncommonly unbecoming to paula. it is impossible to credit her with the impulse that forgets self and the world, or with the amount of ideal stupidity which invests all the nonsense of lovers with grace and naturalness. involuntarily, every one feels inclined to smile when so robust and enlightened a woman--enlightened in all directions--suddenly languishes, and puts on the semblance of ultra-feminine weakness. harry alone does not smile; he takes the matter very tragically. sometimes, in deep privacy he clinches his fist and mentally calls his betrothed "a love-sick dromedary!" naturally he does not utter such words aloud, not even when he is alone in his room, not even in the dark; but--thought is free! "what have you been doing all this time?" paula asks at last, archly, thus breaking the oppressive silence. "this time? do you mean since yesterday?" he asks, frowning. "it seemed long to me," she sighs. "i--i wrote you a letter, which i had not the courage to send you. there, take it with you!" and she hands him a bulky manuscript in a large envelope. it is not the first sizable billet-doux which she has thus forced upon him. in a drawer of his writing-table at komaritz there reposes a pile of such envelopes, unopened. "have you read the english novel i sent you yesterday?--wonderful, is it not?--hero and heroine so like ourselves." "i began it. i thought it rather shallow." "oh, well, i do not consider it a learned work. i never care for depth in a novel,--only love and high life. shall we go on with our shakespeare?" she asks. "if you choose. what shall we read?" "the moonlight scene from romeo and juliet." harry submits. meanwhile, lato, with his brown attendant, wanders along the shady paths of the dobrotschau park. now and then he pays some attention to his shaggy companion, strokes his head, sends him after a stick, and finally has him take a bath in the little reed-encircled lake on the shores of which stand weather-stained old statues, while stately swans are gliding above its green depths. these last indignantly chase the clumsy intruder from their realm. "poor fellow! they will have none of you!" treurenberg murmurs, consoling the dog as he creeps out upon the bank with drooping tail and ears. suddenly he hears the notes of a piano from the direction of the castle. he turns and walks towards it, almost as if he were obeying a call. pausing before an open glass door leading into the garden, he looks in upon a spacious, airy apartment, the furniture of which consists of a large gobelin hanging, a grand piano, and some bamboo chairs scattered about. at the piano a young girl is seated playing a dreamy improvisation upon 'the miller and the brook,' that loveliest and saddest of all schubert's miller-songs. it is olga. involuntarily lato's eyes are riveted upon the charming picture. the girl is tall and slim, with long, slender hands and feet. if one might venture to criticise anything so beautiful as her face, its pure oval might be pronounced a thought too long. her features are faultless, despite their irregularity; the forehead is low, the eyebrows straight and delicately pencilled, the eyes large and dark, and, when she opens them wide, of almost supernatural brilliancy. the mouth is small, the under lip a trifle too full, and the chin a little too long. those irregularities lend a peculiar charm to the face, reminding one of certain old spanish family portraits,--dark-eyed beauties with high collars, and with huge pearls in their ears. the facts that olga neither wears a bang nor curls her hair upon her forehead, but has it parted simply in the middle to lie in thick waves on either side of her head, and that her complexion is of a transparent pallor, contribute still further to her resemblance to those distinguished individuals. she wears a simple white gown, with a malmaison rose stuck in her belt. lato's eyes rest upon her with artistic satisfaction. the tender melody of the miller's song soothes his sore heart as if by a caress. he softly enters the room, sits down, and listens. olga, suddenly aware by intuition of his presence, turns her head. "ah!--you here?" she exclaims, blushing slightly, and taking her hands from the keys. "i have made so bold," he replies, smiling. "have you any objection?" "no; but you should have announced yourself," she says, with a little frown. "ah, indeed!" he rejoins, in the tone in which one teases a child. "well, the listening to a musical soliloquy is generally considered only a harmless indiscretion." "yes; when i am playing something worth listening to i have no objection, but i prefer to keep my halting improvisations to myself." "well, then, play something worth listening to," he says, good-humouredly. she turns again to the instrument, and begins, with great brilliancy of touch, to play a bravura-scherzo, by some viennese composer at present in fashion. "for heaven's sake," treurenberg, whose feeling for music is as delicate as his appreciation of all beauty, interrupts her, "do not go on with that ghastly witches' sabbath!" "the 'ghastly witches' sabbath' is dedicated to your cousin, countess wodin," olga replies, taking up a piece of music from the piano. "there it is!" she points to the title-page "'dedicated to the frau countess irma wodin, _née_ countess trauenstein, by her devoted servant, etc.' i thought the thing might interest you." "not in the least. be a good girl, and play the miller's song over again." she nods amiably. again the dreamy melody sighs among the strings of the piano. lato, buried in thought, hums the words,-- "where'er a true heart dies of love, the lilies fade that grave above." "do you know the words too?" olga exclaims, turning towards him. "if you but knew how often i have heard that song sung!" he replies, with the absent air of a man whose thoughts are straying in a far past. "at concerts?" "no, in private." "by a lady?" she asks, half persistently, half hesitatingly. "yes, grand inquisitor, by a lady; by a lady for whom i had a little _tendresse_--h'm!--a very sincere _tendresse_. she sang it to me every day. the very evening before her betrothal she sang it to me; and how deliciously sweet it was! would you like to know who it was?" "yes." "the countess wodin." "the countess wodin!" olga exclaims, amazed. lato laughs. "you cannot understand how any one could take any interest in such a flirt?" "oh, no," she says, thoughtfully, "it is not that. she is very pretty even yet, and gay and amusing, but--he is horrible, and i cannot understand her marrying him, when----" "when she might have had me?" he concludes her sentence, laughing. "frankly, yes." as she speaks she looks full in his face with undisguised kindliness. he smiles, flattered, and still more amused. "what would you have? wodin was rich, and i--i was a poor devil." "oh, how odious!" she murmurs, frowning, her dark eyes glowing with indignation. "i cannot understand how any one can marry for money----" she stops short. as she spoke her eyes met his, and his were instantly averted. an embarrassing pause ensues. olga feels that she is upon dangerous ground. they both change colour,--he turns pale, she blushes,--but her embarrassment is far greater than his. when he looks at her again he sees that there are tears in her eyes, and he pities her. "do not vex yourself, olga," he says, with a low, bitter laugh. and taking one of her slender hands in his, he strokes it gently, and then carries it to his lips. "ah, still _aux petits soins_?--how touching!" a harsh nasal voice observes behind the pair. they look round and perceive a young man, who, in spite of his instant apology for intruding, shows not the slightest disposition to depart. he is dressed in a light summer suit after the latest watering-place fashion. he is neither tall nor short, neither stout nor slender, neither handsome nor ugly, but thoroughly unsympathetic in appearance. his very pale complexion is spotted with a few pock-marks; his light green eyes are set obliquely in his head, like those of a japanese; the long, twisted points of his moustache reach upward to his temples, and his hair is brushed so smoothly upon his head that it looks like a highly-polished barber's block. but all these details are simply by the way; what especially disfigures him is his smile, which shows his big white teeth, and seems to pull the end of his long, thin nose down over his moustache. "fainacky!" exclaims treurenberg, unpleasantly surprised. "yes, the same! i am charmed to see you again, treurenberg," exclaims the pole. "have the kindness to present me to your wife," he adds, bowing to olga. "i think my wife is dressing," treurenberg says, coldly. "this is a young relative,--a cousin of my wife's.--olga, allow me to introduce to you count fainacky." in the mean time paula is occupied with her betrothed's education. in tones that grow drowsier and drowsier, while his articulation becomes more and more indistinct, harry stumbles through shakespeare's immortal verse. paula's part is given with infinite sentiment. the thing is growing too tiresome, harry thinks. "i really have had enough of this stuff for once!" he exclaims, laying aside his volume. "ah, harry, how can you speak so of the most exquisite poetry of love that ever has been written?" he twirls his moustache ill-humouredly, and murmurs, "you are very much changed within the last few days." "but not for the worse?" she asks, piqued. "at last she is going to take offence," he says to himself, exultantly, and he is beginning to finger his betrothal-ring, when the door opens and a servant announces, "herr count fainacky." "how well you look, my dear baroness paula! ah, the correct air, beaming with bliss,--_on connaît cela!_ taking advantage of your frau mother's kind invitation, i present myself, as you see, without notification," the pole chatters on. "how are you, harry? in the seventh heaven, of course,--of course." and he drops into an arm-chair and fans himself with a pink-bordered pocket-handkerchief upon which are depicted various jockeys upon race-horses, and which exhales a strong odour of musk. "i am extremely glad to see you," paula assures the visitor. "i hope you have come to stay some days with us. have you seen mamma yet?" "no." and fainacky fans himself yet more affectedly. "i wandered around the castle at first without finding any one to announce me. then i had an adventure,--ha, ha! _c'est par trop bête!_" "what was it?" "in my wanderings i reached an open door into a room looking upon the garden. there i found treurenberg and a young lady,--only fancy,--i thought it was his wife. i took that--what is her name?--olga--your _protégée_--for your sister,--for the countess selina, and begged treurenberg to present me to his wife,--ha, ha! _vraiment c'est par trop bête!_" at this moment a tall, portly figure, with reddish hair, dazzling complexion, and rather sharp features, sails into the room. "here is my sister," says paula, and a formal introduction follows. "before seeing the countess selina i thought my mistake only comical. i now think it unpardonable!" fainacky exclaims, with his hand on his heart. "harry, did the resemblance never strike you?" he gazes in a rapture of admiration at the countess. "what resemblance?" asks harry. "why, the resemblance to the princess of wales." chapter xiv. olga. "and pray who is fräulein olga?" it is fainacky who puts this question to the countess treurenberg, just after luncheon, during which meal he has contrived to ingratiate himself thoroughly with lato's wife. he and the countess are seated beneath a red-and-gray-striped tent on the western side of the castle; beside them stands a table from which the coffee has not yet been removed. the rest of the company have vanished. the baroness harfink is writing a letter to her brother, one of the leaders of the austrian democracy, who was once minister for three months; paula and harry are enjoying a _tête-à-tête_ in the park, and treurenberg is taking advantage of the strong sunlight to photograph alternately and from every point of view a half-ruinous fountain and two hollyhocks. "pray who is this fräulein olga?" fainacky asks, removing the ashes from the end of his cigarette with the long finger-nail of his little finger. "ah, it is quite a sad story," is the countess selina's reply. "excuse me if i am indiscreet; i had no idea----" the pole begins. "oh, you are one of the family, quite one of the family," selina assures him, with an amiable smile. "i might have thought the question embarrassing from any one else, but i can speak to you without reserve of these matters. you are perhaps aware that a sister of my father's,--is only sister,--when quite an old maid,--i believe she was thirty-seven,--ran off with an actor, a very obscure comedian; i think he played the elderly knights at the rudolfsheim theatre, and as the bandit jaromir he turned her head. she displayed the _courage de ses opinions_, and married him. he treated her brutally, and she died, after fifteen years of wretched married life. on her death-bed she sent for my father, and bequeathed her daughter to his care. this was olga. my father--i cannot tell how it happened--took the most immense fancy to the girl. he tried to persuade mamma to take her home immediately. fancy! a creature brought up amid such surroundings, behind the foot-lights. true, my aunt was separated from her bandit jaromir for several years before her death; but under such strange circumstances mamma really could not take the little gypsy into the house with her own half-grown daughters. so she was sent to a convent, and we all hoped she would become a nun. but no; and when her education was finished, shortly before papa's death, mamma took her home. i was married at the time, and i remember her arrival vividly. you can imagine how terrible it was for us to admit so strange an element among us. but, although he seldom interfered in domestic affairs, it was impossible to dispute papa's commands." "h'm, h'm!" and the pole's slender white fingers drum upon the top of the table. "_je comprends_. it is a great charge for your mother, and _c'est bien dur_." although he speaks french stumblingly, he continually expresses himself in that tongue, as if it is the only one in which he can give utterance to the inmost feelings of his soul. "ah, mamma has always sacrificed everything to duty!" sighs selina; "and somebody had to take pity upon the poor creature." "nobly said, and nobly thought, countess selina; but then, after all,--an actor's daughter,--you really do not know all that it means. does she show no signs of her unfortunate parentage?" "no," says selina, thoughtfully; "her manners are very good, the spell of the sacré c[oe]ur convent is still upon her. she is not particularly well developed intellectually, but, since you call my attention to it, she does show some signs of the overstrained enthusiasm which characterized her mother." "and in combination with her father's gypsy blood. such signs are greatly to be deplored," the pole observes. "you must long to have her married?" "a difficult matter to bring about. remember her origin." the countess inclines her head on one side, and takes a long stitch in her embroidery. "she must be the image of her father. the bandit jaromir was a handsome man of italian extraction." "is the fellow still alive?" asks the pole. "no, he is dead, thank heaven! it would be terrible if he were not," says selina, with a laugh. "_À propos_," she adds, selecting and comparing two shades of yellow, "do you think olga pretty?" "h'm! _pas mal_,--not particularly. had i seen her anywhere else, i might perhaps have thought her pretty, but here--forgive my frankness, countess selina--no other woman has a chance when you are present. you must be conscious of that yourself." "_vil flatteur!_" the young wife exclaims, playfully lashing the pole's hand with a skein of wool. the pair have known each other for scarcely three hours, and they are already upon as familiar a footing as if they had been friends from childhood. moreover, they are connections. at carlsbad, where fainacky lately made the acquaintance of the baroness harfink and her daughter paula, he informed the ladies that one of his grandmothers, a löwenzahn by birth, was cousin to an uncle of the baroness's. the persistence with which he dwelt upon this fact, the importance he attached to being treated as a cousin by the harfinks, touched paula as well as her mother. besides, as they had already told selina, they liked him from the first. "one is never ashamed to be seen with him," was the immediate decision of the fastidious ladies; and as time passed on they discovered in him such brilliant and unusual qualities that they considered him a great acquisition,--an entertaining, cultivated man of some talent. he is neither cultivated nor entertaining, and as for his talent, that is a matter of opinion. if his singing is commonplace, his performance on the piano commonplace, and the _vers de société_ which he scribbles in young ladies' extract-books more commonplace than all, in one art he certainly holds the first rank,--the art of discovering and humouring the weaknesses of his fellow-mortals, the art of the flatterer. to pursue this art with distinguished ability two qualifications are especially needful,--impudence and lack of refinement. with the help of these allies the strongest incense may be wafted before one's fellow-creatures, and they will all--with the exception of a few suspicious originals--inhale it eagerly. experience has taught fainacky that boldness is of far more avail in this art than delicacy, and he conducts himself accordingly. flattery is his special profession, his means for supporting his idle, coxcomb existence,--flattery and its sister art, slander. a successful epigram at another's expense gives many of us more pleasure than a compliment paid to ourselves. he flutters, flattering and gossiping, from one house to another. the last few weeks he has spent with a bachelor prince in the neighbourhood, who, a sufferer from neuralgia in the face, has been known, when irritated, to throw the sofa-cushions at his guests. at first fainacky professed to consider this a very good joke; but one day when the prince showed signs of selecting more solid projectiles for the display of his merry humour, fainacky discovered that the time had come for him to bestow the pleasure of his society elsewhere. dobrotschau seemed to offer just what he sought, and he has won his hostess's heart a second time by his abuse during luncheon of his late host's cook. while he is now paying court to the countess selina, a touching scene is enacting in another part of the garden. paula, who during her walk with her betrothed has perceived treurenberg with his photographic apparatus in the distance, proposes to harry that they be photographed as lovers. the poor young fellow's resistance avails nothing against paula's strong will. she triumphantly drags him up before the apparatus, and, after much trying, discovers a pose which seems to her sufficiently tender. with her clasped hands upon harry's shoulder, she gazes up at him with enthusiastic devotion. "do not look so stern," she murmurs; "if i did not know how you love me, i should almost fancy you hated me." lato, half shutting his eyes in artistic observation of the pair, takes off the shield of the instrument, saying, "now, if you please!" the impression is a failure, because harry moved his head just at the critical moment. when, however, paula requires him to give pantomimic expression to his tender sentiments for the second time, he declares that he cannot stay three minutes longer, the 'vet' is waiting for him at komaritz. "oh, that odious 'vet'!" sighs paula. "this is the third time this week that you have had to leave me because of him." harry bites his lip. evidently it is high time to invent another pretext for the unnatural abbreviation of his visits. but--if she would only take offence at something! "can you not come with me to komaritz?" he asks lato, in order to give the conversation a turn, whereupon lato, who instantly accedes to his request, hurries into the castle to make ready for his ride. shortly afterwards, riding-whip in hand, he approaches selina, who is still beneath the red-and-gray tent with fainacky. "ah, you are going to leave me alone again, faithless spouse that you are!" she calls out, threatening him with a raised forefinger. then, turning to the pole, she adds, "our marriage is a fashionable one, such as you read of in books: the husband goes one way, the wife another. 'tis the only way to make life tolerable in the long run, is it not, lato?" lato makes no reply, flushes slightly, kisses his wife's hand, nods carelessly to fainacky, and turns to go. "shall you come back to dinner?" selina calls after him. "of course," he replies, as he vanishes behind the shrubbery. fainacky strokes his moustache thoughtfully, stares first at the countess, then at the top of the table, and finally gives utterance to an expressive "ah!" lato hurries on to overtake his friend, whom he espies striding towards the park gate. suddenly olga approaches him, a huge straw hat shading her eyes, and in her hands a large, dish-shaped cabbage-leaf full of inviting, fresh strawberries. "whither are you hurrying?" she asks. "i am going to ride to komaritz with harry," he replies. "ah, what magnificent strawberries!" "i know they are your favourite fruit, and i plucked them for you," she says. "in this heat?--oh, olga!" he exclaims. "the sun would have burned them up by evening," she says, simply. he understands that she has meant to atone for her inadvertence of the morning, and he is touched. "will you not take some?" she asks, persisting in offering him the leaf. he takes one. meanwhile, his glance encounters harry's. olga is entirely at her ease, while lato--from what cause he could not possibly tell--is slightly embarrassed. "i have no time now," he says, gently rejecting the hand that holds the leaf. "shall i keep them for your dessert?--you are coming back to dinner?" she asks. "certainly. i shall be back by six o'clock," he calls to her. "adieu, my child." as the two friends a few minutes later ride down the long poplar avenue, harry asks,-- "has this olga always lived here?" "no. she came home from the convent a year after my marriage. selina befriends her because paula cannot get along with her. she often travels with us." "she seems pleasant and sympathetic," says harry, adding, after a short pause, "i have seldom seen so perfect a beauty." "she is as good as gold," lato says, quickly, adding, in a rather lower tone, "and most forlorn, poor thing!" chapter xv. comrades and friends. the clumsy komaritz mansion casts its huge shadow upon the old-fashioned garden, upon the large rectangular flower-beds bordered with sage and parsley, wherein bloom in gay companionship sweet-smelling centifolia roses, dark-blue monk's-hood, scarlet verbenas, and lilac phlox; upon the tangle of raspberry- and blackberry-bushes that grow along the garden wall; and upon the badly-mown lawn. ancient pear-trees and apple-trees mingle their shade with that of the old house. an afternoon languor broods over it all. the buzz of bees above the flower-beds sounds languid; languid sounds the rustle of the leaves when, after a prolonged slumber, they awake for an instant, shiver, and then fall silent again; languid is the tone of the old piano, upon which the youngest leskjewitsch is practising the 'cloches du monastere,' under the supervision of a teacher engaged for the summer holidays,--a fräulein laut. nothing is for the present to be seen or heard of the other inmates of the castle. hedwig is consulting with her maid, and the countess zriny is endeavouring to repair a great misfortune. on her journey from vienna to komaritz she relieved her maid, who was overladen with hand-bags, of two objects particularly dear to her soul,--a carved, partly-painted and partly-gilded st. john, and a large bottle of eau de lourdes. in changing trains at pernik, she slipped and fell at full length upon the platform; the bottle of eau de lourdes flew one way and the st. john another; the bottle was broken, and st. john not only lost his head and one hand, but when the poor countess gathered up his remains he proved to be injured in every part. his resuscitation is at present the important task of the old lady's life. at this moment she is working away at the folds of his garment with much devotion--and black oil paint. harry and lato have told no one of their arrival. they are lying upon a grassy slope beneath a huge apple-tree, smoking, and exchanging reminiscences. "how homelike all this is!" says treurenberg, in his soft voice, and with a slightly drawling intonation. "i grow ten years younger here. the same flowers, the same trees, the same fragrance, the same world-forgotten solitude, and, if i am not mistaken,"--he smiles a little,--"the same music. you used to play the 'convent bells' then." "yes," harry replies, "'les cloches du monastere' was the acme and the point of departure of my musical studies. i got rid of my last music-teacher and my last 'coach' at the same time." "do you mean tuschalek?" asks treurenberg. "that was his name." "h'm! i can see him now. heavens! those hands!" treurenberg gazes reflectively into space. "they were always as red as radishes." "they reminded me rather of carrots that had just been pulled out of the ground," harry mutters. "how the old times rise up before me!" lato muses, letting his glance wander anew over the garden, where there is buzzing of innumerable bees; over the clumsy façade of the mansion; over the little eminence where still stand the quarters of tuschalek and the pole; then up to the old ruined castle, which stands out against the dark-blue august skies an almost formless shape, brown and grim, with its old scars from fire, and hung about with wreaths of wild climbing vines. "'tis odd,--something has seemed to me lacking about the dear old nest," lato begins again, after a pause. "now i know what it is." "well?" "the little figure of your cousin zdena. i am always looking for her to come skipping from among the flowers like a wayward little fairy." harry frowns, plucks a buttercup growing in the grass, and is mute. without heeding his friend's mood, treurenberg goes on: "as a child, she was most charming and unusually intelligent and gifted. has the promise of her childhood not been fulfilled?" harry pulls another buttercup out of the grass, and carefully deposits it beside the first. "that is a matter of opinion," he remarks, carelessly, without looking at his friend. "'tis strange! many a girl's beauty vanishes suddenly at about fourteen without leaving a trace; but i would have wagered my head that your cousin would have been beautiful," remarks lato. "i have not said that she is ugly," harry growls. "but you do not like her!" lato now rivets his eyes full upon the gloomy face of his former playmate. harry turns away his head. "i did not say i did not like her," he bursts out, "but i can't talk of her, because--because it is all her fault!" "what is 'all'?" asks lato, still looking fixedly at his friend. harry frowns and says nothing. lato does not speak again for a few moments. then, having lighted a fresh cigar, he begins: "i always fancied,--one so often arranges in imagination a friend's future for him, particularly when one's own fate is fixed past recall,--i always said to myself that you and your cousin would surely come together. i liked to think that it would be so. to speak frankly, your betrothal to paula was a great surprise to me." "indeed? well, so it was to me!" harry blurts out, then turns very red, is ashamed of his unbecoming confession; and then--then he is glad that it has been extorted from him; glad that he can speak frankly about the affair to any one with whom he can take counsel. treurenberg draws a long breath, and then whistles softly to himself. "sets the wind in that quarter?" he says at last. "i thought so. i determined that you should show your colours. and may i ask how you ever got into such a confounded scrape?" harry groans. "what would you have?--moonlight, nervous excitement,--all of a sudden there we were! i had quarrelled with my cousin zdena--god bless her! in spite of her whims and fancies,--one never knows what she would be at,--she is the dearest, loveliest creature----! but that is only by the way----" "not at all, not at all; it interests me extremely," treurenberg interrupts him, laughing. "that may be, but it has very little to do with my explanation," harry rejoins, dryly. "the fact is, that it was a warm night in august, and i was driving alone with paula,--that is, with no coachman, and only my groom, who followed with my horse, and whom i entirely forgot,--from zirkow to dobrotschau, along that rough forest road,--you remember,--where one is jolted against one's companion at every step, and there is opportunity for a girl to be becomingly timid--h'm! she suddenly became frightened at a will-o'-the-wisp, she never struck me before as having such weak nerves,--and--well, i was distraught over my quarrel with zdena, and i had taken perhaps a glass too much of uncle paul's old bordeaux; in short, i kissed her. in an instant i recollected myself, and, if i am not mistaken, i said, 'excuse me!' or, 'i beg pardon!' she cannot have heard this extremely sensible remark, however, for in the twinkling of an eye i was betrothed. the next day i was determined to put an end to such nonsense, and i sat down at my writing-table--confound it all! i never was great with the pen, and the model of such a letter as i wanted to write was not to be found in any 'complete letter-writer.' everything i tried to put on paper seemed to me so terribly indelicate and rough, and so i determined to tell the mother. i meant to bring forward a previous and binding attachment; to plead in my excuse the superlative charms of the baroness paula--oh, i had it all splendidly planned; but the old baroness never let me open my lips, and so matters came to be arranged as you find them." through the open glass doors of the dining-room, across the flower-beds, comes the faint voice of the old piano. but it is no longer echoing the 'cloches du monastere,' but a wailing canzonetta by some popular local composer upon which the youngest leskjewitsch is expending a most unnecessary amount of banging upon keys and pressing of pedals. with a grimace harry stops his ears. treurenberg looks very grave. "you do not, then, intend to marry paula?" "god forbid!" harry exclaims. "then,"--lato bites his lip, but goes on calmly,--"forgive an old friend who is aware of the difficulty of your position, for the disagreeable remark,--but if you do not intend to marry my sister-in-law, your conduct with regard to her is not only very unbecoming but also positively wrong." "why?" harry asks, crossly. "why?" lato lifts his eyebrows. "why, because you compromise her more deeply with every visit you pay her. you cannot surely deceive yourself as to the fact that upon the superficial observer you produce the impression of an unusually devoted pair of lovers." "i do not understand how you can say such a thing!" harry exclaims, angrily, "when you must have seen----" "that you are on the defensive with paula," treurenberg interrupts him, with a wan smile. "yes, i have seen it." "well, she ought to see it too," harry mutters. lato shrugs his shoulders. "she must lose patience sooner or later," says harry. "it is difficult to exhaust the patience of a young woman whose sensibilities are not very delicate and who is very much in love," his friend replies. "you must devise some other, and--forgive my frankness--some more honest and straightforward means for attaining your end." harry puffs furiously at his cigarette, sending a cloud of smoke over the flower-bed. "lato, you are rough upon me, but not rougher than i am upon myself. if you knew how degraded i feel by my false position, if you knew how the whole matter weighs upon me, you would do something more for me than only hold up a candle by the light of which i perceive more clearly the misery of my position. you would----" "what?" lato asks, disturbed. "help me!" lato looks at him in dismay for a moment, and then stammers, "no, harry, do not ask it of me,--not of me. i could do you no good. they never would let me speak, any more than my mother-in-law would allow you to speak. and even if i finally prevailed upon them to listen, they would blame me for the whole affair, would believe that i had excited your mind against the family." "how could they possibly imagine that you could conduct yourself so towards a friend?" harry asks, with a grim smile. lato turns his head aside. "then you will not do me this service?" "i cannot!" treurenberg murmurs, faintly. "i might have known it!" harry breaks forth, his eyes flashing with indignant scorn. "you are the same old fellow, the very same,--a good fellow enough, yes, sympathetic, compassionate, and, as long as you are allowed to remain perfectly passive, the noblest of men. but as soon as anything is required of you,--if any active interference is called for at your hands, there's an end of it. you simply cannot, you would rather die than rouse yourself to any energetic action!" "perhaps so," lato murmurs, with a far-away look in his eyes, and a smile that makes harry's blood run cold. a pause ensues, the longest of the many pauses that have occurred in this _tête-à-tête_. the bees seem to buzz louder than ever. a dry, thirsty wind sighs in the boughs of the apple-tree; two or three hard green apples drop to the ground. at last treurenberg gathers himself up. "you must take me as i am," he says, wearily; "there is no cutting with a dull knife. i cannot possibly enlighten my mother-in-law as to the true state of your feelings. it would do no good, and it would make an infernal row. but i will give you one piece of good advice----" before he is able to finish his sentence his attention is arrested by a perfect babel of sounds from the dining-room. the piano music is hushed, its discord merged into the angry wail of a shrieking feminine voice and the rough, broken, changing tones of a lad,--the rebellious pupil, vladimir leskjewitsch. the hurly-burly is so outrageous that every one is roused to investigate it. countess zriny rushes in, with short, waddling steps, the paint-brush with which she has been mending st. john's robe still in her hand; hedwig rushes in; harry and lato rush in. "what is the matter? what is the matter?" "you poured that water on the keys intentionally, to prevent your playing," the teacher angrily declares to her pupil. "i do not deny it," vladimir rejoins, loftily. the spectators suppress a smile, and are all, as is, alas! so frequently the case, on the side of the culprit, a tall, overgrown lad of about fourteen, with a handsome dark face, large black eyes, a short, impertinent nose, and full, well-formed lips. with hands thrust deep into the pockets of his blue jacket, he gravely surveys the circle, and tosses his head defiantly. "you hear him! you hear him!" fräulein laut screams, turning to the by-standers. then, approaching vladimir, she asks, angrily, "and how can you justify such conduct?" vladimir scans her with majestic disdain. "how can you justify your having ruined all my pleasure in music?" he asks, in a tragic tone, and with a bombastic flourish of his hand. "that piano has been my dear friend from childhood!"--he points feelingly to the instrument, which is yellow with age, has thin, square legs, and six pedals, the use of which no one has ever yet fathomed,--"yes, my friend! and today i hate it so that i have well-nigh destroyed it! fräulein laut, justify that." "must i be subjected to this insolence?" groans the teacher. "vladimir, go to your room!" harry orders, with hardly maintained gravity. vladimir departs with lofty self-possession. the teacher turns contemptuously from those present, especially from harry, who tries to appease her with a few courteous phrases. with a skilful hand she takes the piano apart, dismembers the key-board, and spreads the hammers upon sheets of tin brought for her from the kitchen by blasius, the old servant, that the wet, swollen wood may be dried before the fire. "take care lest there be an _auto-da-fé_," harry calls after her. without deigning to reply, she vanishes with the bowels of the piano. blasius, meanwhile, with imperturbable composure, has spread the table for the evening meal at one end of the spacious room, in which there is now diffused an agreeable odour of fresh biscuits. a mountain of reddish-yellow almond cakes is flanked on one side by a plate of appetizing rye bread, on the other by butter garnished with ice and cresses. there is a fruit-basket at either end of the table, filled with peaches, early grapes, and all kinds of ripe green and purple plums, while a bowl of cut glass holds whipped cream cooled in ice. finally, old blasius brings in a tray fairly bending beneath the burden of various pitchers and flagons, the bewildering number of which is due to the fact that at komaritz the whims of all are consulted, and consequently each one orders something different, be it only a different kind of cream. "as of old, no one is in danger at komaritz of death from starvation," lato remarks, smiling. "help us to be rid of the provision," harry says. hedwig repeats the invitation rather affectedly, but lato, looking at his watch, discovers that he has already overstayed his time by an hour. all express regret, and bid him farewell. "and the good advice you were about to give me?" harry says, interrogatively, as he takes leave of his friend, having accompanied him to the gate of the court-yard. "cut short your leave of absence; go away," lato replies. "you will at least be relieved for the time from any necessity for dissimulation, and such affairs are better adjusted by letter." harry gazes gloomily into space; lato springs into the saddle. "adieu!" he calls out, and is gone. chapter xvi. lato treurenberg. ding-dong--ding-dong! the angelus bells are ringing through the evening air with their message of rest for weary mortals. the long shadows of the trees grow paler, and vanish, taking with them all the glory of the world and leaving only a dull, borrowed twilight to hover above the earth. the sun has set. ding-dong! rings the bell of komaritz, near at hand, as lato rides past; the bells of the other villages echo the sound dreamily, to have their notes tossed back by the bells of the lonely chapels on the mountain-sides across the steel-gray stream, whose waters glide silently on ward. ding-dong! each answers to all, and the tired labourer rejoices in unison. the hour of rest has come, the hour when families reassemble after the pursuits and labours of the day have ceased to claim and separate them,--when mortals feel more warmly and sensibly the reality of family ties. thin blue smoke is curling from the chimneys; here and there a woman can be seen standing at the door of a cottage, shading her eyes with her hand as she looks expectantly down the road. upon the doorstep of a poor hut sits a brown, worn labourer, dirty and ragged, about to eat his evening meal with a leaden spoon from an earthen bowl; a young woman crouches beside him, with her back against the door-post, content and silent, while a chubby child, with bare legs somewhat bowed, and a curly head, leans against his knee and, with its mouth open in expectation, peeps into the earthen bowl. the father smiles, and from time to time thrusts a morsel between the fresh, rosy lips. then he puts aside the bowl and takes the little fellow upon his knee. it is a pretty child,--and perhaps in honour of the father's return home--wonderfully clean, but even were this not the case---- most of the children tumbling about before the huts on this sultry august evening are neither pretty nor clean; they are dirty, ragged, dishevelled; many are sickly, and some are crippled; but there is hardly one among them to whom this hour does not bring a caress. an atmosphere of mutual human sympathy seems to brood in silence above the resting earth, while the bells ring on,--ding-dong, ding-dong. lato has left the village behind him, and is trotting along the road beneath the tall walnuts. the noise of wagons, heavily laden with the harvest, and the tramp of men upon the road fall upon his ear,--everything is going home. there is a languor in the aromatic summer air, somewhat that begets in every human being a desire for companionship, a longing to share the burden of existence with another. even the flowers seem to bend their heads nearer to one another. now the bells are hushed, the road is deserted; lato alone is still pursuing his way home. home? is it possible that he has accustomed himself to call his mother-in-law's castle home? in many a hotel--at "the lamb," for example, in vienna he has felt much more at home. where, then, is his home? he vainly asks himself this question. has he ever had a home? the question is still unanswered. his thoughts wander far back into the past, and find nothing, not even a few tender memories. poor lato! he recalls his earliest years, his childhood. his parents were considered the handsomest couple in austria. the count was fair, tall, slender, with an apparent delicacy of frame that concealed an amount of physical strength for which he was famous, and with nobly-chiselled features. his duels and his love-affairs were numerous. he was rashly brave, and irresistible; so poor an accountant that he always allowed his opponents to reckon up his gains at play, but when his turn came to pay a debt of honour he was never known to make an error in a figure. it is scarcely necessary to mention that his gambling debts were the only ones the payment of which he considered at all important. he was immensely beloved by his subordinates,--his servants, his horses, and his dogs; he addressed them all with the german "thou," and treated them all with the same good-humoured familiarity. he was thought most urbane, and was never guilty of any definite intentional annoyance; but he suffered from a certain near-sightedness. he recognized as fellow-mortals only those fellow-mortals who occupied the same social plane with himself; all others were in his eyes simply population,--the masses. there is little to tell of his wife, save that she was a brilliant brunette beauty, with very loud manners and a boundless greed of enjoyment. she petted little lato like a lapdog; but one evening, just as she was dressed for a ball, she was informed that the child had been taken violently ill with croup, whereupon she flew into a rage with those who had been so thoughtless and unfeeling as to tell her such a thing at so inopportune a moment. her carriage was announced; she let it wait while she ran up-stairs to the nursery, kissed the gasping little patient, exclaimed, with a lifted forefinger, "be a good boy, my darling; don't die while mamma is at the ball!" and vanished. the little fellow was good and did not die. as a reward, his mother gave him the largest and handsomest rocking-horse that was to be found in vienna. such was the countess treurenberg as a mother; and as a wife--well, hans treurenberg was satisfied with her, and her behaviour was no one else's affair. the couple certainly got along together admirably. they never were seen together except when they received guests. peace to her ashes! the countess paid a heavy price for her short-lived joys. when scarcely twenty-six years old, she was attacked by a mortal disease. her condition was all the more painful because she persisted in concealing her malady from the world, even denying its existence. up to the last she went into society, and she died in full dress, diamonds and all, in a glare of light, on a lounge in her dressing-room. the widower at first took her death so terribly to heart that his associates remarked upon it. "treurenberg is really a very good fellow!" they said, and so he was. for a time he kept little lato with him constantly. even on the evenings when gambling was going on, and they played long and high at hans treurenberg's, the boy was present. when hardly twelve years old he was fully initiated into the mysteries of all games of chance. he would sit silent and quiet until far into the night, watching the course of the game, trembling with excitement at any sudden turn of luck. and how proud he was when he was allowed to take a hand! he played extremely well for his age, and his luck was constant. his father's friends made merry over his gambling ability. his father would pat his cheeks, stroke his hair off his forehead, take his face between his hands, and kiss him. then, with his fingers beneath the lad's chin, he would turn his face this way and that, calling his guests' attention to the boy's beauty, to his eyes sparkling with eagerness, to his flushed cheeks. then he would kiss the boy again, make him drink a glass of champagne, and send him to bed. then was sown the seed of the evil passion which was in after-years to cause lato so many an hour of bitter suffering. calm, almost phlegmatic, with regard to all else, as soon as he touched a card his excitement was intense, however he might manage to conceal it. when count hans grew tired of the constant companionship of his son, he freed himself from it after a perfectly respectable fashion. he sent him to prague, a city renowned for the stolidity of its institutions, committing him to the care of relatives, and of a professor who undertook to supply the defects of the boy's neglected education. when lato was eighteen he entered a regiment of hussars. hereafter, if the father took but little pains about his son, he certainly showed him every kindness,--paid his debts, and laughed while he admired the young man's mad pranks. moreover, he really loved him, which did not, however, hinder him from contriving to have lato declared of age at twenty, that the young fellow might have possession of his maternal inheritance, since he himself needed money. it was at this time that the elder treurenberg's view of life and the world underwent a remarkable change. he became a liberal, and this not only in a political sense, but socially, a much rarer transformation. he appeared frequently at the tables of wealthy men of business, where he was valued not merely as an effective aristocratic decoration, but as a really charming companion. his liberal views took on more magnificent dimensions: he announced himself a heretic with regard to the exclusiveness of the austrian aristocracy, smiled at the folly of austrian court etiquette, and then, one fine day he made friends with the wealthy _parvenu_, conte capriani, and, throwing overboard as useless ballast impeding free action the '_noblesse oblige_' principle, he devoted himself blindly and with enthusiasm to stock-gambling. the result was hardly encouraging. when lato applied to his father one day for a considerable sum of money, it was not to be had. melancholy times for the treurenbergs ensued; thanks, however, to the friendship of conte capriani, who sometimes helped him to a really profitable transaction, count hans was able to keep his head above water. and he continued to hold it as high as ever, to preserve the same air of distinction, to smile with the same amiable cordiality in which there was a spice of _hauteur_; in a word, he preserved the indefinable prestige of his personality, which made it impossible that conte capriani's demeanour towards him should ever partake of the nature of condescension. the only thing required of count hans by capriani was that he should spend a couple of weeks with him every year in the hunting-season. this the count seemed quite willing to do, and he therefore appeared every year, in august or october, at heinrichsdorf, an estate in west hungary, where capriani had preferred to live since his affair with young count lodrin had made his castle of schneeburg impossible for him as a place of residence. one year the count asked his son to accompany him to heinrichsdorf. will lato ever forget the weeks he spent there, the turning-point as they were of his existence? how foreign and tiresome, how hard and bald, it all was! how uncomfortable, how uncongenial!--the furniture, among which here and there, as was the fashion, some costly antique was displayed; the guests, among whom were various representatives of historic austrian nobility; the conte's secretary, a choleric hungarian, who concealed the remnant of a pride of rank which ill became his present position beneath an aggressive cynicism, and who was wont to carry in his pocket, when he went to walk, a little revolver, with which he shot at sparrows or at the flies creeping upon some wall, by way perhaps of working off the bitterness of his soul. there, too, was the master of the house, showing the same frowning brow to all whom he met, contradicting all with the same rudeness, hunting to earth any stray poetic sentiment, and then, after a violent explosion of pure reason, withdrawing gloomily to his cabinet, where he could give himself over to his two passions,--that for money-making, and that for setting the world at naught. the only person in the assemblage whom lato found attractive was the mistress of the mansion, with whom he often talked for hours, never ceasing to wonder at the melancholy grace and quiet dignity of her bearing, as well as at the well-nigh morbid delicacy and high moral tone of her sentiments. above all did lato dislike those among the guests of a like rank with his own, men who were like himself in money difficulties, and who hovered about this deity of the stock market in hopes of obtaining his blessing upon their speculations. count hans moved among all these aristocratic and un-aristocratic luminaries with the same unchanging grace that carried him victoriously over all annoyances,--always genial and courtly; but the son could not emulate his father's ease of mind and manner; he felt depressed and humiliated. then the baroness harfink and her daughters made their appearance. the two striking, pleasure-loving girls had an enlivening effect upon the wearied assemblage. paula was the cleverer of the two, but she talked too much, which was tiresome, and then she had a reputation for learning, which frightened men away. selina, on the other hand, knew how to veil her lack of cleverness beneath an interesting taciturnity; she had a fashion of slowly lifting her eyelids which appealed to a man's fancy. with a degree of prudence frequently displayed by rather dull girls, she forbore to appeal to the crowd, and concentrated her efforts to charm upon lato. she accompanied him in the pheasant-shooting parties, took lessons from him in lawn-tennis,--in a white dress, her loosened hair gleaming in the sunlight,--or simply lay quietly back in a rocking-chair in the shade in front of the castle, gazing at him with her large, half-closed eyes, while he, half in jest, half in earnest, said all sorts of pretty things. there was always play in the evenings at the castle, and usually very high play. the atmosphere about the gaming-tables was hardly agreeable, and the conte moved about among them, taking no share in such "silly waste of time," while every one else was eager to win. lato took part in the unedifying pastime, and at first fortune befriended him; then he lost. his losses embarrassed him, and he withdrew from playing. he was not the only one to avoid the gambling-tables after a short trial of luck; several gentlemen followed his example. the conte took triumphant note of this, and arranged a party for five-kreutzer whist, in which he joined. lato bit his lip. never before had his unfortunate pecuniary circumstances so weighed upon him. the thirst for gold--the prevailing epidemic at heinrichsdorf--demanded a fresh victim. there had been a hunting-dinner; conte capriani's wine had been unusually fiery; every one was gay; heinrichsdorf could remember no such brilliant festivity. the windows of the drawing-room where the company were assembled were open and looked out upon the park. the intoxicating fragrance of the sultry august night was wafted into the room; the stars sparkled above the black tree-tops, twinkling restlessly, like deceitful will-o'-the-wisps, in the blue vault of heaven; the sweet, wild music of a band of hungarian gypsies came floating into the apartment with the fragrance of the night. selina looked wonderfully beautiful on that evening, a sultana-like beauty, nothing more, but she harmonized with the spell of the august night. she wore a red crape gown, red as flickering fire, red as benumbing poppy-blossoms, very _décolletée_, and its decided colour heightened the white, pearly lustre of the girl's neck and arms. the lines about her mouth had not then settled into a stereotyped smile; her nose was not sharp; the sheen of her hair had not been dimmed by perpetual powdering. essentially commonplace as she was, for the moment there was about her a mingling of languor and excitement, which betrays an accelerated movement of the heart. selina harfink was in love. lato was perfectly aware of it, and that she was in love with him. he bestowed but little thought upon this fact, however. what could come of it? and yet, whenever he was with her, a cold shiver ran through him. the mysterious shades of night were invaded by music and the summer breeze; wherever lato was he saw that red gown. a hand was laid upon his arm, and when he turned he gazed into a pair of eyes veiled yet glowing. "why do you avoid me?" selina whispered. "southern roses!" one of the gentlemen standing near a window called to the musicians, and immediately there floated out into the night, to mingle with the low whisper of the linden leaves, the notes of the first bars of that most beguiling of all strauss's beguiling waltzes. he danced with her, and then--almost rudely--he left her. it was the only time he had danced with her that evening, and now he left the room, hurrying away to be somewhere where that red dress was not before his eyes. and yet he had the sensation of overcoming himself, of denying himself at least a pleasant excitement. why? what could ever come of it? for the first time in several days he joined the gamesters. he played high, with varying luck, but when he left the gaming-table he carried with him the consciousness of having lost more than he was at present in a condition to pay. he went to his room and began mechanically to undress. a fever seemed burning in his veins; how sultry it was! through the open windows he could see black thunder-clouds gathering in the skies. the air was damp and laden with a fragrance so sweet as to be almost sickening. a low murmur sighed among the leaves of the shrubbery in the park,--melancholy, mysterious, alluring, yet mingled with a soft plaint, breathing above the late summer roses. "enjoy! enjoy! life is brief!" he turned away, lay down, and closed his eyes; but still he seemed to see the red dress. he could not think of marrying her. a girl from such a family and with such a crowd of insufferable connections! had she only been a poor little thing whom he could snatch away from her surroundings; but no, if he married her, he was sufficiently clear in his mind for the moment to understand, he must adjust himself to her social position. the power was hers,--money! oh, this wretched money! at every turn the lack of it tormented him; he had tried to retrench, to economize, but how paltry such efforts seemed to him! what a good use he could make of it if he had it! she was very beautiful---- a light footfall made itself heard in the passage outside his door. was not that his father's step? lato asked himself. the door opened; count hans entered, straight, tall, and slender, with haughty, refined features and sparkling blue eyes, very bald, very gray; but what vitality and energy he showed in his every movement! at this moment lato felt a great admiration for his father, beside whom he himself seemed pitiably weak. he took shame to himself; what would his father say could he know of the ideas which he, lato treurenberg, had just been entertaining? "still awake, lato?" the knightly old man asked, kindly, sitting down on the edge of his son's bed. "i saw from below your light still burning, and i wanted to ask if anything were troubling you. you are not wont to suffer from sleeplessness." lato was touched, and doubly ashamed of the low, mean way of extricating himself from his difficulties which had but now seemed to him almost possible. "one's thoughts run such riot, sometimes," he murmured. "h'm!" the father put his cigar between his lips and puffed forth a cloud of smoke to float upward to the ceiling. "i think you lost at baccarat to-night," he remarked. "yes." "much?" "more than i can pay at present," lato replied, with a weary smile. "as if that were of any moment!" count hans consoled him. "i am at your service, and am, besides, your debtor." "but, father----" "yes, yes, i tell you it is so. i am your debtor. do you think i forget it? indeed i do not. i am sorry that i cannot help it; but 'tis the fault of circumstances. the estates yield absolutely nothing; they require money enough, but when it comes to looking for any return i look in vain. no one who has not tried it knows what a sinking-fund land is. it cannot go on thus; we must make a fundamental effort, or we shall be ruined!" "yes, father," lato murmured, "we must be in earnest, instead of enjoying ourselves thoughtlessly and with a dread of work. we have lost our force; we have been faithless to our principles; we must begin a new existence, you and i." as he uttered these high-sounding words, lato had the unpleasant sensation of repeating something learned by rote; the big phrases confused him; he was embarrassed by the consciousness of his father's too ready satire. he looked up at him, but the old count did not seem to have heard him. this was a relief; he sighed, and was silent. suddenly the red dress fluttered before his eyes again. count hans raised his head, and murmured, "she looked very lovely this evening." "who?" asked lato, slowly. he did not need to ask; he knew that his father had shared his thoughts. he was terribly startled. something seemed to be crumbling away which he had believed would always stand firm. "selina, of course,--the only really pretty woman in the house," said count hans. "her beauty has expanded wonderfully in the last few days. it is always becoming to pretty women to be in love." "in love?" lato repeated, his throat contracted, his tongue dry. the old count laughed. "ah, you're a sly fellow, lato." lato was mute. his father continued: "they are all jealous of you, lato. did you not see what happened this evening in the conservatory, just after dinner? pistasch kamenz proposed to her, and she refused him. he told me of it himself, and made light of it; but he was hard hit. i can quite understand it. she is an exceedingly beautiful woman; she does not carry herself well, 'tis true,--with women of her class the physical training is sure to be neglected,--but all that can be changed." lato was still mute. so, then, pistasch kamenz had tried that of which he, lato, had been ashamed, and had failed. he should not fail. the old count waited a moment, and then went on: "i am sorry for kamenz; the match would have been an excellent one for him; he would have settled down." "settled down--upon his wife's money!" lato muttered, without looking at his father. "is there anything new in that?" exclaimed the count, with unruffled composure. "a man of honour can take nothing from a woman whom he loves, but everything from his wife. 'tis an old rule, and it is comical,"--count hans laughed softly,--"how here in austria we require that a rich wife should always belong to the same sphere with her husband; he is forgiven for a _mésalliance_ only if he marries a beggar. it is pure folly! we shall never amount to anything unless we toss aside the entire burden of prejudice which we drag about with us. it weighs us down; we cannot keep step with the rest; how can a man run sheathed in mail? with the exception of a few magnates among us who are able to enjoy their prestige, we are wretchedly off. we spend our lives sacrificing ourselves for a position which we cannot maintain respectably; we pamper a chimera to be devoured by it in the end. most of all do i admire the _bourgeoisie_, whom we impress, and whose servility keeps bright the nimbus about our heads. bah! we can do nothing more with the old folly! we must mingle in the fresh life of the present." "yes," lato muttered again, but more indistinctly than at first, "we ought to work, to achieve somewhat." count hans did not, perhaps, hear this remark; at all events he did not heed it. "all the huge new fortunes in england marry into the aristocracy," he said. outside, the same strange alluring murmur breathed above the thirsty flowers; the breeze of the coming storm streamed into the room. "to marry a woman for the sake of her money is detestable," count hans began afresh, and his voice was almost as soft and wooing as that of the summer night outside; "but, good heavens! why should one refuse to marry a girl whom he loves just because she is rich?" he paused. lato had closed his eyes. "are you asleep?" his father murmured. lato shook his head, without speaking. the old count arose, extinguished the candle on the table, and softly withdrew. chapter xvii. mismated. about four months afterwards lato stood with selina harfink before the altar, in a large splendidly-decorated church filled with a crowd of people, among whom lato, as he walked towards the altar, mechanically sought some familiar face,--at first in vain. at last he found some one,--his old english teacher; then a horse-dealer with whom he had had transactions; and then there in the background--how could they have escaped him?--about a dozen ladies of his own circle. some of them held their eye-glasses to their eyes, then crowded together and whispered among themselves. he turned away his head. how dared they whisper about him! he had not sold himself; he was marrying a girl whom he loved, who was accidentally rich! the long train moved slowly up to the altar. lato felt as if he were dragging after him a burden that grew heavier with every step. he was glad to be able to kneel down before the priest. he looked at his bride. she knelt beside him, brilliantly beautiful, glowing with passion, supremely content. in vain did he look for the shimmer of tears in her eyes, for a trace of virginal shyness in her features, for aught that could arouse sympathy and tenderness. no; about her full red lips there was the tremor of gratified vanity and of triumphant--love! love? from her face lato's gaze wandered among the wedding-guests. strangers,--all strangers. his family was represented by his father and the countess zriny, a distant cousin of count hans, who had once been in love with him. lato shivered. solemn music resounded through the church. tears rose to his eyes. suddenly a strange wailing sound mingled with the strains of the chant. he looked up. behind the tall church windows fluttered something black, formless, like a mourning banner. it was the broken top of a young tree, not quite torn from the parent stem, waving to and fro in the wind. and then the priest uttered the words that decided his future fate. before the departure of the young couple, and whilst selina was making ready for their journey, count hans had an opportunity for emotion. he paced restlessly to and fro in the room where with lato he was awaiting the bride, trying vainly to say something cheering to the bridegroom, something to arouse in him a consciousness of the great good fortune in which he himself was a sharer. at last the voices of the bride and her friends were heard approaching. the old nobleman went up to his son, laid his hands tenderly upon his shoulders, and exclaimed, "hold up your head, old fellow: your life is before you, your life is before you!" and lato repeated, "my life is before me----" the next instant the door opened. "the carriage is waiting!" the last words that selina said to her friends out of the window of the carriage just before driving off were, "do not forget to send me the newspapers, if there is anything in them about our marriage." the horses started, the carriage rolled on. how swiftly the wheels flew over the stones! in the twilight, illumined only by the glare of the carriage lamps, lato could see the outline of selina's figure as she sat beside him, and the pure red and white of her face, only partially concealed by her veil. he put his arm around her, and she nestled close to him and raised her lips to his. his ardour was chilled by an annoying sensation which he could not at first trace to its source. it was produced by the strong perfume which selina used. it was the same perfume that had been a favourite with the actress who had been lato's first love, a handsome, fair woman, with an incomparable complexion. he was suddenly reminded that selina looked like her, and it vexed him. selina had long since forgotten it,--women almost always forget such things,--but in the early times of her marriage it would not have pleased her to think it a "distinguished one." she was desperately in love with lato, served him like a slave, racked what brain she had to prepare surprises for him in the way of costly gifts, and left entirely to him the disposal of her property. not a penny would she call her own. it all belonged to him,--all. it was quite touching to see her penitent air when she applied to him, whispering, "i am a terrible spendthrift, lato. do not be angry; but i want some more money. will you not pay my milliner's bill for me? and then, if i am very good, you'll give me something to put in my portomonnaie,--a hundred guilders,--only a hundred guilders, lato darling?" at first such scenes annoyed him terribly, and he tried hard to prevent them. then--well, he got used to them, even felt flattered, touched; almost forgot whence came the money that was now so abundant with him,--believed, at all events, that others had forgotten it,--and played the lavish husband with his wife, bestowed costly gifts upon her, and was pleased with her admiration of them. all this time he lived in a kind of whirl. he had accustomed himself to his young wife's endearments, as he had accustomed himself to travel with a train of servants, to occupy the best rooms in the best hotels, to drink the best wines, to smoke the best cigars, to have enormous bills at the tailor's, to gratify all his expensive tastes, to spend time in devising costly plans for the future, and, half involuntarily, to do it all as if he no longer remembered a time when he had been obliged to consider well every outlay. in after-years his cheeks burned when he recalled this part of his life,--but there was no denying the fact--he had for a time been ostentatiously extravagant, and with his wife's money. poor lato! two years the whirl lasted; no longer. at first he had tried to continue in the service, but the hardships of a military life became burdensome to him as he yielded to the new sense of luxury, and selina, for her part, had no taste for the annoyances that fell to her share in the nomadic life of a soldier's wife. he resigned. they planned to purchase an estate, but could not agree upon where to purchase; and they zigzagged about, travelling from nice to rome, and from rome to paris, everywhere courteously received and fêted. then came their child. selina, of course, passed the time of her confinement in vienna, to be under her mother's protection, and nearly paid for her child's life with her own. when she recovered, her entire nature seemed changed; she was always tired. her charm had fled. her nose grew sharp, there were hard lines about her mouth, her face became thin, while her figure broadened. and her feeling for lato underwent a fundamental alteration. hers was one of those sensual, cold-hearted natures which, when the first tempest of passion has subsided, are incapable of any deeper sentiment, and her tenderness towards her husband decreased with astonishing celerity. henceforth, vanity became her sole passion, and in vienna she was best able to satisfy it. the greatest enjoyment she derived from her foreign travel and from her intercourse with distinguished people lay in being able to discourse of them to her vienna circle. she went into the world more than ever,--the world which she had known from childhood,--and dragged lato with her. she was never weary of displaying in financial society her new title, her distinguished husband, her eccentric parisian toilets. her world sufficed her. she never dreamed of asking admission to his world. he made several melancholy attempts to introduce his wife among his relatives; they failed lamentably. no one had any particular objection to selina. had she been a poor girl all would have vied with one another in doing something for her "for dear lato's sake." but to receive all that loud, vulgar, ostentatious harfink tribe, no one could require of them, not even the spirit of the age. why did not lato take his wife to the country, and separate her from her family and their influence? then after some years, perhaps---- it was such an unfortunate idea to settle in vienna with his wife! yes, an unfortunate idea! wherever he showed himself with his wife, at the theatre, on the prater, everywhere, his acquaintances greeted him cordially from a distance, and avoided him as if he had been stricken with a contagious disease. on the occasion of the death of one of his aunts, he received kind letters of condolence from relatives who lived in the next street! selina was not in the slightest degree annoyed by all this. it always had been so in austria, and probably always would be so. she had expected nothing else. and lato,--what had he expected? he who understood such matters better than she did? a miracle, perhaps; at least an exception in his favour. his life in vienna was torture to him. he made front against his former world, defied it, even vilified it, and was possessed by a hungry desire for what he had lost, for what he had prized so little when it was naturally his own. if he could but have found something to replace what he had resigned! sincerity, earnestness, a deeper grasp of life, elevation of thought,--all of which he might have found among the best of the _bourgeoisie_,--he had sufficient intellect and refinement to have enjoyed. perhaps under such influences there was stuff in him of a kind to be remodelled, and he might have become a useful, capable man. but the circle in which he was forced to live was not that of the true _bourgeoisie_. it was an inorganic mass of rich people and idlers tossed together, all with titles of yesterday, who cared for nothing in the world save money-getting and display,--a world in which the men played at languid dulness and the women at frivolity, because they thought it '_chic_,' in which all wanted to be 'fast,' to make a sensation, to be talked of in the newspapers,--a world which, with ridiculous exclusiveness, boasted of its anti-semitic prejudices, and in which the money acquired with such unnatural celerity had no room for free play, so that the golden calf, confined within so limited an arena, cut the most extraordinary capers. these people spent their time in perfecting themselves in aristocratic demeanour and in talking alternately of good manners, elegant toilets, and refined _menus_. the genuine patrician world of trade held itself aloof from this tinsel society, or only accidentally came into contact with it. lato's was a very unpleasant experience. the few people of solid worth whom he met at his mother-in-law's avoided him. his sole pleasure in life was his little son, who daily grew plumper, prettier, merrier. he would stretch out his arms to his father when the merest baby, and crow with delight. what a joy it was for lato to clasp the little creature in his arms! the boy was just fifteen months old when the first real quarrel took place between lato and his wife, and estranged them for life. hitherto lato had had the management and right of disposal of his wife's property, and although more than one disagreeable remark anent his extravagance had fallen from her lips he had taken pains not to heed them. but one day he bought a pair of horses for which he had been longing, paying an amateur price for them. he was so delighted with his purchase that he immediately drove the horses in the prater to try them. on his return home he was received by selina with a very cross face. she had heard of his purchase, and asked about the horses. he praised them with enthusiasm. forgetting for the moment all the annoyances of his position, he cried, "come and look at them!" "no need," she made answer. "you did not ask my opinion before buying them; it is of no consequence now whether i like them or not." he bit his lip. "what did you pay for them?" she asked. he told her the price; she shrugged her shoulders and laughed contemptuously. "so they told me," she said. "i would not believe it!" "when you have seen the horses you will not think the price too high," lato said, controlling himself with difficulty. "oh, the price may be all right," she rejoined, sharply, "but the extravagance seems great to me. of course, if you have it----" everything swam before his eyes. he turned and left the room. that very day he sold the horses, fortunately without loss. he brought the bank-notes to his wife, who was seated at her writing-table, and put them down before her. she was startled, and tried to compromise matters. he was inflexible. for half a day the apple of discord in the shape of a bundle of bank-notes lay on the writing-table, a bait for dishonest servants; then it vanished within selina's desk. from that moment lato was not to be induced to use a single penny of his wife's money. he retrenched in all directions, living as well as he could upon his own small income, derived from his maternal inheritance, and paid him punctually by his father. he was not in the least annoyed by the shabby part he was consequently obliged to play among his wealthy associates, but when he recalled how he had previously appropriated his wife's money his cheeks and ears burned furiously. there was no longer any talk of buying an estate. instead, selina's mother bought one. the treurenbergs could pass their summers there. why squander money on an estate? one magnificent castle in the family was enough. shortly after lato's estrangement from his wife his little son died of the croup. this was the annihilation of his existence; the last sunbeam upon his path faded; all around and within him was dark and cold. he ponders all this as he rides from komaritz to dobrotschau. his horse's pace grows slower and slower, his bridle hangs loose. evening has set in. suddenly a sharp whirr rouses the lonely man. he looks up, to see a belated bird hurrying home to its nest. his dreamy gaze follows the black fluttering thing, and he wonders vaguely whether the little wanderer will find his home and be received with affection by his feathered family. the idle fancy makes him smile; but, "what is there to laugh at?" he suddenly reflects. "good heavens! a life that warms itself beside another life, in which it finds peace and comfort,--is not this the central idea of all existence, great or small? everything else in the world is but of secondary interest." for him there is no human being in whom he can confide, to whom he can turn for sympathy; for him there is only cheerless solitude. the moon is setting; above the low mountain-spur its silver crescent hovers in the liquid light green of the summer evening sky. the castle of dobrotschau looms up in the twilight. "what is that? along the road, towards the belated horseman, comes a white figure. can it be selina? his heart beats fast; he is ready to be grateful for the smallest proof of affection, so strong is the yearning within him for a little human sympathy. no, it is not selina; it is a tall, slender girl. she has seen him, and hastens her steps. "lato!" calls an anxious, familiar voice. "olga!" he exclaims, and, springing from his horse, he approaches her. yes, it is olga,--olga in a white dress, without hat or gloves, and with a look of anxiety in her eyes. "thank heaven!" she exclaims. "my child, what is the matter?" he asks, half laughing. "i have been so anxious," she confesses. "you are an hour and a half late for dinner, and you know how foolish i am. all sorts of fancies beset me. my imagination works swiftly." "you are a dear child, olga," he whispers, softly, taking her hand and kissing it twice. then they walk together towards the castle. he leads his horse by the bridle, and listens to all the trifling matters of which she tells him. the world is no longer dreary and empty for him. here is at least one person who is not indifferent to his going and coming. at dobrotschau he finds the entire party in the garden-room. selina and the pole are playing a duett. dinner is over. they could not wait for him, selina explains, because the cook was trying to-day for the first time a soufflé of parmesan cheese and truffles, which would have been ruined by delay. but his hospitable mother-in-law adds,-- "your dinner is all ready in the dining-room. i gave orders that it should be served as soon as you came." and lato goes to the dining-hall, a magnificent oak-wainscoted room, in which the chandelier, lighted in his honour, represents a round island of light in a sea of black darkness. the soup-tureen is on the sideboard: a servant lifts the cover, and the butler ladles out a plateful of the soup and places it before lato. he takes a spoonful discontentedly, then motions to the butler to take the plate away. olga suddenly appears. "have you left any for me?" she asks. "i am fearfully hungry, for i could not eat any dinner." "from anxiety?" asks lato. "yes," she says, laughing, "from anxiety." and she takes a seat opposite him. "oh, you silly girl!" says treurenberg, watching her with satisfaction as she sips her soup. lato himself suddenly has an access of appetite. chapter xviii. a friend's advice. few things in this world are more unpleasant than to be obliged to admit the excellence of a friend's advice when it runs counter to all our most secret and decided inclinations. harry leskjewitsch finds himself thus disagreeably situated the evening after lato's visit to komaritz. while lato, "gens-d'armed" by two lackeys, is eating his late dinner with olga, harry is striding discontentedly to and fro in the steep, uneven court-yard at komaritz, muttering between his teeth,-- "lato is right, quite right. i am behaving unpardonably: no respectable man would play this double part. i must go away." yes, away; but how can he go away while he knows that baron wenkendorf is at zirkow? it appears to him that he can still do something to prevent zdena from giving ear to her elderly suitor, for such he certainly seems to be. harry has been often at zirkow of late,--no fewer than three times since his entanglement,--and he has consequently had opportunity to watch zdena's behaviour. her feeling for the man has certainly reached another stage; she conducts herself with more gravity towards him, and with more cordiality; she often turns to him with trifling questions, and seems to take a kind of pleasure in his society. "who knows?" harry says to himself, clinching his hand and almost mad with jealousy, as he paces the court-yard to and fro. the crescent moon in the august sky creeps over the dark roof of the brew-house. the air is freshened by the fragrance of the group of walnuts; but another and more penetrating odour mingles with it,--the odour of old wood impregnated with some kind of fermenting stuff. there, against the uneven wall of the old brew-house, stands a row of huge casks. the casks recall to harry memories that fill him with sweet and bitter sensations. into one of them he had crept with zdena, during a storm, in the early years of their acquaintance. ah, what a bewitching little creature she was then! he can see her distinctly now, with her long, golden hair; her large, brown eyes, that had so truthful a gaze; the short upper lip of the childish mouth, that seemed always on the point of asking a question; yes, even the slender, childish hands he can see, with the wide, white apron-sleeves; the short skirt and the bare little legs, usually, it must be confessed, much scratched. he recalls the short, impatient movement with which she used to pull her skirts over her knees when she sat down. in one of those casks they had taken refuge from a shower,--he and she,--and they had sat there, close together, looking out upon the world through the gray curtain of the rain. how comically she had peered out, now and then holding out her hand to make sure that it was still pouring! it would not stop. harry can hear at this moment the rustle of the rain through the foliage of the walnuts, its drip upon the cask, and the cackling of the agitated geese in the court-yard. he had told the child stories to amuse her, and she had gone to sleep with her head on his shoulder, and finally he had taken off his jacket to wrap it about her as he carried her through the rain into the house. oh, what a lecture they had had from mademoiselle, who, meanwhile, had been sending everywhere to find the children, and was half crazy with anxiety! "i cannot conceive why you should have been anxious, mademoiselle," he had said, with all the dignity of his twelve years. "you ought to know that zdena is well taken care of when she is with me." twelve years have passed since then, but it seems to him suddenly that it all happened only yesterday. "well taken care of," he mutters to himself,--"well taken care of. i believe that she would be well taken care of with me to-day, but--good heavens!" his lips are dry, his throat feels contracted. up to the present moment he has regarded his betrothal to paula as a disagreeable temporary entanglement; never has he viewed it as a serious, enduring misfortune. lato's words have thrown a vivid light upon his position; he sees clearly that he is no longer a free agent, and that every hour passed with paula rivets his fetters more securely. yes, lato is right; he must go away. but he must see her once more before he goes,--only once. chapter xix. frau rosa's birthday. high festival is being held at zirkow in honour of frau rosamunda's birthday, which is observed this year with even more ceremony than usual. thanks to a fortunate combination of circumstances, the major has it in his power to bestow a costly gift upon his wife this year. he has lately concluded a very profitable bargain: he has sold the entire interior arrangements of the brew-house as old iron and copper to a jew for the magnificent sum of fifteen hundred guilders. with such wealth much can be done. nothing now prevents the devoted husband from fulfilling frau rosamunda's two ardent desires,--a trip to bayreuth and the thorough repair of the much-defaced decorations on the zirkow walls and ceilings. on her birthday-table frau rosamunda finds, in the midst of a tasteful arrangement of flowers, first, a kind of sign in miniature,--_i.e_., a square black card, upon which is written, in red letters, "good for house-decorators,"--and a large earthenware prize pig with stiff, straddling legs and a beautifully-rounded body, upon which is written, also in red letters, "a steed to carry you to bayreuth." a bouquet of four-leaved clover (zdena gathered it at dawn) is stuck like a green plume between the animal's projecting ears. a pin-cushion covered with a delicate imitation in needle-work of irish guipure, the piano arrangement of 'tristan and isolde' and a potpourri from 'parzifal,' both for four hands, complete the number of birthday-gifts. the irish guipure is zdena's work; the music comes from wenkendorf. all these things even the house-decorator are of secondary importance to frau rosamunda. her whole attention is absorbed by the pig, at which enigmatic monster she gazes in wonder. "a steed to carry you to bayreuth." it sounds like a poor jest, a very poor jest. the major looks at his wife with a broad smile. "take up the pig and shake it a little," he says at last. frau rosamunda obeys. there is a clink of coin. she understands, and runs to her husband with a cry of delight. she celebrates the remainder of her birthday by playing duets with her cousin from 'tristan and isolde' and 'parzifal' alternately. the major walks about with his hands clasped behind him, deep in thought and well content, like a man who is about to carry out a carefully-devised plan. the afternoon sun is casting long shadows, and krupitschka, who has just finished furbishing up the silver,--in honour of the birthday six more silver dishes than usual have been brought out to-day,--is sitting on a bench at the back of the castle, refreshing himself with an examination of the foreign dictionary which he has purchased with the money for his cantharides,--and which, by the way, he finds highly unsatisfactory,--when a young officer of hussars upon an english chestnut mare with a hide like satin comes galloping into the court-yard. at sight of the horse and its rider all clouds vanish from krupitschka's horizon; in his opinion there is no finer sight in the world than a "handsome officer upon a handsome horse." he is not the only one to admire harry leskjewitsch on his mare frou-frou. at one of the windows of the castle a pale, girlish face appears, and a pair of bright brown eyes look down into the court-yard, for a moment only. but harry has seen the face, quickly as it disappears, and his heart beats fast. "are the ladies at home?" he asks krupitschka, as he gives his steed in charge to a groom who hurries up, clad in a striped stable-jacket very much darned at the elbows, and a cap with a tarnished silver band. "they are, herr baron." and krupitschka shows harry up the steps and to the door of the drawing-room, which he opens with dignity, not because such ceremony is at all necessary, but because the young man has been his favourite from childhood, and he loves to perform any service for him. when harry enters, frau rosamunda and wenkendorf are still at the piano, working away at 'parzifal,' and do not seem over-pleased by the interruption. the major is lying back in a rocking-chair, smoking a cigarette and upon his nephew's entrance springs up with undisguised delight and goes towards him with extended hands. "tell the baroness zdena that a visitor has arrived!" he calls out to krupitschka; then, turning to harry, he says, smiling, "and so you have come to congratulate?" "congratulate?" harry repeats, surprised and preoccupied. "oh, you have forgotten, then?" the major rejoins. harry slaps his forehead. "dearest aunt, forgive me! how thoughtless i am!" and he kisses frau rosamunda's hand. "i do not take it at all ill of you," she assures him. "at my age people would rather have their birthday forgotten than remembered." "oh--ah! i have not observed that," the major declares. "oh, it is different for you. you may be allowed to take notice of my being each year one year older, always provided that you give me upon all my birthdays as great a pleasure as to-day." "you cannot reckon upon that, my dear; all years are not alike," the major replies. "this was a lucky chance." "have you had a stroke of good fortune, uncle?" harry asks, trying to take an interest in the matter. "yes," the major informs him; "i have just concluded a brilliant transaction. i have sold the iron from the interior of the brew-house." "for how much, may i ask?" "fifteen hundred guilders," the major declares, triumphantly. "i would not abate one penny. the superintendent was surprised at the sum, i can tell you." "i do not understand such matters," harry rejoins, thinking of the enormous expense of fitting up the brew-house some years ago. his uncle's 'brilliant transaction' reminds him of the story of 'hans in luck.' "and in consequence your birthday-gifts have been very superior, aunt?" "yes." frau rosamunda displays with delight the prize pig. the green plume between its ears is slightly faded, but the coins in its body clink as triumphantly as ever. "'a steed to carry you to bayreuth,'" harry reads. "i am so glad, my dear aunt, that your wish is to be fulfilled." "tickets for two performances besides the journey," the major proudly declares. "and my cousin has surprised me with some delightful music which i have long wanted." "not worth mentioning, rosamunda," wenkendorf says, deprecatingly. "my wife's birthday has really turned out a wagner festival," the major declares. "since ten o'clock this morning these two artists have been playing nothing but wagner, for their own pleasure and the conversion of their hearers. zdena ran away, but i stood my ground, and i have become quite accustomed to the noise." "that is a good sign," wenkendorf assures him. "you ought to hear wagner's compositions very often. what do you say, roderich, to our playing for harry some of the loveliest bits of 'parzifal'? we are just in the mood." "do not let me interrupt you; pray go on; it will give me the greatest pleasure," harry murmurs, glancing towards the door. why does she not come? meanwhile, the two amateurs have begun with untiring energy. "kundry's ride!" frau rosamunda calls out to her nephew, while her hands dash over the keys. harry does not hear her. he has seated himself beside the major, and absently takes a cigarette from the case which his uncle offers him. "i came to bid you good-bye," he says, in an uncertain voice. "indeed!" says the major, looking at him scrutinizingly. "is your leave at an end?" "no, but----" harry hesitates and pulls at his moustache. "h'm!" a sly smile quivers upon the major's broad face. "have you quarrelled with your betrothed?" "no, but----" the door opens, and zdena enters, slender and pale, dressed in a simply-fashioned linen gown. she has lost her fresh colour, and her face is much thinner, but her beauty, far from being injured thereby, is heightened by an added charm,--a sad, touching charm, that threatens to rob harry of the remnant of reason he can still call his. "how are you, zdena?" he says, going to meet her, while the warmest sympathy trembles in his voice. "you look pale. are you well?" "the heat oppresses me," she says, with a slight forced smile, withdrawing the hand which he would fain have retained longer in his clasp than was fitting under the circumstances. "the balsam motif," frau rosamunda calls from the piano. after a while zdena begins: "how are they all at komaritz? heda sent her congratulations to-day with some lovely flowers, but said nothing with regard to the welfare of the family." "i wonder that heda did not remind you of the birthday, harry!" remarks the major. "oh, she rejoices over every forgetfulness in those around her," harry observes, with some malice: "she likes to stand alone in her extreme virtue." "motif of the redeemer's sufferings," frau rosamunda calls out. zdena leans forward, and seems absorbed in wagner. harry cannot take his eyes off her. "what a change!" he muses. "can she--could she be suffering on my account?" there is an agreeable flutter of his entire nervous system: it mingles with the sense of unhappiness which he drags about with him. "oh, what a double-dyed fool i was!" a voice within him cries out. "how could i be so vexed with her scrap of childish worldly wisdom, instead of simply laughing at her for it, teasing her a little about it, and then, after i had set her straight, forgiving her, oh, how tenderly!" "zdena is not quite herself. i do not know what ails her," said the major, stroking the girl's thin cheek. "you have long been a hypochondriac on your own account; now you are trying it for other people," says zdena, rising and going to the window, where she busies herself with some embroidery. "i have a little headache," she adds. "earthly enjoyment motif," frau rosamunda calls out, enthusiastically, in a raised voice. the major bursts into homeric laughter, in which zdena, whose overstrained nerves dispose her for tears as well as laughter, joins. harry alone does not laugh: his head is too full of other matters. "is zdena also going to bayreuth?" he asks. "no," the major replies; "the finances are not equal to that." "'tis a pity," harry remarks: "a little change of air might do her good." "so it seems to me," the major assents, "and i was about to propose a plan. by the way, when do you take your departure?" "are you going away?" asks frau rosamunda, rising from the piano, aglow with enthusiasm and artistic zeal, to join the trio. wenkendorf also rises and takes a seat near the rest. "he is going away," the major replies. "yes," assents harry. "but what does your betrothed say?" "i have already put that question to him," said the major. "one of my comrades has suddenly been taken ill," harry stammers, frowning; "and so--of course it is very unpleasant just now----" "very, very," murmurs the major, with a hypocritical show of sympathy. "when do you start?" "oh, the day after to-morrow." "that suits me remarkably well," the major remarks. "there will be a vacant room at komaritz, and zdena might go over for a couple of days." wenkendorf frowns disapprovingly. "it is a great pity that you are not going with us to bayreuth," he says, turning to the young girl. "that would be a fine way to cure the headache," the major observes. "i would rather stay at home with you, uncle dear," zdena assures him. "that will not do. friday evening my wife starts for bayreuth; saturday i expect the painters; the entire house will be turned upside-down, and i have no use for you. therefore, since there is room for you at komaritz----" "there is always room at komaritz for zdena," harry eagerly declares. "yes,--particularly after you have gone. it is decided; she is going. i shall take her over on saturday afternoon," the major announces. "you can tell heda." "and who will go to bayreuth with my aunt?" asks harry. "her musical cousin roderich. by the way, wenkendorf, you will come back to zirkow from bayreuth?" "of course i shall escort rosamunda upon her return." "we shall be glad to welcome you for the hunting. i take it for granted you will give us a long visit then?" "that will depend upon circumstances," says wenkendorf, with a significant glance towards zdena, which does not escape harry. meanwhile, the august twilight has set in. krupitschka brings the lamps. harry rises. "will you not stay for supper?" asks frau rosa. "no, thank you; i have a deal to do." "no wonder, before leaving," says the wily major, not making the slightest effort to detain the young fellow. "you are looking for your sabre?--there it is. ah, what a heavy thing! when i reflect upon how many years i dragged such a rattling tool about with me!" harry has gone. the major has accompanied him to the court-yard, and he now returns to the room, chuckling, and rubbing his hands, as if at some successful trick. "what an idea! so sudden a journey!--and a betrothed man!" frau rosa remarks, thoughtfully. "if i were his betrothed i would hurry and have the monogram embroidered on my outfit," drawls the major. "let me come there, if you please." these last words are addressed to wenkendorf, who is about to close the piano. the major takes his place at it, bangs away at his triumphal march with immense energy and a tolerably harmonious bass, then claps down the cover of the much-tortured instrument, locks it, and puts the key in his pocket. "there, that's enough for to-day!" he declares. chapter xx. komaritz again. the major carried out his plan. on saturday the painter made solemn entry into zirkow with his train of workmen, their ladders, paint-pots, and brushes, to turn the orderly household upside-down,--whereupon baron paul drove zdena to komaritz, in the same drag in which the child of six had first been driven thither by him. more than a dozen years had passed since that afternoon, and yet every detail of the drive was vividly present in the young girl's mind. much had changed since then; the drag had grown far shabbier, and the fiery chestnuts had been tamed and lamed by time, but the road was just as bad, and the country around as lovely and home-like. from time to time zdena raised her head to gaze where the stream ran cool and gray on the other side of the walnut-trees that bordered the road, or at the brown ruin of the castle, the jagged tower of which was steadily rising in the blue atmosphere against the distant horizon. and then she would pull her straw hat lower over her eyes and look only at the backs of the horses. why did her uncle keep glancing at her with such a sly smile? he could not divine the strange mixture of joy and unrest that was filling her soul. no one must know it. poor zdena! all night long she had been tormented by the thought that she had yielded too readily, had acceded too willingly to her uncle's proposal to take her to komaritz during the bustle made by the painters, and she had soothed her scruples by saying to herself, "he will not be there." and, yet, the nearer they came to komaritz the more persistent was the joyous suggestion within her, "what if he were not yet gone!" click-clack! the ancient st. john, whose bead is lying at his feet precisely as it was lying so many years ago, stands gray and tall among the lindens in the pasture near the village; they have reached komaritz. click-clack!--the horses make an ambitious effort to end their journey with credit. the same ox, recently butchered, hangs before the butcher-shop on an old walnut; the same odour of wagon-grease and singed hoofs comes from the smithy, and before it the smith is examining the foot of the same horse, while a dozen village children stand around gazing. the same dear old komaritz! "if only he might be there!" with a sudden jolt the drag rolls through the picturesque, ruinous archway of the court-yard. the chestnuts are reined in, the major's sly smile broadens expressively, and zdena's young pulses throb with breathless delight. yes, he is there! standing in the door-way of the old house, an embarrassed smile on his thin, tanned face as he offers his hand to zdena to help her down from her high seat. "what a surprise! you here?" exclaims the old dragoon, with poorly-feigned astonishment, in which there is a slight tinge of ridicule. "i thought you would be miles away by this time. it is a good thing that you were able to postpone your departure for a few days. no, i can't stop; i must drive home again immediately. adieu, children!" baron paul turns his tired steeds, and, gaily waving his hand in token of farewell, vanishes beneath the archway. there they stand, she and he, alone in front of the house. the old walnuts, lifting their stately crests into the blue skies along one side of the court-yard, whisper all sorts of pleasant things to them, but they have no words for each other. at last harry asks, taking the black leather travelling-bag from his cousin's hand, "is this all your luggage?" "the milkman is to bring a small trunk," she replies, without looking at him. "we have had your old room made ready for you." "ah, my old room,--how delightful!" they cross the threshold, when harry suddenly stands still. "are you not going to give me your hand?" he asks, in a tone of entreaty, whereupon she extends her hand, and then instantly withdraws it. she seems to herself to be doing wrong. as matters stand, she must not make the smallest advance to him,--no, not the smallest: she has resolved upon that. in fact, she did not expect to see him here, and she must show him that she is quite annoyed by his postponing his departure. yap, yap, yap! the rabble of dachshunds, multiplied considerably in the last twelve years, comes tumbling down the steps to leap about zdena; harry's faithful hound hector comes and puts his paws on her shoulder; and, lastly, the ladies come down into the hall,--heda, the countess zriny, fräulein laut,--and, surrounding zdena, carry her off to her room. here they stay talking with her for a while; then they withdraw, each to follow her own devices. how glad the girl is to be alone! she is strangely moved, perplexed, and yet unaccountably happy. it is clear that harry intends to dissolve the engagement into which so mysterious a chain of circumstances has forced him. the difficulty of doing this zdena does not take into consideration. paula must see that he does not care for her; and then--then there will be nothing left for her save to release him. thus zdena concludes, and the world looks very bright to her. oh, the dear old room! she would not exchange it for a kingdom. how home-like and comfortable!--so shady and cool, with its deep window-recesses, where the sunshine filters in through the green, rustling net-work of vines; with its stiff antiquated furniture forming so odd a contrast to the wild luxuriance of extraordinary flowers with which a travelling fresco-painter ages ago decorated walls and ceiling; with its old-fashioned embroidered _prie-dieu_ beneath an ancient bronze crucifix, and its little bed, so snowy white and cool, fragrant with lavender and orris! the floor, of plain deal planks, scrubbed to a milky whiteness, is bare, except that beside the bed lies a rug upon which a very yellow tiger is rolling, and gnashing his teeth, in a very green meadow, and on the wall hangs one single picture,--a faded chromo, at which zdena, when a child, had almost stared her eyes out. the picture represents a young lady gazing at her reflection in a mirror. her hair is worn in tasteless, high puffs and much powdered, her waist is unnaturally long and slim, and her skirts are bunched up about her hips. to the modern observer she is not attractive, but zdena hails her as an old acquaintance. beneath the picture are the words "_lui plairai-je?_" the thing hangs in one of the window-embrasures, above a marquetrie work-table, upon which has been placed a nosegay of fresh, fragrant roses. "who has plucked and placed them there?" zdena asks herself. suddenly a shrill bell rings, calling to table the inmates of komaritz in house and garden. zdena hurriedly picks out of the nosegay the loveliest bud, and puts it in her breast, then looks at herself in the glass,--a tall, narrow glass in a smooth black frame with brass rosettes at the corners,--and murmurs, smiling, "_lui plairai-je?_" then blushes violently and takes out the rose from her bosom. it is a sin even to have such a thought,--under existing circumstances. chapter xxi. "poor lato!" five hours have passed since zdena's arrival in komaritz. harry has been very good; that is, he has scarcely made an appearance; perhaps because he is conscious that when he is with zdena he can hardly take his eyes off her, which, "under existing circumstances," might strike others as, to bay the least, extraordinary. after dinner he goes off partridge shooting, inviting his younger brother, who is devoted to him and whom he spoils like a mother, to accompany him. but vips, as the family prefer to call him instead of vladimir, although usually proud and happy to be thus distinguished by his elder brother, declines his invitation today. in fact, he has fallen desperately in love with zdena. he is lying at her feet on the steps leading from the dwelling-room into the garden. his hair is beautifully brushed, and he has on his best coat. the countess zriny is in her room, writing to her father confessor; fräulein laut is at the piano, practising something by brahms, to which musical hero she is almost as much devoted as is rosamunda to her idolized wagner; and heda is sitting beside her cousin on the garden-steps, manufacturing with praiseworthy diligence crochetted stars of silk. "what do you really think of harry's betrothal, zdena?" she begins at last, after a long silence. at this question the blood rushes to zdena's cheeks; nevertheless her answer sounds quite self-possessed. "what shall i say? i was very much surprised." "so was i," heda confesses. "at first i was raging, for, after all, _elle n'est pas de notre monde_. but lately so many young men of our set have married nobodies that one begins to be accustomed to it, although i must say i am by no means enchanted with it yet. one's own brother,--it comes very near; but it is best to shut one's eyes in such cases. setting aside the _mésalliance_, there is no objection to make to paula. she is pretty, clover, frightfully cultivated,--too cultivated: it is rather bad form,--and for the rest, if she would only dress a little better, she would be quite presentable. and then she makes such advances; it is touching. the last time i dined at dobrotschau i found in my napkin a butterfly pendant, with little sapphires and rubies in its diamond wings. i must show it to you; 'tis delicious," she rattles on. "and what did you find in your napkin, vips?" asks zdena, who seems to herself to be talking of people with whom she has not the slightest connection, so strange is the whole affair. "i? i was not at the dinner," says the boy. "not invited?" zdena rallies him. "not invited!" vips draws down the corners of his mouth scornfully. "oh, indeed! not invited! why, they invited the entire household,--even her!" he motions disdainfully towards the open door, through which fräulein laut can be seen sitting at the piano. "yes, we were even asked to bring hector. but i stayed at home, because i cannot endure those harfinks." "ah! your sentiments are also opposed to the _mésalliance_?" zdena goes on, ironically. "_mésalliance!_" shouts vips. "you know very well that i am a liberal!" vips finished reading "don carlos" about a fortnight ago, and even before then showed signs of liberal tendencies. the previous winter, when he attended the representation, at a theatre in bohemia, of a new play of strong democratic colouring, he applauded all the freethinking tirades with such vehemence that his tutor was at last obliged, to the great amusement of the public, to hold back his hands. "ah, indeed, you are liberal?" says zdena. "i am delighted to hear it." "of course i am; but every respectable man must be a bit of an aristocrat," vips declares, grandly, "and i cannot endure that harry should marry that paula. i told him so to his face; and i am not going to his wedding. i cannot understand why he takes her, for he's in love----" he suddenly pauses. two gentlemen are coming through the garden towards the steps,--harry and lato. lato greets zdena cordially. heda expresses her surprise at harry's speedy return from his shooting, and he, who always now suspects some hidden meaning in her remarks, flushes and frowns as he replies, "i saw treurenberg in the distance, and so i turned back. besides, the shooting all went wrong to-day," he adds, with a compassionate glance at the large hound now stretched out at his master's feet at the bottom of the steps. "he would scarcely stir: i cannot understand it, he is usually so fresh and gay, and loves to go shooting more than all the others; to-day he was almost sullen, and lagged behind,--hey, old boy?" he stoops and strokes the creature's neck, but the dog seems ill-tempered, and snaps at him. "what! snap--snap at me! that's something new," harry exclaims, frowning; then, seizing the animal by the collar, he shakes it violently and hurls it from him. "be off!" he orders, sternly. the dog, as if suddenly ashamed, looks back sadly, and then walks slowly away, with drooping ears and tail. "i don't know what is the matter with the poor fellow!" harry says, really troubled. "he walks strangely; he seems stiff," vladimir remarks, looking after the dog. "it seems to hurt him." "some good-for-nothing boy must have thrown a stone at him and bruised his back," harry decides. "you had better be careful with that dog," heda now puts in her word. "several dogs hereabouts have gone mad, and one roamed about the country for some time before he could be caught and killed." "pray, hush!" harry exclaims, almost angrily, to his sister, with whom he is apt to disagree: "you always forebode the worst. if a fly stings one you are always sure that it has just come from an infected horse or cow." "you have lately been so irritable, i cannot imagine what is the matter with you," lisps hedwig. harry frowns. lato, meanwhile, has paid no heed to these remarks: he is apparently absorbed in his own thoughts, as, sitting on a lower step, he has been drawing with the handle of his riding-whip cabalistic signs in the gravel of the path. now he looks up. "i have a letter for you from paula,--here it is," he observes, handing harry a thick packet wrapped in light-blue tissue paper. while harry, with a dubious expression of countenance, drops the packet into his coat-pocket, lato continues: "paula has all sorts of fancies about your absence. you have not been to dobrotschau for two days. she is afraid you are ill, and that you are keeping it from her lest she should be anxious. she is coming over here with my wife tomorrow afternoon to look after you--i mean, to pay the ladies a visit." after lato has given utterance to these words in a smooth monotone, his expression suddenly changes: his features betoken embarrassment, as, leaning towards harry, he whispers, "i should like to speak with you alone. can you give me a few minutes?" shortly afterwards, harry rises and takes his friend with him to his own room, a spacious vaulted chamber next to the dining-room, which he shares with his young brother. "well, old fellow?" he begins, encouragingly, clapping lato on the shoulder. lato clears his throat, then slowly takes his seat in an arm-chair beside a table covered with a disorderly array of greek and latin books and scribbled sheets of paper. harry sits opposite him, and for a while neither speaks. the silence is disturbed only by the humming of the bees, and by the scratching at the window of an ancient apricot-tree, which seems desirous to call attention to what it has to say, but desists with a low rustle that sounds like a sigh. the tall clock strikes five; it is not late, and yet the room is dim with a gray-green light; the sunbeams have hard work to penetrate the leafy screen before the windows. "well?" harry again says, at last, gently twitching his friend's sleeve. "it is strange," treurenberg begins; his voice has a hard, forced sound, he affects an indifference foreign to his nature, "but since my marriage i have had excellent luck at play. to speak frankly, it has been very convenient. do not look so startled; wait until you are in my position. in the last few days, however, fortune has failed me. in my circumstances this is extremely annoying." he laughs, and flicks a grain of dust from his coat-sleeve. harry looks at him, surprised. "ah! i understand. you want money. how much? if i can help you out i shall be glad to do so." "six hundred guilders," says lato, curtly. harry can scarcely believe his ears. how can lato come to him for such a trifle? "i can certainly scrape together that much for you," he says, carelessly, and going to his writing-table he takes a couple of bank-notes out of a drawer. "here!" and he offers the notes to his friend. lato hesitates for a moment, as if in dread of the money, then takes it, and puts it in his pocket. "thanks," he murmurs, hoarsely, and again there is a silence, which lato is the first to break. "why do you look at me so inquiringly?" he exclaims, almost angrily. "forgive me, lato, we are such old friends." "what do you want to know?" "i was only wondering how a man in your brilliant circumstances could be embarrassed for so trifling a sum as six hundred guilders!" "a man in my brilliant circumstances!" lato repeats, bitterly. "yes, you think, as does everybody else, that i am still living upon my wife's money. but you are mistaken. i tried it, indeed, for a while, but i was not made to play that part, no! it was different at first; my wife wished that i should have the disposal of her means, and i half cheated myself into the belief that her millions belonged to me. she came to me for every farthing. i used to rally her upon her extravagance; i played at magnanimity, and forgave her, and made her costly presents--yes--good heavens, how disgusting! but that is long since past; we have separate purses at present, thank god! i am often too shabby nowadays for the grand folk at dobrotschau, but that does not trouble me." he drums nervously upon the table. harry looks more and more amazed. "but then i cannot see why--" he murmurs, but lacks the courage to finish the sentence. "i know what you wish to say," lato continues, bitterly. "you wonder why, under these circumstances, i cannot shake off the old habit. what would you have? hitherto i have won almost constantly; now my luck has turned, and yet i cannot control myself. those who have not this cursed love of play in their blood cannot understand it, but play is the only thing in the world in which i can become absorbed,--the only thing that can rid me of all sorts of thoughts which i never ought to entertain. there! now you know!" he draws a deep, hoarse breath, then laughs a hard, wooden laugh. harry is very uncomfortable: he has never before seen lato like this. it distresses him to notice how his friend has changed in looks of late. his eyes are hollow and unnaturally bright, his lips are dry and cracked as from fever, and he is more restless than is his wont. "poor lato! what fresh trouble have you had lately?" asks harry, longing to express his sympathy. lato flushes crimson, then nervously curls into dog's-ears the leaves of a greek grammar on the table, and shrugs his shoulders. "oh, nothing,--disagreeable domestic complications," he mutters, evasively. "nothing new has happened, then?" asks harry, looking at him keenly. lato cannot endure his gaze. "what could have happened?" he breaks forth. "how do you get along with your wife?" "not at all,--worse every day," treurenberg says, dryly. "and now comes this cursed, meddling polish jackanapes----" "if the gentlemen please, the baroness sends me to say that coffee is served." with these words blasius makes his appearance at the door. lato springs hastily to his feet. the conversation is at an end. chapter xxii. harry's musings. "what are you doing there, you young donkey,--your lessons not yet learned, and wasting time in this fashion?" these were harry's words addressed to his young brother. the boy was standing on an old wooden bench, gazing over the garden wall. "i am looking after the girl who was here to-day with the people from dobrotschau." "whom do you mean?" "why, the beauty; olga--olga dangeri is her name. come here and see for yourself if it is wasting time to look after her." with an involuntary smile at the lad's precocity, harry mounted upon the bench beside his brother, and, through the gathering twilight, gazed after a couple--a man and a girl--slowly sauntering along the road outside the garden. the man walked with bent head and downcast look; the young girl, on the contrary, held her head proudly erect, and there was something regal in her firm gait. the man walked in silence beside his beautiful companion, who, on the other band, never stopped talking, chattering away with easy grace, and turning towards him the while. the silhouette of her noble profile was clearly defined against the evening sky. the last golden shimmer of the setting sun touched her brown hair with a reddish gleam. she had taken off her hat and hung it on her arm; her white gown fell in long, simple folds about her. "there! is she not lovely?" vips exclaimed, with boyish enthusiasm. "i cannot understand lato: he hardly looks at her." harry hung his head. "they have vanished in the walnut avenue; you can't see them now," said vips, leaving his post of observation. "i like her; she is not only beautiful, she is clever and amiable," the boy went on. "i talked with her for quite a while, although she is not so entertaining as our zdena,--she is not half so witty. let me tell you, there is no one in all the world like our zdena." as he spoke, vladimir, the keen-sighted, plucked his brother by the sleeve of his blue military blouse, and eyed him askance. "what is the matter with you, harry?" for harry shook the boy off rather rudely. "oh, hold your tongue for a while!" harry exclaimed, angrily; "i have a headache." thus repulsed, vladimir withdrew, not, however, without turning several times to look at his brother, and sighing each time thoughtfully. meanwhile, harry had seated himself on the old bench whence vips had made his observations. his hands in his pockets, his legs stretched out before him, he sat wrapt in gloom, digging his spurs into the ground. he had passed a hard day,--a day spent in deceit; there was no help for it. how mean he was in his own eyes! and yet--how could he help it? paula had carried out her threat, and had driven over with selina, bringing olga and lato, "to pay the ladies a visit." after the first greetings she had paid the ladies little further attention, but had devoted herself to her betrothed, drawing him with her into some window-recess or shady garden nook, where she could whisper loving words or lavish tender caresses, which he could not repulse without positive rudeness. oh, how long the visit had seemed to him! although paula had withdrawn him from the rest of the company as far as possible, he had found opportunity to observe them. olga, who could not drive backwards in a carriage comfortably, but with whom neither of the other ladies had offered to exchange seats, had arrived rather pale and dizzy. zdena had immediately applied herself to restoring her, with the ready, tender sympathy that made her so charming. vips was right: there was no one like zdena in the world, although olga was more beautiful, and also glowing with the charm to which no man is insensible,--the charm of a strong, passionate nature. not even harry, whose whole soul was filled at present with, another, and to him an infinitely more attractive, woman, could quite withstand this charm in olga's society; it made the girl seem to him almost uncanny. it had rather displeased harry at first--he could not himself say why--to see how quickly a kind of intimacy established itself between olga and zdena. as the two girls walked arm in arm down the garden path he would fain have snatched zdena away from her new friend, the pale beautiful olga, whom nevertheless he so pitied. meanwhile, heda had done the honours of the mansion for selina, in which duty she was assisted by the countess zriny, who displayed the greatest condescension on the occasion. then the ladies asked to see the house, and had been conducted from room to room, evidently amazed at the plainness of the furniture, but loud in their praises of everything as "so effective." paula had begged to see harry's room, and had rummaged among his whips, had put one of his cigars between her lips, and had even contrived, when she thought no one was looking, to kiss the tip of his ear. the countess zriny, however, accidentally looked round at that moment, to harry's great confusion. towards six o'clock the party had taken leave, with many expressions of delight and attachment. before they drove off, however, there had been a rather unpleasant scene. lato had requested his wife to exchange seats with olga, since the girl could not, without extreme discomfort, ride with her back to the horses. selina had refused to comply with his request, asserting that to ride backwards was quite as unpleasant for her as for olga. then olga had joined in the conversation, saying she had heard that the path through the forest to dobrotschau was very picturesque, and declaring that if lato would accompany her she should much prefer to walk. to this lato had made various objections, finally yielding, however, and setting out with his head hanging and his shoulders drooping, like a lamb led to the sacrifice. harry's thoughts dwelt upon the pale girl with the large, dark eyes. was it possible that none of the others could read those eyes? he recalled the tall, slim figure, the long, thin, but nobly-modelled arms, the slender, rather long hands, in which a feverish longing to have and to hold somewhat seemed to thrill; he recalled the gliding melancholy of her gait, he was spellbound by the impression of her youthful personality. where had he seen a figure expressing the same yearning enthusiasm? why, in a picture by botticelli,--a picture representing spring,--a pale, sultry spring, in whose hands the flowers faded. something in the girl's carriage and figure reminded him of that allegorical spring, except that olga's face was infinitely more beautiful than the languishing, ecstatic countenance in the old picture. long did harry sit on the garden bench reflecting, and his reflections became every moment more distressing. he forgot all his own troubles in this fresh anxiety. he thought of treurenberg's altered mien. olga had not yet awakened to a consciousness of herself, and that was a comfort. she was not only absolutely pure,--harry was sure of that,--but she was entirely unaware of her own state of feeling. how long would this last, however? passion walks, like a somnambulist, in entire security on the edge of profound abysses, so long as "sense is shut" in its eyes. but what if some rude hand, some unforeseen chance, awake it? then--god have mercy! harry dug his spurs deeper into the gravel. "what will happen if her eyes should ever be opened?" he asked himself, with a shudder. "she is in no wise inclined to wanton frivolity, but she is a passionate creature without firm principles, without family ties to restrain her. and lato? lato will do his best to conquer himself. but can he summon up the strength of character, the tact, requisite to avoid a catastrophe and to preserve the old order of things? and if not, what then?" harry leaned his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees. to what it would all lead he could not tell, but he dreaded something terrible. he knew lato well, the paralyzing weakness, as well as the subtile refinement, of his nature. stern principle, a strict sense of duty, he lacked: how could it be otherwise, with such early training as had been his? instead, however, he possessed an innate sense of moral beauty which must save him from moral degradation. "a young girl, one of his home circle!" harry murmured to himself. "no, it is inconceivable! and, yet, what can come of it?" and a sobbing breeze, carrying with it the scent of languid roses from whose cups it had drunk up the dew, rustled among the thirsty branches overhead with a sound that seemed to the young fellow like the chuckle of an exultant fiend. chapter xxiii. zdena to the rescue. but harry ceases to muse, for the shrill clang of the bell summons him to supper. he finds the entire family assembled in the dining-room when he enters. all are laughing and talking, even zdena, who is allowing handsome, precocious vladimir to make love to her after more and more startling fashion. she informs harry that vips has just made her a proposal of marriage, which disparity of age alone prevents her from accepting, for in fact she is devoted to the lad. "i renounce you from a sense of duty, vips," she assures the young gentleman, gently passing her delicate forefinger over his smooth brown cheek, whereupon vips flushes up and exclaims,-- "if you won't have me, at least promise me that i shall be best man at your wedding!" harry laughs heartily. "what an alternative! either bridegroom or best man!" "but you will promise me, zdena, won't you?" the boy persists. "it depends upon whom i marry," zdena replies, with dignity. "the bridegroom will have a word to say upon the subject." as she speaks, her eyes encounter harry's; she drops them instantly, her cheeks flush, and she pauses in confusion. as she takes her place at table, she finds a letter beside her plate, post-marked bayreuth, and sealed with a huge coat-of-arms. evidently startled, she slips it into her pocket unopened. "from whom?" asks heda, whose curiosity is always on the alert. "from--from bayreuth." "from aunt rosa?" zdena makes no reply. "from wenkendorf?" harry asks, crossly. the blood rushes to her cheeks. "yes," she murmurs. "how interesting!" heda exclaims. "i really should like to hear his views as to the musical mysteries in bayreuth. read the letter aloud to us." "oh, it is sure to be tiresome," zdena replies, heaping her plate with potatoes in her confusion. "i wish you a good appetite!" vladimir exclaims. zdena looks in dismay at the potatoes piled upon her plate. "at least open the letter," says heda. "open it, pray!" harry repeats. mechanically zdena obeys, breaks the seal, and hastily looks through the letter. her cheeks grow redder and redder, her hands tremble. "come, read it to us." instead of complying, zdena puts the document in her pocket again, and murmurs, much embarrassed, "there--there is nothing in it about bayreuth." "ah, secrets!" heda says, maliciously. zdena makes no reply, but gazes in desperation at the mound of potatoes on her plate. it never decreases in the least during the entire meal. jealousy, which has slept for a while in harry's breast, springs to life again. one is not a leskjewitsch for nothing. so she keeps up a correspondence with wenkendorf! ah! he may be deceived in her. why was she so confused at the first sight of the letter? and why did she hide it away so hastily? who knows?--she may be trifling with her old adorer, holding him in reserve as it were, because she has not quite decided as to her future. who--who can be trusted, if that fair, angelic face can mask such guile? countess zriny, as amiable and benevolent as ever,--vips calls her "syrup diluted with holy water,"--notices that something has occurred to annoy the others, and attempts to change their train of thought. "how is your dog, my dear harry?" she asks her nephew across the table. "very ill," the young officer replies, curtly. "indeed? oh, how sad! what is the matter with him?" "i wish i knew. he drags his legs, his tail droops, and he has fever. i cannot help thinking that some one has thrown a stone at him, and i cannot imagine who could have been guilty of such cruelty." "poor hector! 'tis all up with him; he has no appetite," vips murmurs. "how do you know that?" harry turns sharply upon the lad. "i took him a piece of bread this afternoon," stammers vips. "indeed?" harry bursts forth. "do that again and you shall suffer for it. i strictly forbade you to go near the dog!" then, turning to the others, he explains: "i had to have the dog chained up, out of regard for the servants' nonsensical fears!" "but, harry," vips begins, coaxingly, after a while, "if i must not go near the dog you ought not to have so much to do with him. you went to him several times to-day." "that's very different; he is used to me," harry sternly replies to his brother, who is looking at him with eyes full of anxious affection. "i have to see to him, since all the asses of servants, beginning with that old fool blasius, are afraid of the poor brute. moreover, he has everything now that he needs." vips knits his brows thoughtfully and shakes his head. suddenly the door of the dining-room opens, and old blasius appears, pale as ashes, and trembling in every limb. "what is the matter?" harry asks, springing up. "herr baron, i----" the old man stammers. "what is the matter?" "i told the herr baron how it would be," the old man declares, with the whimsical self-assertion which so often mingles with distress in the announcement of some misfortune: "hector has gone mad." "nonsense! what do you know about hydrophobia? let the dog alone!" harry shouts, stamping his foot. "he has broken his chain." "then chain him up again! send johann here." (johann is harry's special servant.) "johann is not at home. the herr baron does not know what he orders. the dog rushes at everything in its path, and tears and bites it. no one dares to go near him, not even the butcher. he must be killed." "what, you coward!" harry shouts; "my dog killed because of a little epilepsy, or whatever it is that ails him!" meanwhile, harry notices that his brother, who had vanished into the next room for a moment, is now attempting with a very resolute air to go out through the door leading into the hall. harry seizes him by the shoulder and stops him: "where are you going?" vips is mute. "what have you in your hand?" it is harry's revolver. "is it loaded?" he asks, sternly. "yes," vips replies, scarce audibly. "put it down there on the piano!" harry orders, harshly. the poor boy obeys sadly, and then throws his arms around his brother. "but you will stay here, harry? dear harry, you will not go near the dog?" "you silly boy, do you suppose i am to do whatever you bid me?" harry rejoins. and, pinning the lad's arms to his sides from behind, he lifts him up, carries him into the next room, locks him in, puts the key in his pocket, and, without another word, leaves the room. blasius stays in the dining-room, wringing his hands, and finally engages in a wailing conversation with vips, who is kicking violently at the door behind which he is confined. heda, the countess zriny, and fräulein laut, their backs towards the piano, upon which lies the revolver, form an interesting group, expressing in every feature terror and helplessness. "perhaps he may not be mad," countess zriny observes, after a long silence, resolved as ever to ignore unpleasant facts. "however, i have my eau de lourdes, at all events." at this moment the rustle of a light garment is heard. the countess looks round for zdena, but she has vanished. whither has she gone? the dining-room has four doors,--one into the garden, another opposite leading into the hall, a third opening into harry's room, and a fourth into the pantry. through this last zdena has slipped. from the pantry a narrow, dark passage leads down a couple of steps into a lumber-room, which opens on the courtyard. zdena, when she steps into the court-yard, closes the door behind her and looks around. her heart beats tumultuously. she hopes to reach harry before he meets the dog; but, look where she may, she cannot see him. wandering clouds veil the low moon; its light is fitful, now bright, then dim. the shadows dance and fade, and outlines blend in fantastic indistinctness. the wind has risen; it shrieks and howls, and whirls the dust into the poor girl's eyes. a frightful growling sound mingles with the noise of the blast. zdena's heart beats faster; she is terribly afraid. "harry!" she calls, in an agonized tone; "harry!" in vain. she hears his shrill whistle at the other end of the court-yard, hears him call, commandingly, "hector, come here, sir!" he is far away. she hurries towards him. hark! her heart seems to stand still. near her sounds the rattle of a chain; a pair of fierce bloodshot eyes glare at her: the dog is close at hand. he sees her, and makes ready for a spring. it is true that the girl has a revolver in her hand, but she has no idea what to do with it; she has never fired a pistol in her life. in desperate fear she clambers swiftly upon a wood-pile against the brewery wall. the dog, in blind fury, leaps at the wood, falls back, and then runs howling in another direction. the moon emerges from the clouds, and pours its slanting beams into the court-yard. at last zdena perceives her headstrong cousin; he is going directly towards the dog. "hector!" he shouts; "hector!" a few steps onward he comes, when zdena slips down from her secure height. panting, almost beside herself, the very personification of heroic self-sacrifice and desperate terror, she hurries up to harry. "what is it--zdena--you?" harry calls out. for, just at the moment when he stretches out his hand to clutch at the dog's collar, a slender figure rushes between him and the furious brute. "here, harry,--the revolver!" the girl gasps, holding out the weapon. there is a sharp report: hector turns, staggers, and falls dead! the revolver drops from harry's hand; he closes his eyes. for a few seconds he stands as if turned to stone, and deadly pale. then he feels a soft touch upon his arm, and a tremulous voice whispers,-- "forgive me, harry! i know how you must grieve for your poor old friend, but--but i was so frightened for you!" he opens his eyes, and, throwing his arm around the girl, exclaims,-- "you angel! can you for an instant imagine that at this moment i have a thought to bestow upon the dog, dearly as i loved him?" his arm clasps her closer. "harry!" she gasps, distressed. with a sigh he releases her. in the summits of the old walnuts there soughs a wail of discontent, and the moon, which shone forth but a moment ago so brilliantly, and which takes delight in the kisses of happy lovers, veils its face in clouds before its setting, being defrauded of any such satisfaction. "come into the house," whispers zdena. but walking is not so easy as she thinks. she is so dizzy that she can hardly put one foot before the other, and, whether she will or not, she must depend upon harry to support her. "fool that i am!" he mutters. "lean upon me, you poor angel! you are trembling like an aspen-leaf." "i can hardly walk,--i was so terribly afraid," she confesses. "on my account?" he asks. "no, not on your account alone, but on my own, too," she replies, laughing, "for, entirely between ourselves, i am a wretched coward." "really? oh, zdena--" he presses the hand that rests on his arm. "but, harry," she says, very gravely this time, "i am not giddy now. i can walk very well." and she takes her hand from his arm. he only laughs, and says, "as you please, my queen, but you need not fear me. if a man ever deserved paradise, i did just then." he points to the spot beneath the old walnuts, where the moon had been disappointed. a few seconds later they enter the dining-room, where are the three ladies, and the countess zriny advances to meet harry with a large bottle of eau de lourdes, a tablespoonful of which heda is trying to heat over the flame of the lamp, while fräulein laut pauses in her account of a wonderful remedy for hydrophobia. harry impatiently cuts short all the inquiries with which he is besieged, with "the dog is dead; i shot him!" he does not relate how the deed was done. at first he had been disposed to extol zdena's heroism, but he has thought better of it. he resolves to keep for himself alone the memory of the last few moments, to guard it in his heart like a sacred secret. as vips is still proclaiming his presence in the next room by pounding upon the door, harry takes the key from his pocket and smilingly releases the prisoner. the lad rushes at his brother. "did he not bite you? really not?" and when harry answers, "no," he entreats, "show me your hands, harry,--both of them!" and then he throws his arms about the young man and clasps him close. "oh, you foolish fellow!" harry exclaims, stroking the boy's brown head. "but now be sensible; don't behave like a girl. do you hear?" "my nerves are in such a state," sighs heda. harry stamps his foot. "so are mine! i would advise you all to retire, and recover from this turmoil." soon afterwards the house is silent. even vips has been persuaded to go to bed and sleep off his fright. harry, however, is awake. after ordering blasius to bury the dog, and to bring him his revolver, which he now remembers to have left lying beside the animal's body, he seats himself on the flight of steps leading from the dining-room into the garden, leans his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands, and dreams. the wind has subsided, and the night seems to him lovely in spite of the misty clouds that veil the sky. the flowers are fragrant,--oh, how fair life is! suddenly he hears a light step; he rises, goes into the corridor, and finds zdena putting a letter into the postbag. he approaches her, and their eyes meet. in vain does she attempt to look grave. she smiles, and her smile is mirrored in his eyes. "to whom was the letter?" he asks, going towards her. not that there is a spark of jealousy left in his heart for the moment, but he delights to coax her secrets from her, to share in all that concerns her. "is it any affair of yours?" she asks, with dignity. "no, but i should like to know." "i will not tell you." "suppose i guess?" she shrugs her shoulders. "to wenkendorf," he whispers, advancing a step nearer her, as she makes no reply. "what did he write to you?" harry persists. "that is no concern of yours." "what if i guess that, too?" "then i hope you will keep your knowledge to yourself, and not mention your guess to any one," zdena exclaims, eagerly. "he proposed to you," harry says, softly. zdena sighs impatiently. "well, yes!" she admits at last, turning to harry a blushing face as she goes on. "but i really could not help it. i did what i could to prevent it, but men are so conceited and headstrong. if one of them takes an idea into his head there is no disabusing him of it." "indeed! is that the way with all men?" harry asks, ready to burst into a laugh. "yes, except when they have other and worse faults,--are suspicious and bad-tempered." "but then these last repent so bitterly, and are so ashamed of themselves." "oh, as for that, he will be ashamed of himself too." then, suddenly growing grave, she adds, "i should be very sorry to have----" "to have any one hear of his disappointed hopes," harry interposes, with a degree of malicious triumph in his tone. "do not fear; we will keep his secret." "good-night!" she takes up her candlestick, which she had put down on the table beside which they are standing, and turns towards the winding staircase. "zdena!" harry whispers, softly. "what is it?" "nothing: only--is there really not a regret in your heart for the wealth you have rejected?" she shakes her head slowly, as if reflecting. "no," she replies: "what good would it have done me? i could not have enjoyed it." then she suddenly blushes crimson, and, turning away from him, goes to the staircase. "zdena!" he calls again; "zdena!" but the white figure has vanished at the turn of the steps, and he is alone. for a while he stands gazing into the darkness that has swallowed her up. "god keep you!" he murmurs, tenderly, and finally betakes himself to his room, with no thought, however, of going to bed. chapter xxiv. a sleepless night. no, he could not sleep; he had something important to do. at last he must pluck up courage and establish his position. this wretched prevarication, this double dealing, could not go on any longer. it was ten times more disgraceful than the most brutal frankness. he seated himself at the very table where, scarcely more than a day before, he had listened to lato's confessions, and began a rough sketch of his letter to paula. but at the very first word he stopped. he was going to write, "dear paula," but that would never do. could he address her thus familiarly when he wanted to sever all relations with her? impossible! "honoured baroness" he could not write, either; it sounded ridiculous, applied to a girl with whom he had sat for hours in the last fortnight. he decided to begin, "dear baroness paula." he dipped his pen in the ink, and wrote the words in a distinct hand: "dear baroness paula, i cannot express to you the difficulty i find in telling you what must, however, be told. i had hoped until now that you would discover it yourself----" thus far he wrote hurriedly, and as if in scorn of mortal danger. he paused now, and read over the few words. his cheeks burned. no, he could not write that to a lady: as well might he strike her in the face. it was impossible. but what should he do? at last an idea occurred to him, how strange not to have thought of it before! he must appeal to her mother. it was as clear as daylight. he took a fresh sheet of paper, having torn the other up and tossed it under the table, then dipped his pen anew in the ink. but no; it would not do. every hour that he had spent with paula, every caress he had allowed her to bestow upon him, was brought up before him by his conscience, which did not spare him the smallest particular. lato's words recurred to him: "you cannot disguise from yourself the fact that you--you and paula--produce the impression of a devoted pair of lovers." he set his teeth. he could not deny that his conduct had been shameful. he could not sever his engagement to her without a lack of honour. "oh, good god! how had it ever come to pass?" what had induced him to ride over to dobrotschau day after day? he had always been sure that an opportunity for an explanation would occur. when with paula he had endured her advances in sullen submission, without facing the consequences; he had simply been annoyed; and now---- he shuddered. once more he took up the pen, but in vain; never before had he felt so utterly hopeless. every limb ached as if laden with fetters. he tossed the pen aside: under the circumstances he could not write the letter; paula herself must sever the tie, if it could be severed. if it could be severed! what did that mean? he seemed to hear the words spoken aloud. nonsense! if it could be severed! as if there were a doubt that it could be severed! but how? how? his distress was terrible. he could see no way to extricate himself. paula must be compelled to release him of her own accord; but how was it to be done? he devised the wildest schemes. could he be caught flirting with a gypsy girl? or could he feign to be deeply in debt? no, no more feigning; and, besides, what would it avail? she would forgive everything. suddenly vips cried out in his sleep. "vips!" harry called, to waken him, going to his brother's bedside. the lad opened his eyes, heavy with sleep, and said, "i am so glad you waked me! i was having a horrible dream that you were being torn to pieces by a furious leopard." "you foolish boy!" "oh, it was no joke, i can tell you!" then, pulling his brother down to him, he went on, "zdena took the revolver to you, i saw her through the keyhole; not one of the others would have raised a finger for you. no, there is no one in the world like our zdena." vips stroked his brother's blue sleeve with his long, slender hand. "do you know," he whispered very softly, "i have no doubt that----" harry frowned, and vips blushed, shut his eyes, and turned his face to the wall. the first gleam of morning was breaking its way through the twilight; a rosy glow illumined the eastern horizon; the stream began to glimmer, and then shone like molten gold; long shadows detached themselves from the universal gray and stretched across the garden among the dewy flower-beds. the dew lay everywhere, glistening like silvery dust on the blades of grass, and dripping in the foliage of the old apricot-tree by the open window at which harry stood gazing sadly out into the wondrous beauty of the world. the cool morning breeze fanned his check; the birds began to twitter. the young fellow was conscious of the discomfort of a night spent without sleep; but far worse than that was the hopeless misery that weighed him down. hark! what was that? the sound of bells, the trot of horses on the quiet road. harry leaned forward. who was that? leaning back in an open barouche, a gray travelling-cap on his head, a handsome old man was driving along the road. "father!" exclaimed harry. the old gentleman saw him from the carriage and waved his hand gaily. in a twinkling harry was opening the house-door. "i have surprised you, have i not?" karl leskjewitsch exclaimed, embracing his son. "but what's the matter with you? what ails you? i never saw you look so sallow,--you rogue!" and he shook his forefinger at the young fellow. "oh, nothing,--nothing, sir: we will talk of it by and by. now come and take some rest." chapter xxv. the confession. baron leskjewitsch was in an admirable humour. he brightened up the entire household. the countess zriny, to be sure, lamented to fräulein laut his tireless loquacity, but perhaps that was because his loquacity displayed itself principally in the utterance of anti-catholic views. at breakfast, on the first morning after his arrival, he cut the old canoness to the heart. when he rallied her upon the indigestible nature of her favourite delicacy, raspberry jam with whipped cream, she replied that she could eat it with perfect impunity, since she always mixed a teaspoonful of eau de lourdes with the jam before adding the cream. whereupon the baron called this preservative "catholic quackery," and was annoyed that she made no reply to his attack. like a former emperor of russia, he longed for opposition. he did what he could to rouse countess zriny's. after a while he asserted that she was a heathen. catholicism in its modern form, with its picturesque ritual and its superstitious worship of the saints, was nothing more than cowled paganism. the countess, to whom this rather antiquated wisdom was new, shuddered with horror, and regarded the baron as antichrist, but nevertheless held her peace. then he played his last trump. he informed her that he regarded the darwinian theory as much less irreligious than her, countess zriny's, paltry conception of the deity. then the countess arose and left the room, to write immediately to her father confessor, expressing her anxieties with regard to her cousin's soul, and asking the priest to say a mass for his conversion. "poor kathi! have i frightened her away? i didn't mean to do that," said the baron, looking after her. no, he had not meant to do it; he had merely desired to arouse opposition. "a splendid subject for an essay," he exclaimed, after a pause,--"'the darwinian theory and the catholic ritual set forth by a man of true piety.' i really must publish a pamphlet with that title. it may bring me into collision with the government, but that would not be very distressing." privately the baron wished for nothing more earnestly than to be brought into collision with the government, to be concerned in some combination threatening the existence of the monarchy. but just as some women, in spite of every endeavour, never succeed in compromising themselves, so karl leskjewitsch had never yet succeeded in seriously embroiling himself with the government. no one took him in earnest; even when he made the most incendiary speeches, they were regarded as but the amusing babble of a political dilettante. he eagerly availed himself of any occasion to utter his paradoxes, and at this first breakfast he was so eloquent that gradually all at the table followed the example of countess zriny, in leaving it, except his eldest son. he lighted a cigar, and invited harry to go into the garden with him. harry, who had been longing for a word with his father in private, acceded readily to his proposal. the sun shone brightly, the flowers in the beds sparkled like diamonds. the old ruin stood brown and clear against the sky, the bees hummed, and fräulein laut was practising something of brahms's. of course she had seated herself at the piano as soon as the dining-room was deserted. harry walked beside his father, with bent head, vainly seeking for words in which to explain his unfortunate case. his father held his head very erect, kicked the pebbles from his path with dignity, talked very fast, and asked his son twenty questions, without waiting for an answer to one of them. "have you been spending all your leave here? does it not bore you? why did you not take an interesting trip? life here must be rather tiresome; heda never added much to the general hilarity, and as for poor kathi, do you think her entertaining? she's little more than a _mouton à l'eau bénite_. and then that sausage-chopper," with a glance in the direction whence proceeded a host of interesting dissonances. "surely you must have found your stay here a very heavy affair. kathi zriny is harmless, but that laut--ugh!--a terrible creature! look at her hair; it looks like hay. i should like to understand the aim of creation in producing such an article; we have no use for it." he paused,--perhaps for breath. "father," harry began, meekly. "well?" "i should like to tell you something." "tell me, then, but without any preface. i detest prefaces; i never read them; in fact, a book is usually spoiled for me if i find it has a preface. what is a preface written for? either to explain the book that follows it, or to excuse it. and why read a book that needs explanation or excuses? i told franz weyser, the famous orator, in the reichsrath the other day, that----" "father," harry began again, in a tone of entreaty, aware that he should have some difficulty in obtaining a hearing for his confession. "what an infernally sentimental air you have! aha! i begin to see. you have evidently fallen in love with zdena. it is not to be wondered at; she's a charming creature--pretty as a picture--looks amazingly like charlotte buff, of goethe memory; all that is needed is to have her hair dressed high and powdered. what can i say? in your place i should have been no wiser. moreover, if you choose to marry poverty for love, 'tis your own affair. you must remember that franz will undoubtedly stop your allowance. you cannot expect much from paul; and as for myself, i can do nothing for you except give you my blessing. you know how matters stand with me; and i must think of your sister, who never can marry without a dowry. i cannot entirely deprive myself of means: a politician must preserve his independence, for, as i lately said to fritz böhm, in the reichsrath----" in vain had harry tried to edge in a word. with a bitter smile he recalled a passage in a vienna humorous paper which, under the heading of "a disaster prevented," set forth the peril from drowning from which the entire government had been saved by the presence of mind of the president of the reichsrath, herr doctor smolka, who had contrived just in the nick of time to put a stop to a torrent of words from baron karl leskjewitsch. suddenly the baron stumbled over a stone, which fortunately caused him to pause. "it has nothing to do with zdena!" harry exclaimed, seizing his opportunity. "not? then----" "i have become betrothed," harry almost shouted, for fear of not making his father hear. "and what do you want of me?" "you must help me to break the engagement," his son cried, in despair. at these words karl leskjewitsch, who with all his confusion of ideas had managed to retain a strong sense of humour, made a grimace, and pushed back the straw hat which he wore, and which had made the ascent of mount vesuvius with him and had a hole in the crown, so that it nearly fell off his head. "ah, indeed! first of all i should like to know to whom you are betrothed,--the result, of course, of garrison life in some small town? i always maintain that for a cavalry officer----" harry felt the liveliest desire to summon the aid of doctor smolka to stem the tide of his father's eloquence, but, since this could not be, he loudly interrupted him: "i am betrothed to paula harfink!" "harfink!" exclaimed the baron. "the harfinks of k----?" "yes; they are at dobrotschau this summer," harry explained. "so she is your betrothed,--the baroness paula? she is handsome; a little too stout, but that is a matter of taste. and you want to marry her?" "no, no, i do not want to marry her!" harry exclaimed, in dismay. "oh, indeed! you do not want to marry her?" murmured the baron. "and why not?" "because--because i do not love her." "why did you betroth yourself to her?" harry briefly explained the affair to his father. the baron looked grave. "and what do you want me to do?" he asked, after a long, oppressive silence. "help me out, father. put your veto upon this connection." "what will my veto avail? you are of age, and can do as you choose," said the baron, shaking his head. "yes, legally," harry rejoined, impatiently, "but i never should dream of marrying against your will." karl leskjewitsch found this assurance of filial submission on his son's part very amusing. he looked askance at the young fellow, and, suppressing a smile, extended his hand after a pompous theatric fashion and exclaimed, "i thank you for those words. they rejoice my paternal heart." then, after swinging his son's hand up and down like a pump-handle, he dropped it and said, dryly, "unfortunately, i have not the slightest objection to your betrothal to the harfink girl. what pretext shall i make use of?" "well,"--harry blushed,--"you might say you cannot consent to the _mésalliance_." "indeed! thanks for the suggestion. i belong to the liberal party, and do not feel called upon to play the part of an aristocratic cerberus defending his prejudices." here the baron took out his note-book. "aristocratic cerberus," he murmured; "that may be useful some day in the reichsrath. besides," he continued, "it would just now be particularly unpleasant to quarrel with the harfinks. if you had asked me before your betrothal whether i should like it, i should have frankly said no. the connection is a vulgar one; but, since matters have gone so far, i do not like to make a disturbance. the brother of the girl's mother, doctor grünbart, is one of the leaders of our party. he formerly conducted himself towards me with great reserve, suspecting that my liberal tendencies were due merely to a whim, to a fleeting caprice. i met him, however, a short time ago, on my tour through sweden and norway. he was travelling with his wife and daughter. we travelled together. he is a very clever man, but--between ourselves--intolerable, and with dirty nails. as for his women-folk,--good heavens!" the baron clasped his hands. "the wife always eat the heads of the trout which i left in the dish, and the daughter travelled in a light-blue gown, with a green botany-box hanging at her back, and such teeth,--horrible! the wife is a schoolmaster's daughter, who married the old man to rid herself of a student lover. very worthy, but intolerable. i travelled with them for six weeks, and won the doctor's heart by my courtesy to his wife and daughter. i should have been more cautious if i had been at housekeeping in vienna, although the most violent austrian democrats are very reasonable in social respects, especially with regard to their women. they are flattered by attention to them on a journey, but they are not aggressive at home. this, however, is not to the point." it did indeed seem not to the point to harry, who bit his lip and privately clinched his fist. he was on the rack during his father's rambling discourse. "what i wanted to say"--the baron resumed the thread of his discourse--"is, that this democrat's pride is his elegant sister, baroness harfink, and the fact that she was once invited, after great exertions in some charitable undertaking, to a ball at the princess colloredo's--i think it was at the colloredo's. i should like to have seen her there!" he rubbed his hands and smiled. "my democrat maintains that she looked more distinguished than the hostess. you understand that if i should wound his family pride i could not hope for his support in the reichsrath, where i depend upon it to procure me a hearing." harry privately thought that it would be meritorious to avert such a calamity, but he said, "ah, father, that democrat's support is not so necessary as you think. depend upon it, you will be heard without it. and then a quarrel with a politician would cause you only a temporary annoyance, while the continuance of my betrothal to paula will simply kill me. i have done my best to show her the state of my feelings towards her. she does not understand me. there is nothing for it but for you to undertake the affair." harry clasped his hands in entreaty, like a boy. "do it for my sake. you are the only one who can help me." baron karl was touched. he promised everything that his son asked of him. chapter xxvi. the baron's aid. the baron never liked to postpone what he had to do; it was against his principles and his nature. the matter must be attended to at once. as soon as the mid-day meal was over, he had the carriage brought, put on a black coat, and set out for dobrotschau. the fountain plashed dreamily as he drove into the castle court-yard. the afternoon sun glittered on the water, and a great dog came towards him as he alighted, and thrust his nose into his hand. he knew the old dog. "how are you, old friend? how does the new _régime_ suit you?" he said, patting the animal's head. two footmen hurried forward in drab breeches and striped vests. to one of them baron karl gave his card, and then awaited the mistress of the mansion in the spacious and rather dark drawing-room into which he had been shown. he looked about him, and was very well pleased. the tall windows of the room were draped with pale-green silk; the furniture, various in shape and style, was all convenient and handsome; vases filled with flowers stood here and there on stands and tables; and in a black ebony cabinet, behind glass doors, there was a fine collection of old porcelain. the baron was a connoisseur in old porcelain, and had just risen to examine these specimens, when the servant returned to conduct him to the baroness's presence. baron karl's heart throbbed a little fast at the thought of his mission, and he privately anathematized "the stupid boy" who had been the cause of it. "since he got himself into the scrape, he might have got himself out of it," he thought, as he followed the lackey, who showed him into a small but charming boudoir, fitted up after a rural fashion with light cretonne. "i'm in for it," the baron thought, in english. he liked to sprinkle his soliloquies with english phrases, having a great preference for england, whence he imported his clothes, his soap, and his political ideas of reform _en gros_. in the reichsrath they called him "old england." as he entered the pretty room, a lady rose from a low lounge and came towards him with outstretched hands. those hands were small, soft, and shapely, and the rings adorning the third finger of one of them--a ruby and a large diamond, both very simply set--became them well. baron karl could not help carrying one of them to his lips; thus much, he thought, he owed the poor woman in view of the pain he was about to inflict upon her. frau von harfink said a few pleasant words of welcome, to which he replied courteously, and then, having taken his seat in a comfortable arm-chair near her favourite lounge, the conversation came to a stand-still. the baron looked in some confusion at his hostess. there was no denying that, in spite of her fifty years, she was a pretty woman. her features were regular, her teeth dazzling, and if there was a touch of rouge on her cheeks, that was her affair; it did not affect her general appearance. the fair hair that was parted to lie in smooth waves above her brow was still thick, and the little lace cap was very becoming. her short, full figure was not without charm, and her gown of black _crêpe de chine_ fitted faultlessly. the baron could not help thinking that it would be easier to give her pain if she were ugly. there was really no objection to make to her. he had hoped she would resemble his friend doctor grünbart, but she did not resemble him. while he pondered thus, frau von harfink stretched out her hand to the bell-rope. "my daughters are both out in the park; they will be extremely glad to see you, especially paula, who has been most impatient to know you. i will send for them immediately." karl leskjewitsch prevented her from ringing. "one moment, first," he begged; "i--i am here upon very serious business." her eyes scanned his face keenly. did she guess? did she choose not to understand him? who can tell? certain it is that no woman could have made what he had come to say more difficult to utter. "oh, let 'serious business' go for the present!" she exclaimed; "there is time enough for that. a mother's heart of course is full----" in his confusion the baron had picked up a pamphlet lying on the table between frau von harfink and himself. imagine his sensations when, upon looking at it closely, he recognized his own work,--a pamphlet upon "servility among liberals,"--a piece of political bravado upon which the author had prided himself not a little at the time of its publication, but which, like many another masterpiece, had vanished without a trace in the yearly torrent of such literature. not only were the leaves of this pamphlet cut, but as the baron glanced through it he saw that various passages were underscored with pencil-marks. "you see how well known you are here, my dear baron," said frau von harfink, and then, taking his hat from him, she went on, "i cannot have you pay us a formal visit: you will stay and have a cup of tea, will you not? do you know that i am a little embarrassed in the presence of the author of that masterpiece?" "ah, pray, madame!"--the democrat _par excellence_ could not exactly bring himself to an acknowledgment of frau von harfink's brand-new patent of nobility,--"ah, madame, the merest trifle, a political _capriccio_ with which i beguiled an idle hour; not worth mentioning." "great in small things, my dear baron, great in small things," she rejoined. "no one since schopenhauer has understood how to use the german language as you do. so admirable a style!--precise, transparent, and elegant as finely-cut glass. and what a wealth of original aphorisms! you are a little sharp here and there, almost cruel,"--she shook her forefinger at him archly,--"but the truth is always cruel." "a remarkably clever woman!" thought baron karl. of course he could not refrain from returning such courtesy. "this summer, in a little trip to the north cape"--leskjewitsch was wont always to refer to his travels as little trips; a journey to california he would have liked to call a picnic--"in a little trip to the north cape, i had the pleasure of meeting your brother, baroness," he cleared his throat before uttering the word, but he accomplished it. "we had known each other politically in the reichsrath, but in those northern regions our acquaintance quickly ripened into friendship." "i have heard all about it already," said the baroness: "it was my brother who called my attention to this pearl." she pointed to the pamphlet. "of course he had no idea of the closer relations which we are to hold with each other; he simply described to me the impression you made upon him. ah, i must read you one of his letters." she opened a drawer in her writing-table, and unfolded a long letter, from which she began to read, then interrupted herself, turned the sheet, and finally found the place for which she was looking: "baron karl leskjewitsch is an extremely clever individual, brilliantly gifted by nature. his misfortune has been that in forsaking the conservatives he has failed to win the entire confidence of the liberals. now that i know him well, i am ready to use all my influence to support him in his career, and i do not doubt that i shall succeed in securing for him the distinguished position for which he is fitted. i see in him the future austrian minister of foreign affairs." a few minutes previously baron karl had been conscious of some discomfort; every trace of it had now vanished. he was fairly intoxicated. he saw himself a great statesman, and was already pondering upon what to say in his first important conference with the chancellor of the realm. "pray, give my warm regards to doctor grünbart when you next write to him," he began, not without condescension, when suddenly a young lady hurried into the room,--tall, stout, with titian hair and a dazzling complexion, her chest heaving, her eyes sparkling. in the baron's present mood she seemed to him beautiful as a young goddess. "by jove! the boy has made a hit," he thought to himself. the vague sense of discomfort returned for a moment, but vanished when paula advanced towards him with outstretched hands. he drew her to him, and imprinted a paternal kiss upon her forehead. selina and fainacky now made their appearance. it was quite a domestic scene. the baroness rang, and the tea-equipage was brought in for afternoon tea. olga made her appearance, but treurenberg was absent; selina remarked, crossly, that he was again spending the afternoon with the officers at x----. baron karl was throned upon roses and inhaling sweet incense, when finally the baroness, lightly touching his arm, asked before all present,-- "and the 'serious business' you came to consult me about?" he started, and was mute, while the lady went on, archly, "what if i guess its import? you came in harry's behalf, did you not?" baron karl bowed his head in assent. "to arrange the day, was it not?" what could the poor man do? before he had time to reflect, the baroness said, "we have considered the matter already; we must be in no hurry,--no hurry. it always is a sore subject for a mother, the appointing a definite time for her separation from her daughter, and every girl, however much in love she may be,"--here the baroness glanced at her stout paula, who did her best to assume an air of maidenly reserve, "would like to postpone the marriage-day. but men do not like to wait; therefore, all things considered, i have thought of the th of october as the day. tell harry so from me, and scold him well for not doing his errand himself. his delicacy of sentiment is really exaggerated! an old woman may be pardoned for a little enthusiasm for a future son-in-law, may she not?" shortly afterwards baron leskjewitsch was driving home along the road by which he had come. the shadows had lengthened; a cold air ascended from the earth. gradually the baron's consciousness, drugged by the flattery he had received, awoke, and he felt extremely uncomfortable. what had he effected? he was going home after a fruitless visit,--no, not fruitless. harry's affairs were in a worse condition than before. he had absolutely placed the official seal upon his son's betrothal. what else could he have done? he could not have made a quarrel. he could not alienate doctor grünbart's sister. the welfare of the government might depend upon his friendly alliance with the leader of the democratic party. his fancy spread its wings and took its flight to higher spheres,--he really had no time to trouble himself about his son's petty destiny. his ambition soared high: he saw himself about to reform the monarchy with the aid of doctor grünbart, whose importance, however, decreased as his own waxed great. he drove through the ruinous archway into the courtyard. a light wagon was standing before the house. when he asked whose it was, he was told that it had come from zirkow to take home the baroness zdena. he went to the dining-room, whence came the sound of gay voices and laughter. they were all at supper, and seemed very merry, so merry that they had not heard him arrive. twilight was already darkening the room when the baron entered by one door at the same moment that blasius with the lamp made his appearance at the other. the lamplight fell full upon the group about the table, and baron karl's eyes encountered those of his son, beaming with delight. poor fellow! he had not entertained a doubt that everything would turn out well. zdena, too, looked up; her lips were redder than usual, and there was a particularly tender, touching expression about her mouth, while in her eyes there was a shy delight. there was no denying it, the girl was exquisitely beautiful. she had guessed baron karl's errand to dobrotschau. she divined---- pshaw! the baron felt dizzy for a moment,--but, after all, such things must be borne. such trifles must not influence the future 'canning' of austria. blasius set down the lamp. how comfortable and home-like the well-spread table looked, at the head the little army of cream-pitchers and jugs, over which the countess zriny was presiding. "a cup of coffee?" the old canoness asked the newcomer. "no, no, thanks," he said. something in his voice told harry everything. the baron tried to take his place at table, that the moment for explanation might be postponed, but harry could not wait. "something has occurred to-day upon the farm about which i want to consult you, sir," he said. "will you not come with me for a moment?" and he made a miserably unsuccessful attempt to look as if it were a matter of small importance. the two men went into the next room, where it was already so dark that they could not see each other's faces distinctly. harry lit a candle, and placed it on the table between his father and himself. "well, father?" "my dear boy, there was nothing to be done," the baron replied, hesitating. for a moment the young man's misery made an impression upon him, but then his invincible loquacity burst forth. "there was nothing to be done, harry," he repeated. and, with a wave of his hand implying true nobility of sentiment, he went on: "a betrothal is a contract sealed by a promise. from a promise one may be released; it cannot be broken. when the harfinks refused to see the drift of my hints, and release you from your promise, there was nothing left for me save to acquiesce. as a man of honour, a gentleman, i could do no less; i could not possibly demand your release." baron karl looked apprehensively at his son, with whose quick temper he was familiar, expecting to be overwhelmed by a torrent of reproaches, of bitter, provoking words, sure that the young man would be led into some display of violence; but nothing of the kind ensued. harry stood perfectly quiet opposite his father, one hand leaning upon the table where burned the candle. his head drooped a little, and he was very pale, but not a finger moved when his father added, "you understand that i could do nothing further?" he murmured, merely, "yes, i understand." his voice sounded thin and hoarse, like the voice of a sick child; and then he fell silent again. after a pause, he said, in a still lower tone, "uncle paul has sent the wagon for zdena, with a note asking me to drive her back to zirkow. it has been waiting for an hour and a half, because zdena did not want to leave before your return. pray, do me the favour to drive her home in my place: i cannot." then the young fellow turned away and went to a window, outside of which the old apricot-trees rustled and sighed. baron karl was very sorry for his son, but what else could he have done? surely his case was a hard one. he seemed to himself a very junius brutus, sacrificing his son to his country. and having succeeded finally in regarding in this magnanimous light the part he had played, he felt perfectly at peace with himself again. he left the room, promising to attend to zdena's return to zirkow. but harry remained standing by the window, gazing out into the gathering gloom. the very heart within his breast seemed turning to stone. he knew now that what he had at first held to be merely a ridiculous annoyance had come to be bitter earnest,--yes, terrible earnest! no escape was possible; he could see no hope of rescue; a miracle would have to occur to release him, and he did not believe in miracles. chapter xxvii. baron franz. every year, towards the end of august, baron franz leskjewitsch, the family scarecrow and cr[oe]sus, was wont to appear at his estate, vorhabshen, near zirkow, to learn the condition of the harvest, to spend a few days in hunting, and to abuse everything and everybody before, at the end of a couple of weeks, vanishing as suddenly as he had appeared. on these occasions he avoided his brother paul with evident determination. if any of the family were at komaritz, he invited them to dinner once or twice, at such times taking pains to make himself particularly offensive to heda, whom he could not endure. he had never spent any length of time at vorhabshen since the family quarrel, and in consequence the dwelling-house, or castle, upon which, miser that he was, he never would spend a penny for repairs, had come to be tumble-down and sordid in appearance, both inside and out. it was a huge structure, with numerous windows, in which many of the sashes were sprung and some destitute of panes, never having been reglazed since the last hail-storm had worked ruin among them. among the family portraits, which hung in a dark, oak-wainscoted gallery, the pigeons built their nests. like many another bohemian castle, the mansion at vorhabshen was built close to the farm-yard, and its front faced an immense, light-brown manure-heap. the inmates of this unpicturesque ruin--whose duty it was to keep it ready for its master's brief visits--were, first, the housekeeper, lotta papoushek; then the baron's court-fool, the former brewer studnecka, who at times imagined himself the prophet elisha, and at other times a great musical genius; then the superintendent, with his underlings; and finally, any young man who might be tempted to come hither to study modern agriculture, and whose studies were generally confined to allowing himself to be pampered by the housekeeper lotta, who had all the admiration of her class for courteous young people. frau lotta had been in the baron's service for more than forty years. her large face was red, dotted with brown warts, and her features were hard and masculine. although she certainly was far from attractive in appearance, there was a report that she had once been handsome, and that baron franz, when he received the news of his son's marriage with marie duval, had exclaimed, "i'll marry my housekeeper! i'll marry lotta!" how this would have aided to re-establish the family prestige it is difficult to say, and it is doubtful whether the speech was made; but twenty years afterwards lotta used to tell of it, and of how she had replied, "that would be too nonsensical, herr baron!" notwithstanding her peculiarities and her overweening self-conceit, she was a thoroughly good creature, and devoted heart and soul to the leskjewitsch family. her absolute honesty induced the baron to make her authority at vorhabshen paramount, to the annoyance of the superintendent and his men. it was a clear afternoon,--the st of september; the steam thresher was at work in the farm-yard, and its dreary puffing and groaning were audible in lotta's small sitting-room, on the ground-floor of the mansion, where she was refreshing herself with a cup of coffee, having invited the student of agriculture--a young herr von kraschinsky--to share her nectar. she had been regaling him with choice bits of family history, as he lay back comfortably in an arm-chair, looking very drowsy, when, after a pause, she remarked, as if in soliloquy, "i should like to know where the master is; i have had no answer to the long letter i sent to him at franzburg." "oh, you correspond with the baron, do you?" murmured the student, too lazy to articulate distinctly. "of course i do. you must not forget that my position in the leskjewitsch family is higher than that of a servant. i was once governess to our poor, dear baron fritz; and i have always been devoted to them." in fact, lotta had been fritz's nurse; and it was true that she had always been much valued, having been treated with great consideration on account of her absolute fidelity and her tolerably correct german. "yes," she went on, careless as to her companion's attention, "i wrote to the baron about the wheat and the young calves, and i told him of baron harry's betrothal. i am curious to know what he will say to it. for my part, it is not at all to my taste." "but then you are so frightfully aristocratic," said her guest. lotta smiled; nothing pleased her more than to be rallied upon her aristocratic tendencies, although she made haste to disclaim them. "oh, no; i am by no means so feudal"--a favourite word of hers, learned from a circulating library to which she subscribed--"as you think. i never shall forget how i tried to bring about a reconciliation between baron fritz and his father; but the master was furious, called the widow and her little child, after poor fritz's death, 'french baggage,' and threatened me with dismissal if i ever spoke of them. what could i do? i could not go near the little girl when baron paul brought her to zirkow; but i have watched her from a distance, and have rejoiced to see her grow lovelier every year, and the very image of her father. and when all the country around declared that baron harry was in love with her, i was glad; but our master was furious, although the young things were then mere children, and declared that not one penny of his money should his nephew have if he married the child of that shop-girl. i suppose baron harry has taken all this into consideration." the old woman's face grew stern as she folded her arms on her flat chest and declared again, "i am curious to know what the master will think of this betrothal." outside in the farm-yard the steam thresher continued its monotonous task; the superintendent, a young man, something of a coxcomb, stood apart from the puffing monster, a volume of lenau in his hand, learning by heart a poem which he intended to recite at the next meeting of the "concordia association," in x----. the court-fool, studnecka, was seated at his harmonium, composing. suddenly a clumsy post-chaise rattled into the courtyard. the superintendent started, and thrust his lenau into his pocket. lotta smoothed her gray hair, and went to meet the arrival. she knew that "the master" had come. it was his habit to appear thus unexpectedly, when it was impossible to be prepared for him. his masculine employees disliked this fashion extremely. lotta was not at all disturbed by it. studnecka was the last to notice that something unusual was going on. when he did so, he left the harmonium and went to the window. in the midst of a group of servants and farm-hands stood an old man in a long green coat and a shiny, tall hat. the court-fool observed something strange in his master's appearance. suddenly he fairly gasped. "the world is coming to an end!" he exclaimed. "wonders will never cease,--the herr baron has a new hat!" chapter xxviii. a short visit. lotta, too, noticed the master's new hat, but that was not the only change she observed in him. the expression of his face was not so stern as usual. instead of sneering at the coxcombical superintendent, he smiled at his approach; his complexion was far less sallow than it had been; and, above all, he allowed the superintendent to pay the driver of the post-chaise without an inquiry as to the fare. after nodding right and left, he asked lotta if his room were ready. "of course," the housekeeper replied, and at once conducted him to a spacious and exquisitely clean and neat apartment, rather scantily furnished with spindle-legged chairs and brass-mounted cabinets dating from the time of the first empire. not a speck of dust was to be seen anywhere. the baron ordered coffee, and dismissed lotta. when she had gone he looked about him keenly, as if in search of somewhat, from the arm-chair into which he had thrown himself. not finding what he sought, he arose and went into the adjoining room. yes, there it was! on the wall hung two portraits, in broad, tasteless gilt frames. one represented a fair, handsome woman, with bare shoulders and long, soft curls; the other a dark-browed man, in the red, gold-embroidered uniform of a court chamberlain. he smiled bitterly as he looked at this picture. "done with!" he muttered, and turned his back upon the portraits; with those words he banished the memory of his past. a strange sensation possessed him: an anticipation of his future,--the future of a man of seventy-three! he walked about the room uncertainly, searching for something. a dark flush mounted to his cheek; he loosened his collar. at last he turned the key in the door, as if fearful of being surprised in some misdeed, and then went to his writing-table, a large and rather complicated piece of furniture, its numerous drawers decorated with brass ornaments. from one of the most secret of these he took a small portfolio containing about a dozen photographs. all represented the same person, but at various stages of existence, from earliest infancy to boyhood and manhood. "fritz!" murmured the old man, hoarsely; "fritz!" yes, always fritz. the father looked them through, lingering over each one with the same longing, hungry look with which we would fain call to life the images of our dead. there was fritz with his first gun, fritz in his school-uniform, and, at last, fritz as a young diplomat, photographed in paris, with a mountain view in the background. this picture trembled in the old hands. how he had admired it! how proud he had been of his handsome son! and then---- there was a knock at the door. buried in the past, he had not heard the bustle of preparation in the next room, and now he thrust away the pictures to take his seat at his well-furnished table, where lotta was waiting to serve him. "sit down, sit down," the baron said, with unwonted geniality, "and tell me of what is going on here." lotta seated herself bolt upright at a respectful distance from her master. "well?" began the baron, pouring out the coffee for himself. "i wrote all the news to the herr baron; nothing else has happened, except that the english sow which the herr baron bought at the fair littered last night,--twelve as nice fat little pigs as ever were seen." "indeed! very interesting. but what was in the letter? since i never received it, it must be lying at franzburg." "oh, all sorts of things,--about the short-horn calves, and the weight of the hay, and baron harry's betrothal; but of course the herr baron knew of that." the baron set down his cup so hastily that it came near being broken. "not a word!" he exclaimed, doing his best to conceal the delight which would mirror itself in his face. harry betrothed? to whom but to the golden-haired enchantress he had met in the forest, fritz's daughter zdena? to be sure, he had threatened to disinherit the boy if he married her, but the fellow had been quite right to set the threat at naught. the old man chuckled at the fright he would give them, and then---- meanwhile, he tried to look indifferent. "indeed? and so the boy is betrothed?" he drawled. "all very fine--without asking any one's advice, hey? of course your old heart is dancing at the thought of it, lotta. oh, i know you through and through." "i don't see any reason for rejoicing at the young master's betrothal," lotta replied, crossly, thrusting out her chin defiantly. the old man scanned her keenly. something in the expression of her face troubled him. "who is the girl?" he asked, bluntly. "the younger of the two harfink fräuleins; the other married count treurenberg." "harfink, do you say? impossible!" the baron could not believe his ears. "so i thought too, but i was mistaken. it is officially announced. baron karl has been to see the mother, and there is shortly to be a betrothal festival, to which all the great people in the country round are to be invited." "but what is the stupid boy thinking about? what do people say of him?" thundered the baron. "why, what should they say? they say our young baron had interested motives, that he is in debt----" the baron started up in a fury. "in debt? a fine reason!" he shouted. "am i not here?" whereupon lotta looked at him very significantly. "as if every one did not know what those get who come to the herr baron for money," she murmured. the old man's face flushed purple. "leave the room!" he cried, pointing to the door. lotta arose, pushed back her chair to the wall, and walked out of the room with much dignity. she was accustomed to such conduct on her master's part: it had to be borne with. and she knew, besides, that her words had produced an impression, that he would not be angry with her long. when the door had closed after her, the old man seated himself at his writing-table, determined to write to harry, putting his veto upon the marriage of his nephew with the "harfink girl;" but after the first few lines he dropped the pen. "what affair is it of mine?" he murmured. "if he had yielded to a foolish impulse like my fritz,"--he passed his hand over his eyes,--"why, then i might have seen things differently, and not as i did twenty years ago. but if, with love for another girl in his heart, he chooses to sell himself for money, he simply does not exist for me. let him take the consequences. my money was not enough for him, or perhaps he was afraid he should have to wait too long for it. well, now he can learn what it is to be married without a penny to a rich girl whom he does not love." he pulled the bell furiously. the young gamekeeper who always filled the position of valet to the baron upon these spasmodic visits to vorhabshen entered. "harness the drag, martin, so that i can catch the train." that very evening he returned to franzburg, where he sent for his lawyer to help him make a new will. chapter xxix. submission. yes, affairs had reached a terribly grave point, an harry now fully appreciated. he felt like a man under sentence of death whose appeal for mercy has been rejected. the day for his execution was appointed; he had given his promise, and must keep it. the day after his father's visit to dobrotschau the young man presented himself there, and informed the ladies that pressing business obliged him to return to vienna; but paula, who was perfectly aware of the duration of his leave, routed from the field every reason which he gave for the necessity for his presence in vienna. a betrothal festival had been arranged for a day early in september; he could not possibly be absent. and paula, the robust, whose nerves were of iron, wept and made a scene; and harry stayed, and conscientiously paid at least three visits a week at dobrotschau. he was changed almost past recognition: he had grown very thin, his voice had a hard, metallic sound, and his eyes had the restless brilliancy of some wild creature in a trap. he ate scarcely anything, and his hands burned with fever. his betrothed, whose passion was still on the increase, overwhelmed him with tender attentions, which he no longer strove to discourage, but which he accepted with the resignation of despair. his bridges were burned behind him; he saw no escape; he must accept what life had in store for him. now and then he made a pathetic attempt to blot out of his soul the pale image of the charming girl which never left him. he even made every effort to love his betrothed, to penetrate her inward consciousness, to learn to know and value her; but he brought home from every such psychological exploring trip a positive aversion, so rude and coarse, so bereft of all delicacy, were her modes of thought and feeling. he pleased her; his quixotic courtesy, his unpractical view of life, she took delight in; but her vanity alone was interested, not her heart,--that is, she valued it all as "gentlemanly accomplishment," as something aristocratic, like his seat on horseback, or the chiselling of his profile. she was an utter stranger to the best and truest part of him. and as her passion increased, what had been with him at first an impatient aversion changed to absolute loathing, something so terrible that at times he took up his revolver to put an end to it all. such cowardice, however, was foreign to his principles; and then he was only twenty-four years old, and life might have been so fair if---- even now at rare intervals a faint hope would arise within him, but what gave birth to it he could not tell. meanwhile, the days passed, and the betrothal _fête_ was near at hand. fainacky, who had installed himself as _maître de plaisir_, an office which no one seemed inclined to dispute with him, was indefatigable in his labours, and displayed great inventive faculty. every hour he developed some fresh idea: now it was a new garden path to be illuminated by coloured lamps, now a clump of shrubbery behind which the band of an infantry regiment in garrison in the neighbourhood was to be concealed. "music is the most poetic of all the arts, so long as one is spared the sight of the musician," he explained to frau von harfink, in view of this last arrangement. "the first condition of success for a _fête_ is a concealed orchestra." he himself composed two stirring pieces of music--a paula galop and a selina quadrille--to enrich the entertainment. the decoration of the garden-room was carried out by a viennese upholsterer under his special supervision. he filled up the cards of invitation, ordered the wine for the supper, and sketched the shapes for the plaques of flowers on the table. the menus, however, constituted his masterpiece. civilized humanity had never seen anything like them. beside each plate there was to lie a parchment roll tied with a golden cord, from, which depended a seal stamped with the harfink coat of arms. these gorgeous things were fainacky's _chef-d'[oe]uvre_. all his other devices--such as the torch dance at midnight, with congratulatory addresses from the harfink retainers, the fireworks which were to reveal the intertwined initials of the betrothed pair shooting to the skies in characters of flame--were mere by-play. yet, in spite of all his exertions in this line, the pole found time to spy upon everybody, to draw his own conclusions, and to attend to his own interests. by chance it occurred to him to devote some observation to olga dangeri, whom hitherto he had scarcely noticed. he found her a subject well worth further attention, and it soon became a habit of his to pursue her with his bold glance, of course when unobserved by the fair countess selina, with whom he continued to carry on his flirtation. whenever, unseen and unheard, he could persecute olga with his insolent admiration and exaggerated compliments, he did so. consequently she did her best to avoid him. he was quite satisfied with this result, ascribing it to the agitation caused by his homage. "poor girl!" he thought; "she does not comprehend the awakening within her of the tender passion!" in fact, a change was perceptible in olga. she was languid, not easily roused to exertion; her lips and cheeks burned frequently, and she was more taciturn than ever. her beauty was invested with an even greater charm. upon his first arrival in dobrotschau, the pole had suspected a mutual inclination between treurenberg and the beautiful "player's daughter," but, since he had seen nothing to confirm his ugly suspicion, he had ceased to entertain it. every symptom of an awakening attachment which he could observe in olga, ladislas fainacky interpreted in his own favour. chapter xxx. persecution. september has fairly begun. the harvest is gathered in, and the wind is blowing over the stubble,--a dry, oppressive wind, calling up clouds which float across the sky in fantastic masses every morning and vanish at noon without a trace. all nature manifests languor and thirst; the dry ground shows large cracks here and there, and vegetation is losing its last tinge of green. nowhere in all the country around are the effects of the drought more apparent than at dobrotschau, where the soil is very poor. not even in the park is there any freshness of verdure. the fountains refuse to play; the sward looks like a shabby, worn carpet; the leaves are withering on the trees. everything is longing for a storm, and yet all feel that relief, when it comes, will bring uproar with it; something must go to ruin and be shattered in the change. the great life of nature, spellbound and withheld in this sultry languor, will awake with some convulsion, angrily demanding a victim. it is inevitable; and one must take comfort in the thought that all else will flourish, refreshed and strengthened. anything would be preferable to this wasting and withering, this perpetual hissing wind. to-day it seems finally lulled to rest, for the barometer is falling, and livid blue clouds are piling up on the horizon, as distinct in outline as a range of mountains, and so darkly menacing that in old times men would have regarded them with terror. now every one says, "at last! at last!" but they mount no higher; the air is more sultry, and not a cooling drop falls. in the shadiest part of the park there is a pond, bordered with rushes and surrounded by a scanty growth of underbrush, in the midst of which stand the black, skeleton trunks of several dead trees. during the winters preceding the coming to dobrotschau of the baroness harfink, and shortly after the purchase of the estate, some of the most ancient of the trees--trees as old as the family whose downfall necessitated the sale of dobrotschau--had died. their lifeless trunks still pointed to the skies, tall and grim, as if in mute protest against the new ownership of the soil. the pond, once a shining expanse of clear water, is almost dried up, and a net-work of water-plants covers its surface. now, when the rosebuds are falling from their stems without opening, this marshy spot is gay with many-coloured blossoms. at the edge of the pond lies an old boat, and in it olga is sitting, dressed in white, with a red rose in her belt, one of the few roses which the drought has spared. she is gazing dreamily, with half-shut eyes, upon the shallow water which here and there mirrors the skies. an open book lies in her lap, turgenieff's "a first love," but she has read only a few pages of it. her attitude expresses languor, and from time to time she shivers slightly. "why is lato so changed to me? why does he avoid me? what have i done to displease him?" these are the thoughts that occupy her mind as she sits there, with her hands clasped in her lap, gazing down into the brown swamp, not observing that fainacky, attracted by the light colour of her dress among the trees, has followed her to the pond and has been watching her for some time from a short distance. "she loves," he says to himself, as he notices the dreamy expression of the girl's face; and his vanity adds, "she loves me!" he tries, by gazing fixedly at her, to force her to look up at him, but he is unsuccessful, and then has recourse to another expedient. in his thin, reedy tenor voice he begins to warble "salve dimora casta e pura" from gounod's "faust." then she looks round at him, but her face certainly does not express pleasure. she arises, leaves the skiff, and, passing her obtrusive admirer without a word, tries to turn into the shortest path leading to the castle. he walks beside her, however, and begins in a low voice: "fräulein olga, i have something to say to you." "tome?" "yes, i want to explain myself, to correct some false impressions of yours, to lay bare my heart before you." he pauses after uttering this sentence, and she also stands still, her annoyance causing a choking sensation in her throat. she would fain let him know that she is not in the least interested in having his heart laid bare before her, but how can she do this without seeming cross or angry? "you have hitherto entirely misunderstood me," he assures her. "oh, olga, why can you not lay aside your distrust of me?" "distrust?" she repeats, almost mechanically; "i am not aware of any distrust." "do not deny it," he persists, clasping his hands affectedly; "do not deny it. your distrust of me is profound. it wounds me, it pains me, and--it pains you also!" olga can hardly believe her ears. she stares at him without speaking, in utter dismay, almost fearing that he has suddenly lost his wits. "you must hear me," he continues, with theatric effect. "your distrust must cease, the distrust which has hitherto prevented you from perceiving how genuine is the admiration i feel for you. oh, you must see how i admire you!" here olga loses patience, and, with extreme _hauteur_, replies, "i have perceived your very disagreeable habit of staring at me, and of persecuting me with what i suppose you mean for compliments when you think no one is observing you." "it was out of regard for you." "excuse my inability to understand you," she rejoins, still more haughtily. "i cannot appreciate regard of that description." and with head proudly erect she passes him and walks towards the castle. for a moment he gazes after her, as if spellbound. how beautiful she is, framed in by the dark trees that arch above the pathway! "she loves! she suffers!" he murmurs. his fancy suddenly takes fire; this is no fleeting inclination, no!--he adores her! with a bound he overtakes her. "olga! you must not leave me thus, adorable girl that you are! i love you, olga, love you devotedly!" he falls at her feet. "take all that i have, my name, my life, my station,--a crown should be yours, were it mine!" she is now thoroughly startled and dismayed. "impossible! i cannot!" she murmurs, and tries to leave him. but with all the obstinacy of a vain fool he detains her. "oh, do not force those beauteous lips to utter cruel words that belie your true self. i have watched you,--you love! olga, my star, my queen, tell me you love me!" he seizes the girl's hands, and covers them with kisses; but with disgust in every feature she snatches them from him, just as lato appears in the pathway. fainacky rises; the eyes of the two men meet. treurenberg's express angry contempt; in those of the pole there is intense hatred, as, biting his lip in his disappointment, he turns and walks away. chapter xxxi. consolation. "what is the matter? what is it?" treurenberg asks, solicitously. "nothing, nothing," olga replies; "nothing at which i ought to take offence." then, after a short pause, she adds, "on the contrary, he did me the honour to offer to make me countess fainacky. the idea, it is true, seemed to occur to him rather tardily, after conducting himself impertinently." lato twirls his moustache nervously, and murmurs, in a dull, constrained voice, "well, and could you not bring yourself to consent?" "lato!" the girl exclaims, indignantly. the bitter expression on lato's face makes him look quite unlike himself as he says, "a girl who sets out to marry must not be too nice, you see!" his head is turned away from her; silence reigns around; the sultry quiet lies like a spell upon everything. he hears a half-suppressed ejaculation, the rustle of a robe, short, quick steps, and, looking round, sees her tall figure walking rapidly away from him, offended pride and wounded feeling expressed in its every motion. he ought to let her go, but he cannot, and he hurries after her; almost before she is aware of his presence, he lightly touches her on the arm. "olga, my poor olga, i did not mean this!" he exclaims, gently. "be reasonable, my child; i did not mean to wound you, but to give you a common-sense view of the affair." she looks away from him, and suddenly bursts into irrepressible sobs. "you poor child! hush, i pray you! i cannot bear this! have i really grieved you--i--why, 'tis ridiculous--i, who would have my hand cut off to serve you? come, be calm." and he draws her down upon a rustic bench and takes a seat beside her. her chest heaves as does that of a child who, although the cause of its grief has been removed, cannot stop crying at once. he takes her hand in his and strokes it gently. a delightful sensation of content, even of happiness, steals upon him, but mingling with it comes a tormenting unrest, the dawning consciousness that he is entering upon a crooked path, that he is in danger of doing a wrong, and yet he goes on holding the girl's hand in his and gazing into her eyes. "why are you not always kind to me?" she asks him simply. he is confused, and drops her hand. "for a whole week past you have seemed scarcely to see me," she says, reproachfully. "have you been vexed with me? did i do anything to displease you?" "i have had so much to worry me," he murmurs. "poor lato! i thought so. if you only knew how my heart aches for you! can you not tell me some of your troubles? they are so much easier to bear when shared with another." and before he can reply she takes his hand in both of hers, and presses it against her cheek. just at that moment he sees the pole, who has paused in departing and turned towards the pair; the man's sallow face, seen in the distance above olga's dark head, seems to wear a singularly malevolent expression. as soon, however, as he becomes aware that treurenberg has perceived him, he vanishes again. lato's confusion increases; he rises, saying, "and now be good, olga; go home and bathe your eyes, that no one may see that you have been crying." "oh, no one will take any notice, and there is plenty of time before dinner. take a walk with me in the park; it is not so warm as it was." "i cannot, my child; i have a letter to write." "as you please;" and she adds, in an undertone, "you are changed towards me." before he can reply, she is gone. the path along which she has disappeared is flecked with crimson,--the petals of the rose that she had worn in her girdle. lato feels as if rudely awakened from unconsciousness. he walks unsteadily, and covers his eyes with his hand as if dazzled by even the tempered light of the afternoon. the terrible bliss for which he longs, of which he is afraid, seems so near that he has but to reach out his hand and grasp it. he stamps his foot in horror of himself. what! a pure young girl! his wife's relative! the very thought is impossible! he is tormented by the feverish fancies of overwrought nerves. he shakes himself as if to be rid of a burden, then turns and walks rapidly along a path leading in an opposite direction from where the scattered rose-leaves are lying on the ground. as he passes on with eyes downcast, he almost runs against the pole. the glances of the two men meet; involuntarily lato averts his from fainacky's face, and as he does so he is conscious of a slight embarrassment, which the other takes a malicious delight in noticing. "aha!" he begins; "your long interview with the fair olga seems to have had a less agreeable effect upon your mood than i had anticipated." such a remark would usually have called forth from lato a sharp rejoinder; to-day he would fain choose his words, to excuse himself, as it were. "she was much agitated," he murmurs. "i had some trouble in soothing her. she--she is nervous and sensitive; her position in my mother-in-law's household is not a very pleasant one." "well, you certainly do your best to improve it," fainacky says, hypocritically. "and you to make it impossible!" lato exclaims, angrily. "did the fair olga complain of me, then?" drawls the other. "there was no need that she should," treurenberg goes on to say. "do you suppose that i need anything more than eyes in my head to see how you follow her about and stare at her?" fainacky gives him a lowering look, and then laughs softly. "well, yes, i confess, i have paid her some attention; she pleases me. yes, yes, i do not deny my sensibility to female charms. i never played the saint!" "indeed! at least you seem to have made an effort to-day to justify your importunity," treurenberg rejoins, filled with contempt for the simpering specimen of humanity before him. "you have offered her your hand." scarcely have the words left his lips when treurenberg is conscious that he has committed a folly in thus irritating the man. fainacky turns pale to the lips, and his expression is one of intense malice. "it is true," he says, "that i so far forgot myself for a moment as to offer your youthful _protégeé_ my hand. good heavens! i am not the first man of rank who, in a moment of enthusiasm and to soothe the irritated nerves of a shy beauty, has offered to marry a girl of low extraction. the obstacle, however, which bars my way to her heart appears to be of so serious a nature that i shall make no attempt to remove it." he utters the words with a provoking smile and most malicious emphasis. "to what obstacle do you refer?" lato exclaims, in increasing anger. "can you seriously ask me that question?" the pole murmurs, in a low voice like the hiss of a serpent. transported with anger, treurenberg lifts his hand; the pole scans him quietly. "if you wish for a duel, there is no need to resort to so drastic a measure to provoke it. but do you seriously think it would be well for the fair fame of your--your lovely _protégeé_ that you should fight for her?" and, turning on his heel, fainacky walks towards the castle. lato stands as if rooted to the spot, his gaze riveted on the ground. chapter xxxii. interrupted harmony. dinner is over, and the gilt chandelier in the garden-room, where coffee is usually served, is lighted. selina is sitting at the piano accompanying fainacky, who is singing. paula is in her own rooms with her mother, inspecting the latest additions to her trousseau, just arrived from vienna. lato has remained in the garden-room, where he endures with heroic courage the sound of fainacky's voice as he whines forth his sentimental french songs, accentuating them in the most touching places with dramatic gestures and much maltreatment of his pocket-handkerchief. after each song he compliments selina upon her playing. her touch reminds him of madame essipoff. selina, whose digestion is perfect so far as flattery is concerned, swallows all his compliments and looks at him as if she wished for more. on the wide gravel path, before the glass doors of the room, olga is pacing to and fro. the broad light from door and window reveals clearly the upper portion of her figure. her head is slightly bent, her hands are clasped easily before her. there is a peculiar gliding grace in all her movements. with all treurenberg's efforts to become interested in the newspaper which he holds, he cannot grasp the meaning of a single sentence. the letters flicker before his eyes like a crowd of crawling insects. weary of such fruitless exertion, he lifts his eyes, to encounter olga's gazing at him with a look of tenderest sympathy. he starts, and makes a fresh effort to absorb himself in the paper, but before he is aware of it she has come in from the garden and has taken her seat on a low chair beside him. "is anything the matter with you?" she asks. "what could be the matter with me?" he rejoins, evasively. "i thought you might have a headache, you look so pale," she says, with a matronly air. "olga, i would seriously advise you to devote yourself to the study of medicine, you are so quick to observe symptoms of illness in those about you." she returns his sarcasm with a playful little tap upon his arm. fainacky turns and looks at them, a fiendish light in his green eyes, in the midst of his most effective rendering of massenet's "_nuits d'espagne_." "if you want to talk, i think you might go out in the garden, instead of disturbing us here," selina calls out, sharply. lato instantly turns to his newspaper, and when he looks up from it again, olga has vanished. he rises and goes to the open door. the sultry magic of the september night broods over the garden outside. the moon is not yet visible,--it rises late,--but countless stars twinkle in the blue-black heavens, shedding a pale silvery lustre upon the dark earth. olga is nowhere to be seen; but there---- he takes a step or two forward; she is walking quickly. he pauses, looks after her until she disappears entirely among the shrubbery, and then he goes back to the garden-room. it is selina's turn to sing now, and she has chosen a grand aria from "lucrezia borgia." she is a pupil of frau marchesi's, and she has a fine voice,--that is to say, a voice of unusual compass and power, which might perhaps have made a reputation on the stage, but which is far from agreeable in a drawing room. it is like the blowing of trumpets in the same space. his wife's singing is the one thing in the world which lato absolutely cannot tolerate, and never has tolerated. passing directly through the room, he disappears through a door opposite the one leading into the garden. even in the earliest years of their married life selina always took amiss her husband's insensibility to her musical performances, and now, when she avers his indifference to her in every other respect to be a great convenience, her sensitiveness as an artist is unchanged. breaking off in the midst of her song, she calls after him, "is that a protest?" he does not hear her. "_continuez done, ma cousine_, i implore you," the pole murmurs. with redoubled energy, accompanying herself, countess selina sings on, only dropping her hands from the keys when she has executed a break-neck cadenza by way of final flourish. fainacky, meanwhile, gracefully leaning against the instrument, listens ecstatically, with closed eyes. "selina, you are an angel!" he exclaims, when she has finished. "were i in treurenberg's place you should sing to me from morning until night." "my husband takes no pleasure in my singing; at the first sound of my voice he leaves the room, as you have just seen. he has no more taste for music than my poodle." "extraordinary!" the pole says, indignantly. and then, after a little pause, he adds, musingly, "i never should have thought it. the day i arrived here, you remember, i came quite unexpectedly; and, looking for some one to announce me, i strayed into this very room----" he hesitates. "well?--go on." "well, nina, or olga--what is your _protégeé's_ name?" he snaps his fingers impatiently. "olga! well, what of her?" "nothing, nothing, only she was sitting at the piano strumming away at something, and lato was listening as devoutly as if she----" but selina has risen hastily and is walking towards the door into the garden with short impatient steps, as if in need of the fresh air. her face is flushed, and she plucks nervously at the lace about her throat. "what have i done? have i vexed you?" the pole whines, clasping his hands. "oh, no, you have nothing to do with it!" the countess sharply rejoins. "i cannot understand lato's want of taste in making so much fuss about that slip of a girl." "you ought to try to marry her off," sighs the pole. "try i try!" the countess replies, mockingly. "there is nothing to be done with that obstinate thing." "of course it must be difficult; her low extraction, her lack of fortune,----" "lack of fortune?" selina exclaims. "i thought olga was entirely dependent upon your mother's generosity," fainacky says, eagerly. "not at all. my father saved a very fair sum for olga from the remains of her mother's property. she has the entire control of a fortune of three or four hundred thousand guilders,--quite enough to make her a desirable match; but the girl seems to have taken it into her head that no one save a prince of the blood is good enough for her!" and the countess actually stamps her foot. "do you really imagine that it is olga's ambition alone that prevents her from contracting a sensible marriage?" fainacky drawls, with evident significance. "what else should it be?" selina says, imperiously. "what do you mean?" "nothing, nothing; she seems to me rather exaggerated,--overstrained. let us try this duet of boito's." "i do not wish to sing any more," she replies, and leaves the room. he gazes after her, lost in thought for a moment, then snaps his fingers. "four hundred thousand guilders--by jove!" whereupon he takes his seat at the piano, and improvises until far into the night upon the familiar air, "in ostrolenka's meads." chapter xxxiii. early sunrise. it is early in the morning of the day before the famous betrothal festivity. the town-clock of x---- strikes three as treurenberg, his bridle hanging loose, is riding along the lonely road towards dobrotschau. he has passed the night with a few officers at the rooms of the countess wodin, his cousin and former flame, who "threw him over" because her views of life were more practical than his,--that is to say, than his were at that period; for he soon followed her example, and was very practical too. but it does not suit every man to be so. the assemblage at the countess wodin's was unusually lively. she was the only lady present, with the exception of the major's wife, an insignificant, awkward woman, who was usually endowed with the countess's cast-off gowns. a large number of men made up the gathering,--almost the entire corps of officers, and a couple of gentlemen from the neighbourhood. the time was whiled away with cards. at first lato did not join the players, simply looking on at one and another of the tables; but by and by he took the cards for his cousin, who, suddenly possessed by an intense desire to dance, rose from her place, "just to take a couple of turns around the room." she waltzed until she was breathless with ensign flammingen, treurenberg's relative, who was apparently head over ears in love with her. an officer of dragoons meanwhile droned out the music for them upon a little drawing-room hand-organ. when the countess again took her place at the card-table lato had won a small fortune for her. she congratulated him upon his luck, and advised him to try it in his own behalf. he did so. between the games a good deal of wine had been drunk, and various questionable witticisms had been perpetrated. treurenberg laughed louder than the rest, although all such jesting was distasteful to him, especially when women were present. but the countess had expressly requested to be treated as a man; and the major's wife, after an unfortunate attempt to smoke a cigarette, had retired to a sofa in the adjoining room to recover from the effects of the experiment. in the absence of this victim of an evil custom for which she was evidently unfitted, the merriment grew more and more boisterous, until suddenly young flammingen, who had but a moment before been waltzing gaily with the hostess, fell into a most lachrymose condition. the rest tried, it is true, to regard it as only an additional amusement, but it was useless: the mirth had received a death-blow. some one began to turn the hand-organ again, but without cheering results. all were tired. they found the air of the room suffocating; the smoke was too thick to see through. then the unfortunate idea occurred to one of the party to open a window. the fresh air from without wafted in among the fumes of wine and cigar-smoke had a strange effect upon the guests: they suddenly fell silent, and in a very short time vanished, like ghosts at cock-crow. lato took his leave with the rest, disappearing from his cousin's drawing-room with the consciousness of being a winner,--that was something. he rode through the quiet town, and on between the desolate fields of rye, where not an ear was left standing, between dark stretches of freshly-ploughed land, whence came the odour of the earth with its promise of renewed fertility. the moon was high in the colourless sky; along the eastern horizon there was a faint gleam of yellow light. the dawn enveloped all nature as in a white semi-transparent veil; every outline showed indistinct; the air was cool, and mingled with it there was a sharp breath of autumn. here and there a dead leaf fell from the trees. the temperature had grown much cooler in the last few days; there had been violent storms in the vicinity, although the drought still reigned at dobrotschau. treurenberg felt weary in every limb; the hand holding the bridle dropped on his horse's neck. on either side stood a row of tall poplars; he had reached the avenue where olga's white figure had once come to meet him. the castle was at hand. he shivered; a mysterious dread bade him turn away from it. the half-light seemed to roll away like curling smoke. lato could clearly distinguish the landscape. the grass along the roadside was yellow and dry; blue succory bloomed everywhere among it; here and there a bunch of wild poppies hung drooping on their slender stalks. the blue flowers showed pale and sickly in the early light; the poppies looked almost black. on a sudden everything underwent a change; broad shadows stretched across the road, and all between them glowed in magic crimson light. from a thousand twittering throats came greetings of the new-born day. treurenberg looked up. solemn and grand, in a semicircle of reddish-golden mist, the sun rose on the eastern horizon. yes, in a moment all was transformed,--the pale empty skies were filled with light and resonant inspiration, the earth was revivified. why languish in weary discouragement when a single moment can so transfigure the world? for him, too, the sun might rise, all might be bright within him. then, at a sharp turn of the road, the castle of dobrotschau appeared, interposing its mass between him and the sun. the crimson light, like a corona, played about the outlines of the castle, which stood out hard and dark against the flaming background. treurenberg's momentary hopefulness faded at the sight,--it was folly to indulge in it: for him there was no sunrise; there was nothing before him but a dark, blank wall, shutting out light and hope, and against which he could but bruise and wound himself should he try to break through it. chapter xxxiv. struggles. as lato trotted into the court-yard of the castle a window was suddenly closed, the window above his room,--olga's. she had been awaiting his return, then. he began to shiver as in a fever-fit. "there must be an end to this," he said to himself, as he consigned his horse to a sleepy groom and entered the castle. his room was on the ground-floor; when he reached it he threw himself, still dressed, on the bed, in a state of intolerable agitation; by degrees he became calmer, his thoughts grew vague; without sleeping soundly he dreamed. he seemed to be swimming with olga in his arms through a warm, fragrant lake, upon the surface of which pale water-lilies were floating. suddenly these pale lilies turned to greedy flames, the lake glowed as with fire, and a stifling smoke filled the air. lato started up, his heart beating, his brow damp with moisture. his fatigue tempted him to try again to rest, but he tossed about restlessly; thinking himself still awake, he listened to the ticking of his watch, and looked at lion, who lay crouched beside his bed, when suddenly olga stood there gazing at him, her eyes transfigured with heavenly compassion, as she murmured, "will you not share your woe with me?" she stretched out her arms to him, he drew her towards him, his lips touched hers--he awoke with a cry. he rose, determined to dream no more, and, drawing up one of his window-shades, looked down into the courtyard. it was barely six o'clock. all was quiet, but for one of the grooms at work washing a carriage. the fountain before the st. john rippled and murmured; a few brown leaves floated in its basin. the silvery reflection from the water dazzled lato's eyes; he turned away, and began slowly to pace the room. the motion seemed to increase his restlessness; he threw himself into an arm-chair, and took up a book. but he was not in a condition to read a line; before he knew it the volume fell from his hand, and the noise it made in falling startled him again. he shook his head in impatience with his nervousness; this state of affairs could not be longer endured, he must bring about some change; matters could not go on thus. he thought and thought. what could be patched up from the ruins of his life? he must try to stand on a better footing with his wife, to leave dobrotschau as soon as possible. what would be his future? could he ever become reconciled to his existence? oh! time was such a consoler, could adjust so much, perhaps it would help him to live down this misery. then, like an honourable merchant who sees bankruptcy imminent, he reckoned up his few possessions. his wife had certainly loved him once passionately. it was long since he had recalled her former tenderness; he now did so distinctly. "it is not possible," he thought to himself, "that so strong a feeling can have utterly died out;" the fault of their estrangement must be his, but it should all be different. if he could succeed in withdrawing her from the baleful influences that surrounded her, and in awakening all that was honest and true in her, they might help each other to support life like good friends. it was impossible to make their home in vienna, where his sensitive nature was continually outraged and at war with her satisfied vanity. under such circumstances irritation was unavoidable. but she had been wont to talk of buying a country-seat, and had been eloquent about, the delights of a country life. yes, somewhere in the country, in a pretty, quiet home, forgotten by the world, they might begin life anew; here was the solution of the problem; this was the right thing to do! he thought of his dead child; perhaps god would bestow upon him another. what would, meanwhile, become of olga? like a stab, the thought came to him that with her fate he had nothing to do. olga would miss him, but in time, yes, in time she would marry some good man. he never for an instant admitted the idea that she could share his sinful affection. "i must let the poor girl go," he murmured to himself. "i cannot help her; all must look out for themselves." he said this over several times, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands,--hands which, long, narrow, and white, suggested a certain graceful helplessness which is apt to distinguish the particularly beautiful hands of a woman. "yes, one must learn to control circumstances, to conquer one's self." chapter xxxv. a slanderer. the others are seated at the breakfast-table when treurenberg enters the dining-room, all except fainacky, who, true to his self-imposed task, is still busy with the decorations of the garden-room. that enterprising _maître de plaisir_ has a deal to do, since there is to be a rehearsal, as it were, in the evening of the morrow's festivities. various guests from far and near are expected to admire and to enhance this prelude of coming glories. a seat beside selina is empty. lato goes directly towards it. nothing about him betrays his inward agitation or the sleeplessness of the past night. rather pale, but refreshed by a long walk, and dressed with exquisite care, he looks so distinguished and handsome in his light summer array, that selina is struck by his appearance. he has a rose in his hand, and as, bending over his wife, he places it among her curls, and then kisses her hand by way of morning greeting, she receives him quite graciously. she is inclined to be proud to-day of her aristocratic possession, which she is shortly to have an opportunity of displaying before so many less-favoured friends. half returning the pressure of his hand, she says, "to what do i owe these conjugal attentions?" "the anniversary of our betrothal, selina," he says, in the half-jesting tone in which married people of a certain social standing are wont to allude before witnesses to matters of sentiment, and then he takes his seat beside her. "true, our anniversary!" she rejoins, in the same tone, evidently flattered. "and you remembered it? as a reward, lato, i will butter your toast for you." here the pole comes tripping into the room. "_changement de décoration_. you have taken my place to-day, treurenberg," he says, not without irritation. "since when have modern couples been in the habit of sitting beside each other?" "it is permitted now and then _en famille_," selina informs him, placing before lato the toast she has just prepared for him. she glances at fainacky, and instantly averts her eyes. for the first time it occurs to her to compare this affected trifler with her husband, and the comparison is sadly to fainacky's disadvantage. the petty elegancies of his dress and air strike her as ridiculous. he divines something of this, and it enrages him. he cares not the slightest for selina, but, since their late encounter in the park, he has most cordially hated lato, whom he did not like before. the friendly demeanour of the pair towards each other this morning vexes him intensely; he sees that his attempt to cast suspicion upon lato has failed with selina; nay, it has apparently only fanned the flame of a desire to attract her husband. it irritates him; he would be devoured by envy should a complete reconciliation between the two be established, and he be obliged to look on while lato again entered into the full enjoyment of his wife's millions. he takes the only vacant place, and looks about him for somewhat wherewith to interrupt this mood upon the part of the pair. finally his glance rests upon olga, who sits opposite him, crumbling a piece of biscuit on her plate. "no appetite yet, fräulein olga?" he asks. olga starts slightly, and lifts her teacup to her lips. "do you not think that fräulein olga has been looking ill lately?" the pole directs this question to all present. every one looks at olga, and fainacky gloats over the girl's confusion. treurenberg looks also, and is startled by her pallor. "yes, my poor child, you certainly are below par," he says, with difficulty controlling his voice. "something must be done for your health." "change of air is best in such cases," observes the pole. "so i think," says treurenberg; and, finding that he has himself better in hand than he had thought possible awhile ago, he adds, turning to his mother-in-law, "i think, when everything here is settled after the old fashion----" "after the new fashion, you mean," paula interposes, with a languishing air. "yes, when all the bustle is over," treurenberg begins afresh, in some embarrassment this time, for his conscience pricks him sorely whenever paula alludes to her betrothal. "i understand, after my marriage," she again interposes. "about the beginning of november," treurenberg meekly rejoins, again addressing his mother-in-law, "you might take olga to the south. a winter in nice would benefit both of you." "_tiens! c'est une idée_," selina remarks. "such quantities of people whom we know are going to winter in nice this year. not a bad plan, lato. yes, we might spend a couple of months very pleasantly in nice." "oh, i have other plans for ourselves, lina," treurenberg says, hastily. "ah, i begin to understand," frau von harfink observes: "we are to be got out of the way, olga, you and i." and she smiles after a bitter-sweet fashion. "but, baroness!" lato exclaims. "you entirely misunderstand him, baroness," fainacky interposes: "he was only anxious for fräulein olga's health; and with reason: her want of appetite is alarming." again he succeeds in attracting every one's attention to the girl, who is vainly endeavouring to swallow her breakfast. "i cannot imagine what ails you," paula exclaims, in all the pride of her position as a betrothed maiden. "if i knew of any object for your preference, i should say you were in love." "such suppositions are not permitted to the masculine intelligence," the pole observes, twirling his moustache and smiling significantly, his long, pointed nose drooping most disagreeably over his upper lip. olga trembles from head to foot; for his life lato cannot help trying to relieve the poor child's embarrassment. "nonsense!" he exclaims; "she is only a little exhausted by the heat, and rather nervous, that is all! but you must really try to eat something;" and he hands her a plate. her hand trembles so as she takes it that she nearly lets it fall. frau von harfink frowns, but says nothing, for at the moment a servant enters with a letter for treurenberg. the man who brought it is waiting for an answer. lato hastily opens the missive, which is addressed in a sprawling, boyish hand, and, upon reading it, changes colour and hastily leaves the room. "from whom can it be?" selina soliloquizes, aloud. "h'm!" the pole drums lightly with his fingers on the table, with the air of a man who knows more than he chooses to tell. a little while afterwards he is left alone with selina in the dining-room. "have you any idea of whom the letter was from?" the countess asks him. "not the least," he replies, buttoning his morning coat to the throat, an action which always in his case betokens the possession of some important secret. "will you be kind enough to inform me of what you are thinking?" selina says, imperiously, and not without a certain sharpness of tone. "you are aware, countess, that ordinarily your wish is law for me," the pole replies, with dignity, "but in this case it is unfortunately impossible for me to comply with your request." "why?" "because you might be offended by my communication, and it would be terrible for me were i to displease you." "tell me!" the countess commands. "if it must be, then----" he shrugs his shoulders as if to disclaim any responsibility in the matter, and, stroking his moustache affectedly, continues: "i am convinced that the letter in question has to do with treurenberg's pecuniary embarrassments,--_voilà_!" "pecuniary embarrassments!" exclaims the countess, with irritation. "how should my husband have any such?" she is vexed with the pole, whose affectations begin to weary her, and she is strangely inclined to defend her husband. her old tenderness for him seems to stir afresh within her. fainacky perceives that his game to-day will not be easily won; nevertheless he persists. "then you are ignorant of the debts he contracts?" "if you have nothing more probable to tell me, you need trouble yourself no further," the countess angrily declares. "pardon me, countess," the pole rejoins, "i should not have told you anything of the kind were i not sure of my facts. treurenberg has accidentally had resort to the same usurer that transacts my little affairs. for, i make no secret of it, i have debts, a necessary evil for a single man of rank. good heavens! we gentlemen nowadays----" he waves his hand grandiloquently. "yet, i assure you, my friendship with abraham goldstein is a luxury which i would gladly deny myself. i pay four per----" "i take not the slightest interest in the percentage you pay," interposes selina, "but i cannot understand how you venture to repeat to me a piece of gossip so manifestly false." her manner irritates him extremely, principally because it shows him that he stands by no means so high in her favour as he had supposed. the fair friendship, founded upon flattery, or at least upon mutual consideration for personal vanity, is in danger of a breach. fainacky is consumed by a desire to irritate still further this insulting woman, and to do treurenberg an injury. "indeed!--a manifestly false piece of gossip?" he drawls, contemptuously. "yes, nothing else," she declares; "apart from the fact that my husband has personal control of a considerable income,--my father made sure of that before he gave his consent to my marriage; he never would have welcomed as a son-in-law an aristocrat without independent means,--apart from this fact, of course my money is at his disposal." "indeed! really? i thought you kept separate purses!" says the pole, now--thanks to his irritation--giving free rein to his impertinence. selina bites her lips and is silent. meanwhile, fainacky continues: "i can only say that my information as to treurenberg's financial condition comes from the most trustworthy source, from abraham himself. that indiscreet confidant informed me one day that the husband of 'the rich harfink'--that was his expression--owed him money. the circumstance seemed to gratify his sense of humour. he has a fine sense of humour, the old rascal!" "i cannot understand--it is impossible. lato cannot have so far forgotten himself!" exclaims the countess, pale and breathless from agitation. "moreover, his personal requirements are of the fewest. he is no spendthrift." "no," says the pole, with an ugly smile, "he is no spendthrift, but he is a gambler! you may perhaps be aware of this, countess, ignorant as you seem to be of your husband's private affairs?" "a gambler!" she breaks forth. "you are fond of big words, apparently." "and you, apparently, have a truly feminine antipathy to the truth. is it possible that you are not aware that even as a young man treurenberg was a notorious gambler?" "since his marriage he has given up play." "indeed? and what carries him to x---- day after day? how does he pass his mornings there? at cards!" selina tries to speak, but words fail her, and the pole continues, exultantly, "yes, he plays, and his resources are exhausted,--and so is abraham goldstein's patience,--so he has taken to borrowing of his friends, as i happen to know; and if i am not vastly mistaken, countess, one of these days he will swallow his hidalgo pride and cry _peccavi_ to you, turning to you to relieve his financial embarrassments; and if i were you i would not repulse him,--no, by heaven! not just now. you must do all that you can to keep your hold upon him just at this time." "and why just at this time?" she asks, hoarsely. "why?" he laughs. "have you no eyes? were my hints, my warnings, the other evening, not sufficiently clear?" "what do you mean? what do you presume to----" selina's dry lips refuse to obey her; the hints which had lately glanced aside from her armour of self-confidence now go to the very core,--not of her heart, but of her vanity. drawing a deep breath, she recovers her voice, and goes on, angrily: "are you insane enough to imagine that lato could be seriously attracted for one moment by that school-girl? the idea is absurd, i could not entertain it for an instant. i have neglected lato, it is true, but i need only lift my finger----" "i have said nothing," the pole whines, repentantly,--"nothing in the world. for heaven's sake do not be so angry! nothing has occurred, but treurenberg has no tact, and olga is the daughter of a play-actor, and also, as you must admit, and as every one can see, desperately in love with lato. all i do is to point out the danger to you. treat treurenberg with caution, and then----" "hush! go!" she gasps. he rises and leaves the room, turning in the doorway to say, with a voice and gesture that would have won renown for the hero of a provincial theatre at the end of his fourth act, "selina, i have ruined myself with you, i have thrown away your friendship, but i have perhaps saved your existence from shipwreck!" whereupon he closes the door and betakes himself to the garden-room to have a last look at the decorations there. he does not think it worth while to carry thither his heroic air of self-sacrifice; on the contrary, as he gives an order to the upholsterer, a triumphant smile hovers upon his lips. "it will surprise me if treurenberg now succeeds in arranging his affairs in that quarter," he thinks to himself. meanwhile, selina is left to herself. she does not suffer from wounded affection; no, her heart is untouched by what she has just heard. but memory, rudely awakened, recalls to her a hundred little occurrences all pointing in the same direction, and she trembles with rage at the idea that any one--that her own husband--should prefer that simpleton of a girl to her own acknowledged beauty. chapter xxxvi. failure. the clever pole had, however, been quite mistaken as to the contents of lato's letter. abraham goldstein's patience with the husband of the "rich harfink" was not exhausted,--it was, in fact, inexhaustible; and if, nevertheless, the letter brought home to lato the sense of his pecuniary embarrassments, it was because a young, inexperienced friend, whom he would gladly have helped had it been possible, had appealed to him in mortal distress. his young cousin flammingen was the writer of the letter, in which he confessed having lost at play, and entreated lato to lend him three thousand guilders. to the poor boy this sum appeared immense; it seemed but a trifle to the husband of the "rich harfink," but nevertheless it was a trifle which there would be great difficulty in procuring. and the lad wanted the money within twenty-four hours, to discharge gambling-debts,--debts of honour. treurenberg had once, when a young man, been in a like situation, and had been frightfully near vindicating his honour by a bullet through his brains. he was sorry for the young fellow, and, although his misery was good for him, he must be relieved. how? lato turned his pockets inside out, and the most he could scrape together was twelve hundred guilders. this sum he enclosed in a short note, in which he told flammingen that he hoped to send him the rest in the course of the afternoon, and despatched the waiting messenger with this consolation. his cousin's trouble made him cease for a while to ponder upon his own. although he could not have brought himself to apply to his wife for relief in his own affairs, it seemed to him comparatively easy to appeal to her for another. he did not for an instant doubt that she would comply with his request. she was not parsimonious, but hard, and he could endure that for another's sake. he went twice to her room, in hopes of finding her there, but she was still in the dining-room. he frowned when her maid told him this, and, lighting a cigar, he went down into the garden, annoyed at the necessity of postponing his interview with his wife. meanwhile, olga, out of spirits and unoccupied, had betaken herself to the library. all day she had felt as if she had lost something; she could not have told what ailed her. she took up a book to amuse herself; by chance it was the very novel of turgenieff's which she had been about to read, seated in the old boat, when fainacky had intruded upon her. she had left the volume in the park, whence it had been brought back to her by the gardener. she turned over the leaves, at first listlessly, then a phrase caught her eye,--she began to read. her interest increased from chapter to chapter; she devoured the words. her breath came quickly, her cheeks burned. she read on to where the hero, in an access of anger, strikes zenaide on her white arm with his riding-whip, and she calmly kisses the crimson welt made by the lash. there the book fell from the girl's hand; she felt no indignation at zenaide's guilty passion, no horror of the cruel rage of the hero; no, she was conscious only of a kind of fierce envy of zenaide, who could thus forgive. on the instant there awoke within her a passionate longing for a love which could thus triumph over all disgrace, all ill usage, and bear one exultantly to its heaven! she had become so absorbed in the book as to be insensible to what was going on around her. now she started, and shrank involuntarily. a step advanced along the corridor; she heard a door open and shut,--the door of selina's dressing-room. "who is there?" selina's voice exclaimed. "i." it was treurenberg who replied. selina's dressing-room was separated by only a partition-wall from the library. it was well-nigh noon, and selina's maid was dressing her mistress's hair, when treurenberg entered his wife's dressing-room for the first time for years without knocking. she had done her best to recover from the agitation caused her by fainacky's words, had taken a bath, and had then rested for half an hour. guests were expected in the afternoon, and she must impress them with her beauty, and must outshine the pale girl whom lato had the bad taste to admire. when treurenberg entered she was sitting before the mirror in a long, white peignoir, while her maid was brushing her hair, still long and abundant, reddish-golden in colour. her arms gleamed full and white from out the wide sleeves of her peignoir. "who is it?" she asked, impatiently, hearing some one enter. "only i," he replied, gently. why does the tone of his soft, melodious voice so affect her to-day? why, in spite of herself, does lato seem more attractive to her than he has done for years? she is irritated by the contradictory nature of her feelings. "what do you want?" she asks, brusquely. "to speak with you," he replies, in french. "send away your maid." instead of complying, selina orders the girl, "brush harder: you make me nervous with such half-work." treurenberg frowns impatiently, and then quietly sends the maid from the room himself. selina makes no attempt to detain her,--under the circumstances it would be scarcely possible for her to do so,--but hardly has the door closed behind josephine, when she turns upon lato with flashing eyes. "why do you send away my servants against my express wish?" "i told you just now that i want to speak with you," he replies, with more firmness than he has ever hitherto displayed towards her,--the firmness of very weak men in mortal peril or moral desperation. "what i have to say requires no witnesses and can bear no delay." "go on, then." she folds her arms. "what do you want?" he has seated himself astride of a chair near her, and, with his arms resting on the low back and his chin in his hands, he gazes at her earnestly. why do his attitude and his way of looking at her remind her so forcibly of the early time of their married life? then he often used to sit thus and look on while she arranged her magnificent hair herself, for then--ah, then----! but she thrusts aside all such reflections. why waste tenderness upon a man who is not ashamed to--who has so little taste as to---- "what do you want?" she asks, more crossly than before. "first of all, your sympathy," he replies, gravely. "oh, indeed! is this what you had to tell me that could bear no delay?" he moves his chair a little nearer to her. "lina," he murmurs, "we have become very much estranged of late." "whose fault is it?" she asks, dryly. "partly mine," he sadly confesses. "only partly?" she replies, sharply. "that is a matter of opinion. the other way of stating it is that you neglected me and i put up with it." "i left you to yourself, because--because i thought i wearied you," he stammers, conscious that he is not telling quite the truth, knowing that he had hailed the first symptoms of her indifference as a relief. "it certainly is true that i have not grieved myself to death over your neglect. it was not my way to sue humbly for your favour. but let that go; let us speak of real things, of the matter which will not bear delay." she smiles contemptuously. "true," he replies; "i had forgotten it in my own personal affairs. i wanted to ask a favour of you." "ah!" she interposes; and he goes on: "it happens that i have no ready money just now; what i have, at least, does not suffice. will you advance me some?" she drums exultantly upon her dressing-table, loaded with its apparatus of glass and silver. "i would have wagered that we should come to this. h'm! how much do you want?" "eighteen hundred guilders." "and do you consider that a trifle?" she exclaims, provokingly. "if i remember rightly, it amounts to the entire year's pay of a captain in the army. and you want the money to--discharge a gambling-debt, do you not?" "not my own," he says, hoarsely. "god knows, i would rather put a bullet through my brains than ask you for money!" "that's very easily said," she rejoins, coldly. "i am glad, however, to have you assure me that you do not want the money for yourself. to pay your debts, for the honour of the name which i bear, i should have made any sacrifice, but i have no idea of supporting the extravagancies of the garrison at x----." and selina begins to trim her nails with a glittering little pair of scissors. "but, selina, you have no idea of the facts of the case!" treurenberg exclaims. he has risen, and he takes the scissors from her and tosses them aside impatiently. "women can hardly understand the importance of a gambling-debt. a life hangs upon its payment,--the life of a promising young fellow, who, if no help is vouchsafed him, must choose between disgrace and death. suppose i should tell you tomorrow that he had shot himself,--what then?" "he will not shoot himself," she says, calmly. "moreover, it was a principle with my father never to comply with the request of any one who threatened suicide; and i agree with him." "you are right in general; but this is an exception. this poor boy is not yet nineteen,--a child, unaccustomed to be left to himself, who has lost his head. what if you are right, and he cannot find the courage to put an end to himself,--the hand of a lad of eighteen who has condemned himself to death may well falter,--what then? disgrace, for him, for his family; dismissal from the army; a degraded life. have pity, selina, for heaven's sake!" he pleads desperately, but he might as well appeal to a wooden doll, for all the impression his words make upon her, and at last he pauses, breathless with agitation. selina, tossing her head and with a scornful air, says, "i have little sympathy for young good-for-naughts; it lies in the nature of things that they should bear the consequences of their actions; it is no affair of mine. i might, indeed, ask how it happens that you take such an interest in this case, did i not know that you have good reason to do so,--you are a gambler yourself." treurenberg starts and gazes at her in dismay. "a gambler! what can make you think so? i often play to distract my mind, but a gambler!--'tis a harsh word. i am not aware that you have ever had to suffer from my love for cards." "no; your friendship with abraham goldstein stands you in stead. you have spared me, if it can be called sparing a woman to cause her innocently to incur the reputation for intense miserliness!" there is some truth in her words, some justice in her indignation. lato casts down his eyes. suddenly an idea occurs to him. "fainacky has told you, then, of my relations with abraham goldstein?" "yes." "ah!" he exclaims; "i now understand the change in you. for heaven's sake, do not allow yourself to be influenced by that shallow, malicious coxcomb!" "i do not allow myself to be influenced by him," the countess replies; "but his information produced an impression upon me, for it was, since you do not deny it, correct. you are a gambler; you borrow money at a high rate of percentage from a usurer, because you are too arrogant or too obstinate to tell me of your debts. is this not so?" treurenberg has gone towards the door, when he suddenly pauses and collects himself. he will make one more attempt to be reconciled with his wife, and it shall be the last. he turns towards her again. "yes," he admits, "i have treated you inconsiderately, and your wounding of my pride, perhaps unintentionally, does not excuse me. i have been wrong,--i have neglected you. i play,--yes, selina, i play,--i seek the society of strangers, but only because i am far, far more of a stranger at home. selina," he goes on, carried away by his emotion, and in a voice which expresses his utter misery, "i cannot reconcile myself to life amid your surroundings; call it want of character, weakness, sensitiveness, as you please, but i cannot. come away with me; let us retire to any secluded corner of the earth, and i will make it a paradise for you by my gratitude and devotion; i will serve you on my knees; my life shall be yours, only come away with me!" poor lato! he has wrought his own ruin. why does he not understand that every word he speaks wounds the most sensitive part of her,--her vanity? "you would withdraw me from my surroundings? and, pray, what society do you offer me in exchange?" she asks, bitterly. "my acquaintances are not good enough for you; i am not good enough for the atmosphere in which you used to live." he sees his error, perceives that he has offended her, and it pains him. "selina," he says, softly, "there shall be no lack of good friends for you at my side; and then, after all, what need have we of other people? can we not find our happiness in each other? what if god should bless us with an angel like the one he has taken from us?" he kneels beside her and kisses her hand, but she withdraws it hastily. "do not touch me!" she exclaims; "i am not olga!" he starts to his feet as if stung by a serpent. "what do you mean?" "what i say." "i do not understand you!" "hypocrite!" she gasps, her jealousy gaining absolute mastery of her; "i am not blind; do you suppose i do not know upon whom you lavish kind words and caresses every day, which fall to my share only when you want some favour of me?" it seems to him that he hears the rustle of feminine garments in the next room. "for god's sake, selina, not so loud," he whispers. "ah! your first emotion is dread of injuring her; all else is indifferent to you. it does not even occur to you to repel my accusation." "accusation?" he murmurs, hopelessly. "i do not yet understand of what you accuse me." "of your relations with that creature before my very eyes!" transported with indignation at these words, he lifts his hand, possessed by a mad impulse to strike her, but he controls himself so far as only to grasp her by the arm. "creature!" he exclaims, furiously. "creature! are you mad? olga!--why, olga is pure as an angel, more spotless than a snowflake before it has touched the earth." "i have no faith in such purity. if she has not actually fallen, her passion is plainly shown in her eyes. but there shall be no open scandal,--she must go. i will not have her in the house,--she must go!" "she must go!" treurenberg repeats, in horror. "you would turn her out of doors,--a young, inexperienced, beautiful girl? selina, i will go, and the sooner the better for all i care, but she must stay." "how you love her!" sneers the countess. for a moment there is silence in the room. lato gazes at his wife as if she were something strange which he had never seen before,--gazes at her in amazement mingled with horror. his patience is at an end; he forgets everything in the wild desire to break asunder the fetters which have bound him for so long, to be rid of the self-control which has so tortured him. "yes," he says, raising his voice, "i love her,--love her intensely, unutterably; but this is the first time that i have admitted it even to myself, and you have brought me to do so. i have struggled against this passion night and day, have denied its existence, have done all that i could to stifle it, and i have tried to the utmost to be reconciled with you, to begin with you a new life in which i could hope to forget her. how you have seconded me you know. of one thing, however, i can assure you,--the last word has been uttered between you and myself; it would not avail you now though you should sue for a reconciliation on your knees. a woman without tenderness or compassion i abhor. i have a horror of you!" he turns sway, and the door closes behind him. "where is the count?" frau von harfink asks a servant, at lunch, where treurenberg's place is vacant. "the herr count had his horse saddled some time ago," the man replies, "and left word that he should not be here at lunch, since he had urgent business in x----." "indeed!" the hostess says, indifferently, without expending another thought upon her son-in-law. she never suspects that within the last few hours, beneath her roof, the ruin has been completed of a human existence long since undermined. lunch goes on,--a hurried meal, at which it is evident that the household is in a state of preparation for coming festivities; a meal at which cold dishes are served, because the entire culinary force is absorbed in elaborating the grand dinner for the evening; a lunch at which no one talks, because each is too much occupied with his or her own thoughts to desire to inquire into those of the others. frau von harfink mentally recapitulates the evening's _menu_, wondering if nothing can be added to it to reflect splendour upon the harfink establishment. paula's reveries are of her coming bliss; her usually robust appetite is scarcely up to the mark. in short, the only one who seems to eat with the customary relish is the pole, who, very temperate in drinking and smoking, is always ready for a banquet. he is also the only one who notices the want of appetite in the rest. he does not waste his interest, however, upon the baroness or paula, but devotes his attention exclusively to selina and olga. the countess is evidently in a very agitated state of mind, and, strange to relate of so self-satisfied a person, she is clearly discontented with herself and her surroundings. when her mother asks her whether two soups had better be served at dinner, or, since it is but a small family affair, only one, she replies that it is a matter of supreme indifference to her, and will certainly be the same to the guests, adding,-- "the people who are coming will probably have some appetite; mine was spoiled some days ago by the mere _menu_, which i have been obliged to swallow every day for the last fortnight." these are the only words spoken by her during the entire meal. the pole finds her mood tolerably comprehensible. she has had a scene with treurenberg, and has gone too far,--that is what is annoying her at present. but olga's mood puzzles him completely. the depression she has manifested of late has entirely vanished, she holds her head erect, her movements are easy, and there is a gleam in her eyes of transfiguring happiness, something like holy exultation. chapter xxxvii. a visit. meanwhile, treurenberg is riding along the road to x----. the landscape is dreary. autumn is creeping over the fields, vainly seeking the summer, seeking luxuriant life to kill, or exquisite beauty to destroy. in vain; the same withering drought rests upon everything like a curse, and in the midst of the brown monotony bloom succory and field-poppies. treurenberg gazes to the right and left without really seeing anything. his eyes have a glassy, fixed look, and about his mouth there is a hard expression, almost wicked, and quite foreign to him. he is not the same man who an hour ago sought his wife to entreat her to begin a new life with him; not the same man who at dawn was so restless in devising schemes for a better future. his restlessness has vanished with his last gleam of hope; sensation is benumbed, the burning pain has gone. something has died within him. he no longer reflects upon his life,--it is ended; he has drawn a black line through it. all that he is conscious of is intense, paralyzing weariness, the same that had overcome him in the early morning, only more crushing. after the scene with his wife he had been assailed by a terrible languor, an almost irresistible desire to lie down and close his eyes, but he could not yield to it, he had something to do. that poor lad must be rescued; the suffering the boy was enduring was wholesome, but he must be saved. fainacky's assertion that treurenberg was in the habit of borrowing from his friends had been a pure fabrication; he had borrowed money of no one save of harry, with whom he had been upon the footing of a brother from early boyhood, and of abraham goldstein, upon whose secrecy he had supposed he could rely. it would have wounded him to speak to any stranger of the painful circumstances of his married life. now all this was past; selina could thank herself that it was so. he could not let the boy go to ruin, and, since selina would not take pity upon him, he must turn to some one else; there was no help for it. for a moment he thought of harry; but he reflected that harry could hardly have so large a sum of ready money by him, and, as time was an important item in the affair, there was nothing for it but to apply for aid to wodin, the husband of his cousin and former flame. the trees grow scantier, their foliage rustier, and the number of ragged children on the highway greater. now and then some young women are to be seen walking along the road, usually in couples, rather oddly dressed, evidently after the plates in the journals of fashion, and with an air of affectation. then come a couple of low houses with blackened roofs reaching almost to the ground, manure-heaps, grunting swine wallowing in slimy green pools, hedges where pieces of linen are drying, gnarled fruit-trees smothered in dust, an inn, a carters' tavern, with a red crab painted above the door-way, whence issues the noise of drunken quarrelling, then a white wall with some trees showing above it, the town-park of x----. lato has reached his goal. on the square before the barracks he halts. a corporal takes charge of his horse, and he hurries up the broad, dirty steps, along the still dirtier and ill-smelling corridor, where he encounters dragoons in spurs and clattering sabres, where the officers' overworked servants are brushing their masters' coats and their mistresses' habits, to the colonel's quarters, quarters the luxurious arrangement of which is in striking contrast to the passages by which they are reached. count wodin is not at home, but is expected shortly; the countess, through a servant, begs lato to await him. he resolves to do so, and pays his respects meanwhile to his cousin, whom he finds in a spacious, rather low-ceilinged apartment, half smoking-room, half drawing-room, furnished with divans covered with oriental stuff's, pretty buhl chairs and tables, and japanese cabinets crowded to excess with all sorts of rare porcelain. an upright piano stands against the wall between two windows; above it hangs a miniature gondola, and beside it, on the floor, is a palm in a huge copper jar evidently procured from some venetian water-carrier. two china pugs, the size of life, looking like degenerate chimeras, gnash their teeth at all intruders in life-like hideousness. the door-ways are draped with eastern rugs; the walls are covered with a dark paper, and two or three english engravings representing hunting-scenes hang upon them. in the midst of these studies in black and white hangs a small copy of titian's venus. the entire arrangement of the room betrays a mingling of vulgarity and refinement, of artistic taste and utter lack of it; and in the midst of it all the countess reclines on a lounge, dressed in a very long and very rumpled morning-gown, much trimmed with yellowish valenciennes lace. her hair is knotted up carelessly; she looks out of humour, and is busy rummaging among a quantity of photographs. she is alone, but from the adjoining room come the sound of voices, as treurenberg enters, and the rattle of bézique-counters. the countess gives him her hand, presses his very cordially, and says, in a weary, drawling tone, "how are you after yesterday, lato?" "after what?" "why, our little orgie. it gave me a headache." she passes her hand across her forehead. "how badly the air tastes! could you not open another window, lato?" "they are all open," he says, looking round the room. "ah! you have poisoned the atmosphere with your wine, your cigars, your gambling excitement. i taste the day after a debauch, in the air." he nods absently. "i admire people who never suffer the day after," she sighs, and waves her hand towards the door of the next room, through which comes a cheerful murmur of voices. lato moves his head a little, and can see through the same door a curious couple,--the major's wife, stout, red-cheeked, her hair parted boldly on one side, and dressed in an old gown, enlarged at every seam, of the countess's, while opposite her sits a young man in civilian's clothes, pale, coughing from time to time, his face long and far from handsome, but aristocratic in type, his chest narrow, and his waistcoat buttoned to the throat. "your brother," lato remarks, turning to the countess. "yes," she rejoins, "my brother, and my certificate of respectability, which is well, for there is need of it. _À propos_, do you know that in the matter of feminine companionship i am reduced to that stout liese?" the countess laughs unpleasantly. "i have tried every day to bring myself to the point of returning your wife's call. i do not know why i have not done so. but the ladies at dobrotschau are really very amiable,--uncommonly amiable,--they have invited me to the betrothal _fête_ in spite of my incivility. _À propos_, lato, will any one be there,--any one whom one knows?" "i have had nothing to do with the list of guests," he murmurs, listening for wodin's step outside. "i should like to know. it would be unpleasant to meet any of my acquaintances,--they treat me so strangely. you know how it is." again she laughs in the same unpleasant way. "but if i could be sure of meeting no one i would go to your _fête_, i have a new gown from worth: i should like to display it somewhere; dragging my trains through these smoky rooms becomes monotonous after a while. i think i will come." the voices in the next room sound louder, and there is a burst of hearty laughter. lato can see the major's wife slap her forehead in mock despair. "easily entertained," the countess says, crossly. "they are playing bézique for raisins. it makes a change for my brother; his physician has sent him to the country for the benefit of the air and a regular mode of life. he has come to the right place, eh?" again she laughs; her breath fails her; she closes her eyes and leans back, white as a corpse. lato shudders at the sight, he could hardly have told why. his youth rises up before him. there was a time when he loved that woman with enthusiasm, with self-devotion. that woman! he scans her now with a kind of curiosity. she is still beautiful, but the wan face has fallen away, the complexion all that can be seen of it beneath its coating of violet powder--is faded, the delicate nose is too thick at the tip, the nostrils are slightly reddened, the small mouth is constantly distorted in an affected smile, the arms from which the wide sleeves of the morning-gown have fallen back are thin, and the nails upon the long, slender hands remind one of claws. even the white gown looks faded, crushed, as by the constant nervous movement of a restless, discontented wearer. her entire personality is constrained, feverish. involuntarily lato compares this woman with olga. he sees with his mind's eye the young girl, tall and slender as a lily, her white gowns always so pure and fresh, sees the delicately-rounded oval of her girlish face, her clear, large eyes, the innocent tenderness of her smile. and selina could malign that same olga! his blood boils. as if olga were to blame for the wretched, guilty passion in his breast! his thoughts are far away from his present surroundings. "seven thousand five hundred," the triumphant voice of the major's wife calls out in the next room. "if this goes on, count franz, i shall soon stop playing for raisins! ah!" as, turning her head, she perceives treurenberg; "you have a visitor, lori." "yes," countess lori replies, "but do not disturb yourselves, nor us." the rattle of the counters continues. "i must speak with your husband," lato says presently; "if you know where he is----" "he will be here in ten minutes; you need have no fear, he is never late," lori says. "_À propos_, do you know what i was doing when you came in? sorting my old photographs." she hands him a picture from the pile beside her. "that is how i looked when you fell in love with me." he gazes, not without interest, at the pale little picture, which represents a tall, slender, and yet well-developed young girl with delicate, exquisitely lovely features, and with eyes, full of gentle kindliness, looking out curiously, as it were, into the world from beneath their arched eyebrows. an old dream floats through the wretched man's mind. "it was very like," he says. "was it not? i was a comical-looking thing then, and how badly dressed! look at those big sleeves and the odd skirt. it was a gown of my elder sister's made over. good heavens! that gown had a part in my resolve to throw you over. do you remember?" "yes, lori." "only faintly, i think," she laughs. "and yet you seemed to take it sadly to heart then. i was greatly agitated myself. but what else was to be done? i was tired of wearing my sister's old gowns. youth longs for splendour; it is one of its diseases, and when it has it--pshaw! you need not look so, lato: i have no intention of throwing myself at your head. i know that old tale is told for both of us. and we never were suited for each other. it was well that i did not marry you, but, good heavens, i might have waited for some one else! it need not have been just that one--that----" with a hasty gesture of disgust she tosses aside a photograph of count wodin which she has just drawn from the heap. "what would you have? if a tolerably presentable man appears, and one knows that he can buy one as many gowns, diamonds, and horses as one wants, why, one forgets everything else and accepts him. what ideas of marriage one has at seventeen! and our parents take good care not to enlighten us. 'she will get used to it,' say father and mother, and the mother believes it because she wants to, and both rejoice that their daughter is provided for; and before one is aware the trap has fallen. i bore you, lato." "no," he replies; "you grieve me." "oh, it is only now and then that i feel thus," she murmurs. "shall i tell you the cause of my wretched mood?" "utter fatigue, the natural consequence of yesterday's pleasures." "not at all. i accidentally came upon the picture of my cousin ada to-day. do you remember her? there she is." she hands him a photograph. "exquisitely beautiful, is it not?" "yes," he says, looking at the picture; "the eyes are bewitching, and there is such womanly tenderness, such delicate refinement, about the mouth." "nothing could surpass ada," says countess lori; "she was a saint, good, self-sacrificing, not a trace in her of frivolity or selfishness." "and yet she married hugo reinsfeld, if i am not mistaken?" says lato. "i have heard nothing of her lately. news from your world rarely reaches me." "no one mentions her now," lori murmurs. "she married without love; not from vanity as i did, but she sacrificed herself for her family,--sisters unprovided for, father old, no money. she was far better than i, and for a long time she honestly tried to do her duty,----and so she finally had to leave her husband!" the countess stops; a long pause ensues. the steps of the passers-by sound through the languid september air; an italian hurdy-gurdy is grinding out the lullaby from "trovatore," sleepy and sentimental. the clatter from the barracks interrupts it now and then. a sunbeam slips through the window-shade into the half-light of the room and gleams upon the buhl furniture. "well, she had the courage of her opinions," the countess begins afresh at last. "she left her husband and lives with--well, with another man,--good heavens! you knew him too, niki gladnjik, in switzerland; they live there for each other in perfect seclusion. he adores her; the world--our world, the one i do not want to meet at your ball--ignores ada, but i write to her sometimes, and she to me. i have been reading over her letters to-day. she seems to be very happy, enthusiastically happy, so happy that i envy her; but i am sorry for her, for--you see, niki really loves her, and wants to marry her--they have been waiting two years for the divorce which her husband opposes; and niki is consumptive; you understand, if he should die before----" lato's heart throbs fast at his cousin's tale. at this moment the door opens, and count wodin enters. chapter xxxviii. at last. flammingen's affairs are satisfactorily adjusted. treurenberg is relieved of that anxiety. he can devote his thoughts to his own complications, as he rides back from x---- to dobrotschau. the dreamy lullaby from "trovatore" still thrills his nerves, and again and again he recalls the pair living happily in switzerland. he sees their valley in his mental vision enclosed amid lofty mountains,--walls erected by god himself to protect that green paradise from the intrusion and cruelty of mankind,--walls which shut out the world and reveal only the blue heavens. how happy one could be in that green seclusion, forgotten by the world! in fancy he breathes the fresh alpine air laden with the wholesome scent of the pines; upon his ear there falls the rushing murmur of the mountain-stream. he sees a charming home on a mountain-slope, and at the door stands a lovely woman dressed in white, with large, tender eyes filled with divine sympathy. she is waiting for some one's return; whence does he come? from the nearest town, whither he is forced to go from time to time to adjust his affairs, but whither she never goes; oh, no! people pain her,--people who despise and envy her. but what matters it? he opens his arms to her, she flies to meet him; ah, what bliss, what rapture! his horse stumbles slightly; he rouses with a start. a shudder thrills him, and, as in the morning, he is horrified at himself. will it always be thus? can he not relax his hold upon himself for one instant without having every thought rush in one direction, without being possessed by one intense longing? how can he thus desecrate olga's image? meanwhile, the expected guests have arrived at dobrotschau. they came an hour ago,--three carriage-loads of distinction from, vienna, some of them decorated with feudal titles. a very aristocratic party will assemble at table in dobrotschau to-day. countess weiseneck, a born grinzing, wife of a rather disgraceful _mauvais sujet_, whose very expensive maintenance she contests paying, and from whom she has been separated for more than a year; countess mayenfeld, _née_ gerstel, the wife of a gentleman not quite five feet in height, who is known in vienna by the _sobriquet_ of "the numismatician." when his betrothal to the wealthy amanda gerstel was announced, society declared that he had chosen his bride to augment his collection of coins. his passion for collecting coins enables this knightly aristocrat to endure with philosophy the cold shoulders which his nearest relatives turned to him after his marriage; moreover, he lives upon excellent terms with his wizened little wife. one more couple with a brand-new but high-sounding title; then an unmarried countess, with short hair and a masculine passion for sport,--an acquaintance made at a watering-place; then baron kilary, the cleverest business-man among vienna aristocrats, who is always ready to eat oysters and _pâte de foie gras_ at any man's table, without, however, so far forgetting himself as to require his wife and daughter to visit any one of his entertainers who is socially his inferior. the famous poet, paul angelico orchys, and little baron königsfeld, complete the list of arrivals. the first greetings are over; ended also is the running to and fro of lady's-maids looking for mislaid handbags, with the explanations of servants, who, having carried the trunks to the wrong rooms, are trying to make good their mistakes. all is quiet. the ladies and gentlemen are seated at small tables in a shady part of the park, drinking tea and fighting off a host of wasps that have attacked the delicacies forming part of the afternoon repast. the castle is empty; the sound of distant voices alone falls on lato's ear as he returns from his expedition to x---- and goes to his room, desirous only of deferring as long as possible the playing of his part in this tiresome entertainment. the first thing to meet his eyes on his writing-table is a letter addressed to himself. he picks it up; the envelope is stamped with a coronet and selina's monogram. he tears the letter open; it encloses nothing save a package of bank-notes,--eighteen hundred guilders in austrian currency. lato's first emotion is anger. what good will the wretched money do him now? how rejoiced he is that he no longer needs it, that he can return it within the hour to selina! the address arrests his attention; there is something odd about it. is it selina's handwriting? at first sight he had thought it was, but now, upon a closer inspection can it be his mother-in-law's hand? is she trying to avoid a domestic scandal by atoning thus for her daughter's harshness? he tosses the money aside in disgust. suddenly a peculiar fragrance affects him agreeably. what is it?--a faint odour of heliotrope. could it be----? his downcast eyes discover a tiny bunch of faded purple blossoms lying on the floor almost at his feet. he stoops, picks it up, and kisses it passionately: it is the bunch of heliotrope which olga wore on her breast at breakfast. it is she who has cared for him, who has thought of him! but instantly, after the first access of delight, comes the reaction. how could olga have known? selina, in her irritation, may have proclaimed his request to the entire household; the servants may be discussing in the kitchen count treurenberg's application to his wife for eighteen hundred guilders, and her angry refusal to grant them to him. he clinches his fist and bites his lip, when on a sudden he recalls the rustle of a robe in the next room, which he thought he heard at one time during his interview with selina. the blood mounts to his forehead. olga had been in the library; she had heard him talking with his wife. and if she had heard him ask selina for the money, she had also heard---- ah! he buries his face in his hands. the afternoon tea has been enjoyed; the ladies have withdrawn to their rooms to "arm themselves for the fray," as paul angelico expresses it; the gentlemen have betaken themselves to the billiard-room, where they are playing a game, as they smoke the excellent cigars which baron kilary has ordered a lackey to bring them. lato has wandered out into the park. he is not quite himself; the ground beneath his feet seems uncertain. he leans against the trunk of a tree, always pondering the same question, "what if she heard?" he turns involuntarily into the garden-path where, but a short time since, he had soothed her agitation and dried her tears. there, on the rough birchen bench, something white gleams. is it----? he would fain flee, but he cannot; he stands as if rooted to the spot. she turns her face towards him, and recognizes him. a faint colour flushes her cheek, and in her eyes, which rest full upon him, there is a heavenly light. "lato!" she calls. is that her voice sounding so full and soft? she rises and approaches him. he has never before seen her look so beautiful. her slender figure is erect as a young fir; she carries her head like a youthful queen whose brow is crowned for the first time with the diadem. she stands beside him; her presence thrills him to his very soul. "olga," he murmurs at last, "was it you who left the money on my table? how did you know that i wanted it?" he asks, bluntly, almost authoritatively. she is silent. "olga, olga, were you in the library while----?" she nods. "and you heard all,--everything?" "yes." "olga!" his eyes are riveted upon her face in what is almost horror. "olga,--what now?" "i cannot bear to see you suffer," she murmurs, scarce audibly. did he extend his arms to her? he could not himself tell; but what he has dreamed has happened,--he clasps her to his breast, his lips meet hers; his anguish is past; wings seem to be given him wherewith to soar to heaven. but only for an instant is he thus beguiled; then reality in its full force bursts upon him. he unclasps the dear arms from his neck, presses one last kiss upon the girlish hand before he releases it, and then turns and walks away with a firm tread, without looking round, and in the full consciousness of the truth,--the consciousness that no wings are his, and that the heavy burden which has weighed him down is doubly heavy now. chapter xxxix. the dinner. taken altogether, fainacky may be but a very ordinary pattern of a man, but as a _maître de plaisir_ in the arrangement of a _fête_ he is unrivalled. a more exquisite table than that around which the twenty people are assembled who form the rehearsing party for harry's betrothal festival it would be difficult to imagine. the only criticism that can be made is that the guests are rather far apart; but who could have foreseen that at the last moment four people would be lacking? the paul leskjewitsches, with their niece, sent regrets, and olga, just before dinner, was obliged to retire with a severe headache, to which she succumbed in spite of her aunt's exhortations to her "not to mind it." lato is present; he is indifferent as to where his hours drag past. he is determined to prevent olga's being made the subject of discussion, and his social training, with the numbness sure to ensue upon great mental agitation, stands him in stead; he plays his part faultlessly. now and then the consciousness of his hopeless misery flashes upon him, then it fades again; he forgets all save the present moment, and he scans everything about him with keen observation, as if he had no part or parcel in it, but were looking at it all as at another world. yes, the table is charmingly decorated; anything more tasteful or more correct in every respect could not be imagined; but the people gathered about this sparkling board, never before has he seen them so clearly or judged them so severely. his contempt is specially excited by his social equals. fritz mayenfeld, "the numismatician," does not long occupy his attention. in spite of his rank, he has always manifested thoroughly plebeian instincts; his greed of gain is notorious; and he looks, and is, entirely at home in the harfink domestic atmosphere. the descent of the other aristocrats present, however,--of kilary, of the short-haired countess, and of the affected count fermor,--is tolerably evident in their faces, and they all seem determined to assert their aristocratic prestige in the same manner,--by impertinence. lato is conscious of a horror of his own caste as he studies these degenerate members of it. he turns his attention to the three guests from komaritz,--the countess zriny, hedwig, and harry. the old canoness, who is seated on his right, provokes his smile. the superb condescension with which, for love of her nephew, she treats "these people;" the formal courtesy with which she erects an insurmountable barrier between them and herself; the morsels of liberalism which she scatters here and there in her conversation for their comfort and delectation,--all are worthy of the most enthusiastic praise. poor old woman! how important she is in her own eyes! her gown is the ugliest and shabbiest there (the one the sporting countess wears was given her by selina), but six strings of wonderful pearls which she wears around her neck make her all right. hedwig,--well, she is a little more affected than usual; she is flirting with little baron königsfeld, who took her in to dinner, playing him off against her neighbour on the other side, count fermor. and harry,--with profound sympathy and intense compassion lato's eyes rest upon his friend. simple, without pretension or affectation, very courteous without condescension, a little formal, perhaps, withal,--as the most natural of men must be where he feels himself a stranger,--with that in his face and bearing that distinguishes him above every one present, he is the only specimen of his own caste there with whom lato feels satisfied. "they may abuse us as they please," he thinks to himself,--"nay, i even join them in abusing,--but if one of us gives his word he stands to it." and then he questions whether in any other rank could be found such an example of noble and manly beauty, or of such quixotic, self-annihilating, chivalrous honour. "good heavens! why not?" he makes reply to himself. "so far as moral worth is concerned, assuredly; only in form it would probably be less refined." lato has had much experience of life. he has laid aside all the prejudices of his class, but the subtile caste-instinct still abides with him. he asks himself whether his family--the harfink family--notice the difference between harry and the other aristocrats present; whether the harfinks will not be finally disgusted by the impertinence of these coxcombs; whether they do not feel the offensive condescension of the countess zriny. it would seem not. the harfinks, mother and daughters, are quite satisfied with what is accorded them; they are overflowing with gratified vanity, and are enjoying the success of the festival. even selina is pleased; olga's absence seems to have soothed her. she informs lato, by all kinds of amiable devices,--hints which she lets fall in conversation, glances which she casts towards him,--that she is sorry for the scene of the morning, and is ready to acquiesce. she tells her neighbour at dinner, baron kilary, that to-day is the anniversary of her betrothal. lato becomes more and more strongly impressed by the conviction that her severe attack of jealousy has aroused within her something of her old sentiment for him. the thought disgusts him profoundly; he feels for her a positive aversion. his attention is chiefly bestowed upon harry. how the poor fellow suffers! writhing beneath the ostentatious anxiety of his betrothed, who exhausts herself in sympathetic inquiries as to his pallor, ascribing it to every cause save the true one. "what will become of him if he does not succeed in ridding himself of this intolerable burden?" lato asks himself. an inexpressible dread assails him. "a candidate for suicide," he thinks, and for a moment he feels dizzy and ill. but why should harry die, when his life might be adjusted by one word firmly uttered? he might be saved, and then what a sunny bright future would be his! if one could but help him! the dinner is half over; punch is being served. the tall windows of the dining-hall are wide open, the breeze has died away for the time, the night is quiet, the outlook upon the park enchanting. coloured lamps, shaped like fantastic flowers, illumine the shrubbery, whence comes soft music. all the anguish which had been stilled for the moment stirs within lato's breast at sound of the sweet insinuating tones. they arouse within him an insane thirst for happiness. if it were but possible to obtain a divorce! caressingly, dreamily, the notes of "southern roses" float in from the park. "ah! how that reminds me of my betrothal!" says selina, moving her fan to and fro in time with the music. involuntarily lato glances at her. she wears a red gown, _decoletée_ as of old. her shoulders have grown stouter, her features sharper, but she is hardly changed otherwise; many would pronounce her handsomer than she had been on that other sultry september evening when it had first occurred to him that he--loved her--no, when he lied to himself--because it seemed so easy. he falls into a revery, from which he is aroused by the poet angelico orchys, who rises, glass in hand, and in fluent verse proposes the health of the betrothed couple. glasses are clinked, and scarcely are all seated again when fainacky toasts the married pair who are celebrating to-day the sixth anniversary of their betrothal. every one rises; selina holds her glass out to lato with a languishing glance from her half-closed eyes as she smiles at him over the brim. he shudders. and he has dared to hope for a divorce! the clinking of glasses has ceased; again all are seated; a fresh course of viands is in progress; there is a pause in the conversation, while the music wails and sighs outside, fainacky from his place at table making all sorts of mysterious signs to the leader. treurenberg's misery has become so intense within the last few minutes that he can scarcely endure it without some outward sign of it, when suddenly a thought occurs to him, a little, gloomy thought, that slowly increases like a thunder-cloud. his breath comes quick, the cold perspiration breaks out upon his forehead, his heart beats strong and fast. "is anything the matter, lato?" selina asks, across the table; "you have grown so pale. do you feel the draught?" he does not answer. his heart has ceased to beat wildly; a soothing calm, a sense of relief, takes possession of him; he seems to have discovered the solution of a huge, tormenting riddle. presently the wine begins to take effect, and conversation drowns the tones of the music. culinary triumphs have been discussed, there has been some political talk, anti-semitic opinions, in very bad taste, have been expressed, and now, in spite of the presence of several young girls, various scandals are alluded to. "have any of you heard the latest developments in the reinsfeld-gladnjik case?" kilary asks. treurenberg listens. the sporting countess replies: "no: for two years i have seen nothing of ada reinsfeld--since the--well, since she left her husband; one really had to give her up. i am very lenient in such affairs, but one has no choice where the scandal is a matter of such publicity." "i entirely agree with you, my dear countess," says the baroness harfink. "so long as due respect is paid to external forms, the private weaknesses of my neighbours are no concern of mine; but external forms must be observed." "my cousin's course throughout that business was that of a crazy woman," says "the numismatician," with his mouth full. "she was mistress of the best-ordered house in gräz. reinsfeld's cook was----! never in my life did i taste such salmi of partridges--except on this occasion," he adds, with an inclination towards his hostess. the next moment he motions to a servant to fill his glass, and forgets all about his cousin ada. "poor ada! she was very charming, but she became interested in all sorts of free-thinking books, and they turned her head," says the countess zriny. "in my opinion a woman who reads strauss and renan is lost." "the remarks of the company are excessively interesting to me," kilary now strikes in, with an impertinent intonation in his nasal voice, "but i beg to be allowed to speak, since what i have to tell is quite sensational. you know that countess ada has tried in vain to induce her noble husband to consent to a divorce. meanwhile, gladnjik's condition culminated in galloping consumption, and two days ago he died." "and she?" several voices asked at once. "she?--she took poison!" for a moment there is a bush in the brilliantly-lighted room, the soft sighing of the music in the shrubbery is again audible. through the open windows is wafted in the beguiling charm of an hungarian dance by brahms. there is a change of sentiment in the assemblage: the harshness with which but now all had judged the countess ada gives place to compassionate sympathy. countess zriny presses her lace-trimmed handkerchief to her eyes. "poor ada!" she murmurs; "i can see her now; a more charming young girl there never was. why did they force her to marry that old reinsfeld?" "he had so excellent a cook," sneers kilary, with a glance at "the numismatician," from whose armour of excellent appetite the dart falls harmless. "forced!" paula interposes eagerly, in her deep, guttural tones. "as if nowaday's any one with a spark of character could be forced to marry!" harry twirls his moustache and looks down at his plate. "i am the last to defend a departure from duty," the old canoness goes on, "but in this case the blame really falls partly upon ada's family. they forced her to marry; they subjected her to moral force." "that is true," even kilary, heartless cynic as he is, admits. "they forced her, although they knew that she and niki gladnjik were attached to each other. moreover, i must confess that, in spite of the admirable qualities which distinguish reinsfeld,--as, for example, his excellent cook,--it must have been very difficult for a delicate-minded, refined young creature to live with the disgusting old satyr--my expressions are classically correct." "niki took her marriage sorely to heart," sighed the sporting countess. "they say he ruined his health by the dissipation into which he plunged to find forgetfulness. in that direction ada certainly was much to blame; she was carried away by compassion." meanwhile, fainacky has made another sign for the music. the dreamy half-notes die away, and the loud tones of a popular march echo through the night. all rise from table. treurenberg's brain spins, as with the countess zriny on his arm he walks into the garden-room, where the guests are to admire the decorations and to drink their coffee. "the fair olga is not seriously ill?" he hears kilary say to selina. "oh, not at all," selina replies. "you need not fear anything infectious. olga is rather overstrained and exaggerated; you cannot imagine what a burden papa left us in the care of her. but we have settled it to-day with mamma: she must leave the house,--at least for a time. my aunt emilie is to take her to italy. it will be a great relief to us all." chapter xl. a farewell. while some of the guests are contented merely to admire the decorations of the garden-room, others suggest improvements. they cannot quite agree us to where the musicians should be placed, and the band migrates from one spot to another, like a set of homeless fugitives; in one place the music is too loud, in another it is not loud enough. hilary's nasal, arrogant voice is heard everywhere in command. at last the band is stationed just before the large western window of the room. some one suggests trying a waltz. kilary waltzes with selina. treurenberg watches the pair. they waltz in the closest embrace, her head almost resting on his shoulder. once lato might have remonstrated with his wife upon such an exhibition of herself; but to-day, ah, how indifferent he is to it all! he turns away from the crowd and noise, and walks beyond the circle of light into the park. here a hand is laid on his shoulder. he turns: harry has followed him. "what is the matter, old fellow?" he asks, good-humouredly. "i do not like your looks to-day." "i cannot get ada reinsfeld out of my head," treurenberg rejoins, in a low tone. "did you know her?" asks harry. "yes; did you?" "yes, but not until after her marriage. i liked her extremely; in fact, i have rarely met a more charming woman. and she seemed to me serious-minded and thoroughly sincere. the story to-day affected me profoundly." "did you notice that not one of the women had a good word to say for the poor thing until they knew that she was dead?" treurenberg asks, his voice sounding hard and stern. "yes, i noticed it," replies harry, scanning his friend attentively. "they may perhaps waste a wreath of immortelles upon her coffin," treurenberg goes on, in the same hard tone, "but not one of them would have offered her a hand while she lived." "well, she did not lose much in the friendship of the women present to-day," harry observes, dryly; "but, unfortunately, i am afraid that far nobler and more generous-minded women also withdrew their friendship from poor ada; and, in fact, we cannot blame them. we cannot require our mothers and sisters to visit without remonstrance a woman who has run away from her husband and is living with another man." "run away; living with another man: how vulgar that sounds!" treurenberg exclaims, angrily. "our language has no other words for this case." "i do not comprehend you; you judge as harshly as the rest." they have walked on and have reached a rustic seat quite in the shade, beyond the light even of the coloured lamps. harry sits down; lato follows his example. "how am i to judge, then?" harry asks. "in my eyes ada was a martyr," treurenberg asserts. "so she was in mine," harry admits. "i have the greatest admiration for her." "and i only the deepest compassion," harry declares, adding, in a lower tone, "i say not a word in blame of her; niki was the guiltier of the two. a really noble woman, when she loves, forgets to consider the consequences of her conduct, especially when pity sanctifies her passion and atones in her eyes for her sin. she sees an ideal life before her, and does not doubt that she shall attain it. ada believed that she should certainly procure her divorce, and that all would be well. she did not see the mire through which she should have to struggle to attain her end, and that even were it attained, no power on earth could wash out the stains incurred in attaining it. niki should have spared her that; he knew life well enough to be perfectly aware of the significance of the step she took for him." "yes, you are right; women never know the world; they see about them only what is fair and sacred, a young girl particularly." "oh, in such matters a young girl is out of the question," harry sharply interrupts. there is an oppressive silence. lato shivers. "you are cold," harry says, with marked gentleness; "come into the house." "no, no; stay here!" through the silence come the strains of a waltz of arditi's "_la notte gia stendi suo manto stellato_," and the faint rustle of the dancers' feet. "how is your cousin?" lato asks, after a while. "i do not know. i have not spoken with her since she left komaritz," harry replies, evasively. "and have you not seen her?" asks lato. "yes, once; i looked over the garden-wall as i rode by. she looks pale and thin, poor child." lato is mute. harry goes on: "do you remember, lato? is it three or four weeks ago, the last time you were with me in komaritz? i could jest then at my--embarrassments. i daily expected my release. now----" he shrugs his shoulders. "you were angry with me then; angry because i would not interfere," lato says, with hesitation. "oh, it would have been useless," harry mutters. instead of continuing the subject, lato restlessly snaps a twig hanging above his head. "how terribly dry everything is!" he murmurs. "yes," says harry; "so long as it was warm we looked for a storm; the cool weather has come without rain, and everything is dead." "the spring will revive it all, and the blessing of the coming year will be doubled," lato whispers, in a low, soft tone that rings through harry's soul for years afterwards. "harry! harry! where are you? come, try one turn with me." it is paula's powerful voice that calls thus. she is steering directly for the spot where the friends are seated. "give my love to zdena, when you see her," lato whispers in his friend's ear as he clasps harry's hand warmly, and then vanishes among the dark shrubbery before the young fellow is aware of it. chapter xli. resolve. lato now stands in need of all the energy with which providence has endowed him. all the excellence and nobility that have hitherto lain dormant in his soul arouse to life, now that they can but help him to die like a man. he cannot sever the golden fetters which he himself has forged; he will not drag through the mire what is most sacred to him; well, then---- upon reaching his room he seated himself at his writing-table and wrote several letters,--the first to his father, requesting him to see that his debts were paid; one to paula, one to his mother-in-law, and one to harry. the letter to harry ran thus: "my dear good old comrade,-- "when this note reaches you, you will be already freed from your fetters. i have never forgiven myself for refusing to perform the service you asked of me, and i have now retrieved my fault. i have written to paula and to my mother-in-law, explaining your position to them, telling them the truth with brutal frankness, and leaving no course open to them save to release you. you are free. farewell. "yours till death, "lato treurenberg." he tossed the pen aside. the others were still dancing. the sound of the music came softly from the distance. he rested his head on his hands and pondered. he has seen clearly that it must be. he had written the letters as the first irrevocable step. but how was it to be done? he looked for his revolver. it might all be over in a moment. he caught up the little weapon with a kind of greed. suddenly he recalled a friend who had shot himself, and whose body he had seen lying on the bed where the deed had been done: there were ugly stains of blood upon the pillow. his nature revolted from everything ugly and unclean. and then the scene, the uproar that would ensue upon discovering the corpse. if he could only avoid all that, could only cloak the ugly deed. meanwhile, his faithful hound came to him from a corner of the room, and, as if suspicious that all was not right with its master, laid its head upon his knee. the way was clear,--lato had lately frequently risen early in the morning to stalk a deer, which had escaped his gun again and again; he had but to slip out of the house for apparently the same purpose, and---- and it would be more easily done beneath god's open skies. but several hours must elapse before he could leave the castle. that was terrible. would his resolve hold good? he began to pace the room restlessly to and fro. had he forgotten anything that ought to be done? he paused and listened, seeming to hear a light footfall in the room above him. yes, it was olga's room; he could hear her also walking to and fro, to and fro. his breath came quick; everything within him cried out for happiness, for life! he threw himself upon his bed, buried his face among the pillows, clinched his hands, and so waited, motionless. at last the steps overhead ceased, the music was silent; there was a rustling in the corridors,--the guests were retiring to their rooms; then all was still, as still as death. lato arose, lit a candle, and looked at his watch,--half-past two. there was still something on his heart,--a discontent of which he would fain disburden himself before the end. he sat down again at his writing-table, and wrote a few lines to olga, pouring out his soul to her; then, opening his letter to harry, he added a postscript: "it would be useless to attempt any disguise with you,--you have read my heart too clearly,--and therefore i can ask a last office of friendship of you. give olga the enclosed note from me,--i do not wish any one here to know of this,--my farewell to her. think no evil of her. should any one slander her, never believe it!--never!" he would have written more, but words failed him to express what he felt; so he enclosed his note to olga in his letter to harry and sealed and stamped it. his thoughts began to wander vaguely. old legends occurred to him. suddenly he laughed at something that had occurred ten years before, at komaritz,--the trick harry had played upon fainacky, the "braggart sarmatian." he heard himself laugh, and shuddered. the gray dawn began to glimmer in the east. he looked at his watch,--it was time! he drew a long, sighing breath, and left his room; the dog followed him. in the corridor he paused, possessed by a wild desire to creep to olga's door and, kneeling before it, to kiss the threshold. he took two steps towards the staircase, then, by a supreme effort, controlled himself and turned back. but in the park he sought the spot where he had met her yesterday, where he had kissed her for the first and only time. here he stood still for a while, and, looking down, perceived the half-effaced impress of a small foot upon the gravel. he stooped and pressed his lips upon it. now he has left the park, and the village too lies behind him; he has posted his letter to harry in the yellow box in front of the post-office. he walks through the poplar avenue where she came to meet him scarcely three weeks ago. he can still feel the touch of her delicate hand. a bird twitters faintly above his head, and recalls to his memory how he had watched the belated little feathered vagabond hurrying home to its nest. "a life that warms itself beside another life in which it finds peace and comfort," he murmurs to himself. an almost irresistible force stays his steps. but no; he persists, and walks on towards the forest. he will only wait for the sunrise, and then---- he waits in vain. the heavens are covered with clouds; a sharp wind sighs above the fields; the leaves tremble as if in mortal terror; for the first time in six weeks a few drops of rain fall. no splendour hails the awakening world, but along the eastern horizon there is a blood-red streak. just in lato's path a solitary white butterfly flutters upon the ground. the wind grows stronger, the drops fall more thickly; the pale blossoms by the roadside shiver; the red poppies do not open their cups, but hang their heads as if drunk with sleep. chapter xlii. found. olga had remained in her room because she could not bring herself to meet treurenberg again. no, she could never meet him after the words, the kiss, they had exchanged,--never--until he should call her. for it did not occur to her to recall what she had said to him,--she was ready for everything for his sake. not a thought did she bestow upon the disgrace that would attach to her in the eyes of the world. what did she care what people said or thought of her? but he,--what if she had disgraced herself in his eyes by the confession of her love? the thought tortured her. she kept saying to herself, "he was shocked at me; i wounded his sense of delicacy. oh, my god! and yet i could not see him suffer so,--i could not!" when night came on she lay dressed upon her bed for hours, now and then rising to pace the room to and fro. at last she fell asleep. she was roused by hearing a door creak. she listened: it was the door of lato's room. again she listened. no, she must have been mistaken; it was folly to suppose that lato would think of leaving the house at a little after three in the morning! she tried to be calm, and began to undress, when suddenly a horrible suspicion assailed her; her teeth chattered, the heart in her breast felt like lead. "i must have been mistaken," she decided. but she could not be at rest. she went out into the corridor; all there was still. the dawn was changing from gray to white. she glided down the staircase to the door of lato's room, where she kneeled and listened at the key-hole. she could surely hear him breathe, she thought. but how could she hear it when her own pulses were throbbing so loudly in her heart, in her temples, in her ears? she listened with all her might: nothing, nothing could she hear. her head sank against the door, which was ajar and yielded. she sprang up and, half dead with shame, was about to flee, when she paused. if he were in his room would not the creaking of the door upon its hinges have roused him? again she turned and peered into the room. at the first glance she perceived that it was empty, and that the bed had not been slept in. with her heart throbbing as if to break, she rushed up to her room, longing to scream aloud, to rouse the household with "he has gone! he has gone! search for him! save him!" but how is this possible? how can she confess that she has been in his room? her cheeks burn; half fainting in her misery, she throws wide her window to admit the fresh morning air. what is that? a scratching at the house door below, and then a melancholy whine. olga hurries out into the corridor again, and at first cannot tell whence the noise proceeds. it grows louder and more persistent, an impatient scratching and knocking at the door leading out into the park. she hastens down the stairs and opens it. "lion!" she exclaims, as the dog leaps upon her, then crouches before her on the gravel, gazes piteously into her face, and utters a long howl, hoarse and ominous. olga stoops down to him. good god! what is this? his shoulder, his paws are stained with blood. the girl's heart seems to stand still. the dog seizes her dress as if to drag her away; releases it, runs leaping into the park, turns and looks at her. shall she follow him? yes, she follows him, trembling, panting, through the park, through the village, out upon the highway, where the trees are vocal with the shrill twittering of birds. a clumsy peasant-cart is jolting along the road; the sleepy carter rubs his eyes and gazes after the strange figure with dishevelled hair and disordered dress, hastening towards the forest. she has reached it at last. the dog's uneasiness increases, and he disappears among the trees. olga stops; she cannot go on. the dog howls more loudly, and slowly, holding by the trees, she totters forward. what is it that makes the ground here so slippery? blood? there,--there by the poacher's grave, at the foot of the rude wooden cross, she finds him. a shriek, wild and hoarse, rings through the air. the leaves quiver and rustle with the flight of the startled birds among their branches. the heavens are filled with wailing, and the earth seems to rock beneath the girl's feet. then darkness receives her, and she forgets the horror of it all in unconsciousness. chapter xliii. count hans. there was a dinner at count capriani's, and count hans treurenberg, slender and erect, the embodiment of elegant frivolity, had just said something witty. one of his fellow-aristocrats, a noble slave of capriani's, had been discoursing at length upon the new era that was dawning upon the world, and had finally proposed a toast to the union of the two greatest powers on earth, wealth and rank. all present had had their glasses ready; count hans alone had hesitated for a moment, and had then remarked, with his inimitable smile,-- "well, let us, for all i care, drink to the marriage of the golden calf to the chimera." and when every one stared in blank dismay, he added, thoughtfully, "what do you think, gentlemen, is it a marriage of expediency, or one of love? capriani, it would be interesting to hear your views upon this question." then, in spite of the lowering brow of the host, the aristocrats present burst into homeric laughter. at that moment a telegram was brought to the count. why did his hand tremble as he unfolded it? he was accustomed to receive telegraphic messages: "there has been an accident. lato seriously wounded while hunting. "selina." an hour afterwards he was in the railway-train. he had never been to dobrotschau, and did not know that the route which he had taken stopped two stations away from the estate. the harfink carriage waited for him at an entirely different station. he had to send his servant to a neighbouring village to procure a conveyance. meanwhile, he made inquiries of the railway officials at the station as to the accident at dobrotschau. no one knew anything with certainty: there was but infrequent communication between this place and dobrotschau. the old count began to hope. if the worst had happened, the ill news would have travelled faster. selina must have exaggerated matters. he read his telegram over and over again: "there has been an accident. lato seriously wounded while hunting." it was the conventional formula used to convey information of the death of a near relative. all around him seemed to reel as he pondered the missive in the bare little waiting-room by the light of a smoking lamp. the moisture stood in beads upon his forehead. for the first time a horrible thought occurred to him. "an accident while hunting? what accident could possibly happen to a man hunting with a good breechloader----? if--yes, if--but that cannot be; he has never uttered a complaint!" he suddenly felt mortally ill and weak. the servant shortly returned with a conveyance. nor had he been able to learn anything that could be relied upon. some one in the village had heard that there had been an accident somewhere in the vicinity, but whether it had resulted in death no one could tell. the count got into the vehicle, a half-open coach, smelling of damp leather and mould. the drive lasted for two hours. at first it was quite dark; nothing could be seen but two rays of light proceeding from the coach-lamps, which seemed to chase before them a mass of blackness. once the count dozed, worn out with emotion and physical fatigue. he was roused by the fancy that something like a cold, moist wing brushed his cheek. he looked abroad; the darkness had become less dense, the dawn was breaking faintly above the slumbering earth. everything appeared gray, shadowy, and ghost-like. a dog began to bark in the neighbouring village; there was a sound of swiftly-rolling wheels. the count leaned forward and saw something vague and indistinct, preceded by two streaks of light flashing along a side-road. it was only a carriage, but he shuddered as at something supernatural. everywhere he seemed to see signs and omens. "are we near dobrotschau?" he asked the coachman. "almost there, your excellency." they drove through the village. a strange foreboding sound assailed the count's ears,--the long-drawn whine of a dog,--and a weird, inexplicable noise like the flapping of the wings of some huge captive bird vainly striving to be free. the count looked up. the outlines of the castle were indistinct in the twilight, and hanging from the tower, curling and swelling in the morning air, was something huge--black. the carriage stopped. martin came to the door, and, as he helped his former master to alight, informed him that the family had awaited the count until past midnight, but that when the carriage returned empty from the railway-station they had retired. his excellency's room was ready for him. not one word did he say of the cause of the count's coming. he could not bring himself to speak of that. they silently ascended the staircase. suddenly the count paused. "it was while he was hunting?" he asked the servant, bluntly. "yes, your excellency." "when?" "very early yesterday morning." "were you with him?" the count's voice was sharper. "no, your excellency; no one was with him. the count went out alone." there was an oppressive silence. the father had comprehended. he turned his back to the servant, and stood mute and motionless for a while. "take me to him," he ordered at last. the man led the way down-stairs and through a long corridor, then opened a door. "here, your excellency!" they had laid the dead in his own room, where he was to remain until the magnificent preparations for his burial should be completed. here there was no pomp of mourning. he lay there peacefully, a cross clasped in his folded hands, a larger crucifix at the head of the bed, where two wax candles were burning--that was all. the servant retired. count hans kneeled beside the body, and tried to pray. but this catholic gentleman, who until a few years previously had ardently supported every ultramontane measure of the reigning family, now discovered, for the first time, that he no longer knew his pater noster by heart. he could not even pray for the dead. he was possessed by a kind of indignation against himself, and for the first time he felt utterly dissatisfied with his entire life. his eyes were riveted upon the face of his dead son. "why, why did this have to be?--just this?" his thoughts refused to dwell upon the horrible catastrophe; they turned away, wandering hither and thither; yesterday's hunting breakfast occurred to him; he thought of his witty speech and of the laughter it had provoked, laughter which even the host's frown could not suppress. the sound of his own voice rang in his ears: "yes, gentlemen, let us drink to the marriage of the golden calf to the chimera." then he recalled lato upon his first steeple-chase, on horseback, in a scarlet coat, still lanky and awkward, but handsome as a picture, glowing with enjoyment, his hunting-whip lifted for a stroke. his eyes were dry, his tongue was parched, a fever was burning in his veins, and at each breath he seemed to be lifting some ponderous weight. a feeling like the consciousness of a horrible crime oppressed him; he shivered, and suddenly dreaded being left there alone with the corpse, beside which he could neither weep nor pray. slowly through the windows the morning stole into the room, while the black flag continued to flap and rustle against the castle wall, like a prisoned bird aimlessly beating its wings against the bars of its cage, and the dog whined on. chapter xliv. spring. a few days afterwards lato's body was consigned to the family vault of the treurenbergs,--not, of course, without much funereal pomp at dobrotschau. with him vanished the last descendant of an ancient race which had once been strong and influential, and which had preserved to the last its chivalric distinction. the day after the catastrophe harry received a letter from paula, in which, on the plea of a dissimilarity of tastes and interests which would be fatal to happiness in marriage, she gave him back his troth. as she remained at dobrotschau for an entire week after the funeral, it may be presumed that she wished to give her former betrothed opportunity to remonstrate against his dismissal. but he took great care to avoid even a formal protest. a very courteous, very formal, very brief note, in which he expressed entire submission to her decree, was the only sign of life his former captor received from him. when paula harfink learned that harry had left komaritz and had returned to his regiment in vienna, she departed from dobrotschau with her mother and sister, to pass several months at nice. in the beginning of january she returned with the baroness harfink to vienna, heart-whole and with redoubled self-confidence. she was loud in her expressions of contempt for military men, especially for cavalry officers, a contempt in which even arthur schopenhauer could not have outdone her; she lived only for science and professors, a large number of whom she assembled about her, and among whom this young sultaness proposed with great caution and care to select one worthy to be raised to the dignity of her prince-consort. selina did not return with her mother to vienna, but remained for the time being with a female companion in nice. as is usual with most blondes, her widow's weeds became her well, and her luxuriant beauty with its dark crape background attracted a score of admirers, who, according to report, were not all doomed to languish hopelessly at her feet. fainacky, however, was never again received into favour. olga retired to a convent, partly to sever all ties with the world, which had misunderstood and maligned her in her relations to the part she had played in the fearful drama enacted at dobrotschau, partly to do penance by her asceticism for lato's suicide, which was to her deep religious sense a fearful crime, and of which she considered herself in some measure the cause. moreover, lato's suicide produced a profound impression upon all his friends. harry could hardly take any pleasure in his freedom, so dark was the shadow thrown upon his happiness by grief for the fate of his life-long friend and comrade. under the circumstances, until, so to speak, the grass had grown over the terrible event, his betrothal to zdena could not be thought of; the mere idea of it wounded his sense of delicacy. he contented himself, before returning to vienna, with a farewell visit to zirkow, when he informed the entire family of the sudden change in his position. the major, whose sense of delicacy was not so acute as his nephew's, could not refrain from smiling broadly and expressing a few sentiments not very flattering to fräulein paula, nor from asking harry one or two questions which caused the young fellow extreme confusion. the major's efforts to force a _tête-à-tête_ upon the young people were quite vain. zdena, when harry left, accompanied the young officer openly, as she had often done, to the court-yard, where she stroked his horse before he mounted and fed him with sugar, as had ever been her wont. "good-bye, zdena," harry said, simply kissing her cold hand, just as he had often done when taking leave of her. then, with his hand on the bridle, ready to mount, he gazed deep into her eyes and asked, "when may i come back again, zdena?" she replied, "in the spring," in a voice so low and trembling that it echoed through his soul, long after he had left her, like a caress. he nodded, swung himself into the saddle, turned once in the gate-way for a farewell look at her, and was gone. she stood looking after him until the sound of his horse's hoofs died away, then went back to the house and remained invisible in her room for the rest of the forenoon. the winter passed slowly. in the cavalry barracks in vienna a change was observed in harry leskjewitsch. he began to be looked upon as a very earnest and hard-working young officer. his name stood first among those for whom a brilliant military career was prophesied. and, oddly enough, while there was a great increase in the regard in which he was held by his superior officers, there was no decrease in his popularity with his comrades. the youngest good-for-naughts did, it is true, reproach him with having become tediously serious, and with great caution in spending his money. but when by chance the cause of his sudden economy was discovered, all discontent with his conduct ceased, especially since his purse was always at the service of a needy comrade. when, after the harfinks had returned from nice, he first met paula in the street, he was much confused, and was conscious of blushing. he felt strangely on beholding the full red lips which had so often kissed him, the form which had so often hung upon his arm. when, with some hesitation, he touched his cap, he wondered at the easy grace with which the young lady returned his salute. his wonder was still greater when, a few days afterwards, he encountered frau von harfink, who accosted him, and, after inquiring about his health, added, with her sweetest smile,-- "i trust that my daughter's withdrawal from her engagement to you will not prevent you from visiting us. good heavens! it was a mistake; you were not at all suited to each other. we shall be delighted to welcome you as a friend at any time. come soon to see us." if harry were changed, zdena was not less so. she was more silent than formerly; the outbreaks of childish gaiety in which she had been wont to indulge had vanished entirely, while, on the other hand, there was never a trace of her old discontent. indeed, there was no time for anything of the kind, she had so much to do. she had developed a wonderful interest in household affairs; spent some time each day in the kitchen, where, engaged in the most prosaic occupations, she displayed so much grace that the major could not help peeping at her from time to time. and when her uncle praised at table some wondrous result of her labours, she would answer, eagerly, "yes, is it not good? and it is not very expensive." whereupon the major would pinch her cheek and smile significantly. frau rosamunda was not at all aware of what was going on about her. she frequently commended the girl's dexterity in all that her awakened interest in household affairs led her to undertake, and after informing the major of his niece's improvement, and congratulating herself in being able to hand her keys over to the girl, she would add, with a sigh, "i am so glad she never took anything into her head with regard to roderick. i must confess that i think his sudden disappearance very odd, after all the attention he paid her." the major would always sigh sympathetically when his wife talked thus, and would then take the earliest opportunity to leave the room to "laugh it out," as he expressed it. thus life went on with its usual monotony at zirkow. harry's letters to the major, which came regularly twice a month, were always read aloud to the ladies with enthusiasm by the old dragoon, then shown in part to krupitschka, and then left lying about anywhere. they invariably vanished without a trace; but once when the major wished to refer to one of these important documents and could not find it, it turned out that zdena had picked it up--by chance. at last the spring made its joyous appearance and stripped the earth of its white robe of snow. for a few days it lay naked and bare, ugly and brown; then the young conqueror threw over its nakedness a rich mantle of blossoms, and strode on, tossing a bridal wreath into the lap of many a hopeless maiden, and cheering with flowers many a dying mortal who had waited but for its coming. zdena and the major delighted in the spring; they were never weary of watching its swift work in the garden, enjoying the opening of the blossoms, the unfolding of the leaves, and the songs of the birds. the fruit-trees had donned their most festal array; but zdena was grave and sad, for full three weeks had passed since any letter had come from harry, who had been wont to write punctually every fortnight; and in his last he had not mentioned his spring leave of absence. in feverish impatience the girl awaited the milkman, who always brought the mail from x---- just before afternoon tea. for days she had vainly watched her uncle as he sorted the letters. "'the post brings no letter for thee, my love!'" he sang, gaily. but zdena was not gay. this afternoon the milkman is late. zdena cannot wait for him quietly; she puts on an old straw hat and goes to meet him. it is nearly six o'clock; the sun is quite low, and beams pale golden through a ragged veil of fleecy clouds. a soft breeze is blowing; spring odours fill the air. the flat landscape is wondrous in colour, but it lacks the sharp contrasts of summer. zdena walks quickly, with downcast eyes. suddenly the sound of a horse's hoofs falls upon her ear. she looks up. can it be? her heart stands still, and then--why, then she finds nothing better to do than to turn and run home as fast as her feet can carry her. but he soon overtakes her. springing from his horse, he gives the bridle to a peasant-lad passing by. "zdena!" he calls. "ah, it is you!" she replies, in a weak little voice, continuing to hurry home. not until she has reached the old orchard does she pause, out of breath. "zdena!" harry calls again, this time in a troubled voice, "what is the matter? why are you so--so strange? you almost seem to be frightened!" "i--i--you came so unexpectedly. we had no idea----" she stammers. "unexpectedly!" harry repeats, and his look grows dark. "unexpectedly! may i ask if you have again changed your mind?" her face is turned from him. dismayed, assailed by a thousand dark fancies, he gazes at her. on a sudden he perceives that she is sobbing; and then---- neither speaks a word, but he has clasped her to his breast, she has put both arms around his neck, and--according to the poets, who are likely to be right--the one perfect moment in the lives of two mortals is over! the spring laughs exultantly among the trees, and rains white blossoms upon the heads of the fair young couple beneath them. around them breathes the fragrance of freshly-awakened life, the air of a new, transfigured existence; there is a fluttering in the air above, as a cloud of birds sails over the blossom-laden orchard. "zdena, where are you?" calls the voice of the major. "zdena, come quickly! look! the swallows have come!" the old dragoon makes his appearance from a garden-path. "why, what is all this?" he exclaims, trying to look stern, as he comes in sight of the pair. the young people separate hastily; zdena blushes crimson, but harry says, merrily,-- "don't pretend to look surprised; you must have known long ago that i--that we loved each other." and he takes zdena's hand and kisses it. "well, yes; but----" the major shrugs his shoulders. "you mean that i ought to have made formal application to you for zdena's hand?" asks harry. the old officer can contain himself no longer; his face lit up by the broadest of smiles, he goes to zdena, pinches her ear, and asks,-- "aha, zdena! why must people marry because they love each other, hey?" chapter xlv. old baron franz. old baron franz leskjewitsch had changed greatly during the past winter. those who saw most of him declared that he was either about to die or was growing insane. he moved from one to another of his various estates more restlessly than ever, appearing several times at vorhabshen, which he never had been in the habit of visiting in winter, and not only appearing there, but remaining longer than usual. there was even a report that on one occasion he had ordered his coachman to drive to zirkow; and, in fact, the old tumble-down carriage of the grim baron had been seen driving along the road to zirkow, but just before reaching the village it had turned back. yes, yes, the old baron was either about to die or was "going crazy." there was such a change in him. he bought a newfoundland dog, which he petted immensely, he developed a love for canary-birds, and, more alarming symptom than all the rest, he was growing generous: he stood godfather to two peasant babies, and dowered the needy bride of one of his bailiffs. in the beginning of april he appeared again at vorhabshen, and seemed in no hurry to leave it. the day after harry's sudden arrival at zirkow, the old man was sitting, just after breakfast, in a leather arm-chair, smoking a large meerschaum pipe, and listening to studnecka's verses, when the housekeeper entered to clear the table, a duty which lotta, the despot, always performed herself for her master, perhaps because she wanted an opportunity for a little gossip with him. studnecka's efforts at entertainment were promptly dispensed with, and the old baron shortly began, "lotta, i hear that good-for-naught harry is in this part of the country again; is it so?" "yes, herr baron; the cow-boy met him yesterday on the road," replied lotta, sweeping the crumbs from the table-cloth into a green lacquered tray with a crescent-shaped brush. "what is he doing here?" the old man asked, after a pause. "they say he has come to court the baroness zdena." "oh, indeed!" the baron tried to put on a particularly fierce expression. "it would seem that since that money-bag at dobrotschau has thrown him over, he wants to try it on again with the girl at zirkow, in hopes i shall come round. oh, we understand all that." "the herr baron ought to be ashamed to say such things of our master harry," lotta exclaimed, firing up. "however, the herr baron can question the young herr himself; there he is," she added, attracted to the window by the sound of a horse's hoofs. "shall i show him up? or does the herr baron not wish to see him?" "oh, send him up, send him up. i'll enlighten the fellow." in a few moments harry makes his appearance. "good-morning, uncle! how are you?" he calls out, his face radiant with happiness. the old baron merely nods his head. without stirring from his arm-chair, without offering his hand to his nephew, without even asking him to sit down, he scans him suspiciously. with his hand on his sabre, harry confronts him, somewhat surprised by this strange reception, but nowise inclined to propitiate his uncle by any flattering attentions. "do you want anything?" "no." "indeed? you're not short of money, then? "on the contrary, i have saved some," harry replies, speaking quite after his uncle's fashion. "ah! saved some, have you? are you growing miserly?--a fine thing at your age! you probably learned it of your financial acquaintances," the old baron growls. "i have saved money because i am going to marry, and my betrothed is without means," harry says, sharply. "ah! for a change you want to marry a poor girl! you display a truly edifying fickleness of character. and who is the fair creature to whom you have sacrificed your avarice?" "i am betrothed to my cousin zdena." "indeed?--to zdena?" the baron says, with well-feigned indignation. "have you forgotten that in that case i shall disinherit you?" "you will do as you choose about that," harry replies, dryly. "i should be glad to assure my wife a pleasant and easy lot in life; but if you fancy that i have come here to sue for your favour, you are mistaken. it was my duty to inform you of my betrothal. i have done so; and that is all." "indeed? that is all?" thunders old leskjewitsch. "it shall be all! wait, you scoundrel, you good-for-naught, and we'll see if you go on carrying your head so high! i will turn the leaf: i will make zdena my heiress,--but only upon condition that she sends you about your business. she shall choose between you--that is, between poverty--and me!" "it will not take her long. good-morning." with which harry turns on his heel and leaves the room. the old baron sits motionless for a while. the mild spring breeze blows in through the open windows; there is a sound in the air of cooing doves, of water dripping on the stones of the paved court-yard from the roof, of the impatient pawing and neighing of a horse, and then the clatter of spurs and sabre. the old man smiles broadly. "he shows race: the boy is a genuine leskjewitsch," he mutters to himself,--"a good mate for the girl!" then he goes to the window. harry is just about to mount, when his uncle roars down to him, "harry! harry! the deuce take you! are you deaf? can't you hear?" meanwhile, the major and his niece are walking in the garden at zirkow. it was the major who had insisted that harry should immediately inform his uncle of his betrothal. zdena has shown very little interest in the discussion as to how the cross-grained, eccentric old man would receive the news. and when her uncle suddenly looks her full in the face to ask how she can adapt herself to straitened means, she calmly lays her band on the arm of her betrothed, and whispers, tenderly, "you shall see." then her eyes fill with tears as she adds, "but how will you bear it, harry?" he kisses both her hands and replies, "never mind, zdena; i assure you that at this moment conte capriani is a beggar compared with myself." just at this point frau rosamunda plucks her spouse by the sleeve and forces him, _nolens volens_, to retire with her. "i cannot understand you," she lectures him in their conjugal _tête-à-tête_. "you are really indelicate, standing staring at the children, when you must see that they are longing to kiss each other. such young people must be left to themselves now and then." at first frau rosamunda found it very difficult to assent to this rather imprudent betrothal, but she is now interested in it heart and soul. she arranges everything systematically, even delicacy of sentiment. her exact rules in this respect rather oppress the major, who would gladly sun himself in the light and warmth of happiness which surrounds the young couple, about whose future, however, he is seriously distressed, lamenting bitterly his own want of business capacity which has so impoverished him. "if i could but give the poor child more of a dowry," he keeps saying to himself. "or if franz would but come to his senses,--yes, if he would only listen to reason, all would be well." all this is in his thoughts, as he walks with his niece in the garden on this bright spring forenoon, while his nephew has gone to vorhabshen to have an explanation with his uncle. consequently he is absent-minded and does not listen to the girl's gay chatter, the outcome of intense joy in her life and her love. the birds are twittering loudly as they build their nests in the blossom-laden trees, the grass is starred with the first dandelions. harry is expected at lunch. the major is burning with impatience. "one o'clock," he remarks. "the boy ought to be back by this time. what do you say to walking a little way to meet him?" "as you please, uncle," the girl gaily assents. they turn towards the house, whence krupitschka comes running, breathless with haste. "what is the matter?" the major calls out. "nothing, nothing, herr baron," the man replies; "but the frau baroness desires you both to come to the drawing-room; she has a visitor." "is that any reason why you should run yourself so out of breath that you look like a fish on dry land?" the major bawls to his old servant. "you fairly frightened me, you ass! who is the visitor?" "please--i do not know," declares krupitschka, lying brazenly, while the major frowns, saying, "there's an end to our walk," and never noticing the sly smile upon the old man's face. zdena runs to her room to smooth her hair, tossed by the breeze, while the major, annoyed, goes directly to the drawing-room. he opens the door and stands as if rooted to the threshold. beside the sofa where frau rosamunda is enthroned, with her official hostess expression, doing the honours with a grace all her own, sits a broad-shouldered old gentleman in a loose long-tailed coat, laughing loudly at something she has just told him. "franz!" exclaims paul von leskjewitsch. "here i am," responds the elder brother, with hardly-maintained composure. he rises; each advances towards the other, but before they can clasp hands the elder of the two declares, "i wish, paul, you would tell your bailiff to see to the ploughing on your land. that field near the forest is in a wretched condition,--hill and valley, the clods piled up, and wheat sown there. i have always held that no military man can ever learn anything about agriculture. you never had the faintest idea of farming." and as he speaks he clasps the major's hand and pinches harry's ear. the young fellow has been looking on with a smile at the meeting between the brothers. "i understand you, uncle: i am not to leave the service. i could not upon any terms," the young man assures him,--"not even if i were begged to do so." "he's a hard-headed fellow," baron franz says, with a laugh; "and so is the girl. did she tell you that she met me in the forest? we had a conversation together, she and i. at first she took me for that fool studnecka; then she guessed who i was, and read me such a lecture! i did not care: it showed me that she was a genuine leskjewitsch. h'm! i ought to have come here then, but--i--could not find the way; i waited for some one to show it to me." he pats harry on the shoulder. "but where the deuce is the girl? is she hiding from me?" at this moment zdena enters. the old man turns ghastly pale; his hands begin to tremble violently, as he stretches them out towards her. she gazes at him for an instant, then runs to him and throws her arms around his neck. he clasps her close, as if never to let her leave him. the others turn away. there is a sound of hoarse sobbing. all that the strong man has hoarded up in his heart for twenty years asserts itself at this moment. it is not long, however, before all emotion is calmed, and affairs take their natural course. the two elderly men sit beside frau rosamunda, still enthroned on her sofa, and the lovers stand in the recess of a window and look out upon the spring. "so we are not to be poor, after all?" zdena says, with a sigh. "it seems not," harry responds, putting his arm round her. she does not speak for a while; then she murmurs, softly, "'tis a pity: i took such pleasure in it!" footnote: [footnote : one of a princely family who, although subject to royal authority, is allowed to retain some sovereign privileges.] the end. printed by j. b. lippincott company, philadelphia. by julia helen twells, jr. a triumph of destiny. mo. cloth, deckle edges, $ . . "it is a book of uncommon characters and end-of-century problems; a story of strength told with interest and conviction.... the book is well worth reading."--_philadelphia press_. "miss twells is evidently a woman of extensive mental resources, who thinks deeply and clearly. her story commands admiration and consequent attention from the first. there are not many characters, but about the few are clustered events of significance, and their relation to each other and to their own individual development is analyzed with strength and clearness."--_washington times_. * * * by mrs. oliphant. the unjust steward. mo. cloth, $ . . "we have an admirable study of an old scotch minister oppressed by the consciousness of a very venial fault in a small financial transaction. the tone is one of cheerful humor, the incidents are skilfully devised, verisimilitude is never sacrificed to effect, every episode is true to life."--_philadelphia press_. * * * by arthur paterson. for freedom's sake. mo. cloth, $ . . "the subject-matter of this book is the desperate battle between freedom and slavery for possession of kansas. one of the strongest characters introduced is old john brown. a charming love story is naturally incidental, and the element of humor is by no means lacking."--_new york world_. * * * j. b. lippincott company, philadelphia. by amy e. blanchard. * * * betty of wye. with illustrations by florence p. england. mo. cloth, $ . . "it is the story of a little maryland girl who grows from a turbulent girl into a loving and lovable woman. the book gives many suggestions that will help a reckless girl to see the beauty and value of a knowledge of conventionalities and obedience to accepted standards."--_new york outlook_. * * * two girls. with illustrations by ida waugh. mo. cloth, $ . . 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"here is a story so realistic, detailed, and full of youthful sentiment and enthusiasm that it must be one of the pieces of literary work which seem 'easy' but are in reality so difficult to achieve. it is the sort of description that girls dearly love to read, and is wholesome in tone and wide awake in the telling."--_portland press_. * * * blanchard library for girls. two girls. girls together. betty of wye. volumes in a box. illustrated. cloth, $ . . * * * j. b. lippincott company, philadelphia. transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=vtmzaaaayaaj . ossip schubin is the pseudonym for lola kirschner. . there are missing words or two-word phrases in the d para., page ; and missing words or two-word phrases in the nd para. page . missing text is indicated with "[...]" sequences. [illustration] boris lensky from the german by ossip schubin translated by Élise l. lathrop illustrated new york worthington company broadway copyright, , by worthington co. press of j. j. little & co. astor place, new york boris lensky. * * * "he had many faults, but one greatest of all faults he had not, that of quackery-- "with all his faults he was a man, fiery real from the great fire bosom of nature herself."--carlyle. i. "whoever wishes to know how great is the power which the charm of music can exercise over humanity must visit one of boris lensky's concerts. "boris lensky! the name in itself has a legendary sound--a magic fascination surrounds the man and his violin. for every one who has attended one of his concerts, the longing, listening expression on the faces of the women who hear him is something which remains forever interwoven in remembrance with the complaining sweetness of his art. the best and noblest of women, when they listen to his wonderful violin, fall into a feverish trance which makes them lose all power over themselves. "in russia they call boris lensky the devil's violinist, and in explanation of the godless charm which glows in his art, the following neat little tale is told: "almost fifty years ago, crept through the poorest quarter of moscow a neglected, ugly child, who, in order to earn his scanty food, scraped his violin as best he might, and sometimes received a copeck, but never a caress. this child was boris lensky. his heart languished for tenderness, like that of all repulsed ones. then the devil met him, and allured him with splendid temptations. he would lay the whole world at his feet, if the boy would give him his soul for his own in exchange. but the boy felt a terror at this hellish slavery and said: 'no.' then the devil at first went his way, and gnashed his teeth that he had not succeeded in capturing a human soul. but suddenly he turned back and called to the boy: 'i desire nothing of you; keep your soul; but you shall accept a present from me--a gift. in your art shall dwell a charm which no one can resist.' "then the boy was astonished at the devil's generosity, and accepted the gift. but the devil rejoiced, for he said to himself: 'if i have lost one soul, i have taken ten thousand others for it.' but the violinist soon noticed what a curse had fallen to his share. "denying all nobility, and still feeling a horror of the degrading power within him, he now goes through the world, restless, joyless, and without power over his own demoniac art--a resisting tool in the devil's hand. and he longs despairingly to find a being who could resist the fiendish charm, but he finds none. "thus the russian tale. "now lensky has grown old and gray in the service of the devil. his friends with fright notice in him the evermore plainly noticeable signs of physical decay. in his art he stands greater than ever, and from his violin sounds out to the public a wild, triumphing, and despairing swan song!" this somewhat exaggerated production an old lady read aloud with declamatory emphasis, in whom at the first glance one perceived the englishwoman and the spinster. she sits in a pretty, charming room, furnished with all kinds of rarities, by the hearth, and refreshes herself by turns with the newspaper and with tea. it is in paris. the newspaper in which the old englishwoman revels is _figaro_, and the windows of the pretty little room look out on the parc monceau. already dressed to go out, a second, much younger lady in the same room busies herself in hastily, and to all appearance disapprovingly, looking through a just-opened package of books. somewhat vexed that her reading has called forth no remark from her listener, the old englishwoman now says: "well, what do you say to this legend?" "what shall i say?" replies the young lady, without looking up from the package of books, with blameless english accent, but in a decidedly un-english deep, soft voice--"that the french write much nonsense, if it is to raise the price of concert tickets." "nita!" said the englishwoman, angrily; "you surely will not assert that this article is a common advertisement?" "certainly i assert it, miss wilmot," is the calm answer. "i am firmly convinced that lensky's impressario has had the article printed." "well, i say, nita, a strange change has taken place in you!" says miss wilmot, astonished and discontented, while she at the same time let her wrinkled hands sink down on her cinnamon-colored dress. "but, advertisement or not, nita, lensky's results speak for themselves. the parisians run like mad to his concerts; recently there was such a crowd before the doors of the salle erard that the police had to interfere!" "bah!" replied she addressed as nita. "reliable musicians have told me that lensky has gone very far back in his art. the animation with which the french do him homage is only a new proof of their immoderate worship of all that is russian. this tasteless idolatry makes me furious. then, see here!" and nita, for the first time in the course of the above conversation, turned her face to the old lady, while at the same time she drew a number of yellow books out from the package which she had been busy glancing over. piling these up on each other, she said: "three, five, seven books, translated from the russian and mere trash, not a sensible line in the whole! what does that matter? the mere circumstance that 'from the russian' stands upon it assures the worst galimathias in paris a publisher and a circle of readers. it is odious." "well, nita, it seems to me that you least of all have the right to wonder over any russian worship," remarks the old englishwoman phlegmatically. "you yourself, in my recollection, have accomplished considerable in this respect." "who has not some youthful folly to reproach one's self for?" said nita, shrugging her shoulders. "fortunately, only in politics is one sentenced to never perceive one's errors. i also once had a violent passion for russia leather, and i have gotten over that. nothing in the world is now more unbearable than too much russia leather, especially in a small room." "a strange change has taken place in you, nita," repeated the englishwoman, who, as if petrified with astonishment, sat there motionless in the position of an assyrian goddess, still with a hand on each knee. "you not only raved over the russians, you raved over boris lensky; and how you raved!" a dark blush rose in nita's pale cheeks; at the same time her eyes darkened. "good-by, miss wilmot," said she, without replying anything to the remarks of the old lady, and turned to the door. "will you not take a cup of tea before you go, nita?" the englishwoman calls after her. "no, miss wilmot; i must hurry a great deal without that in order to reach the studio before twilight. i have promised sonia to come; so once more adieu; and i beg of you, send all this plunder"--pointing to the books---"back to calman levy, and send him word he need no longer disturb me with his russian stories." with that nita vanished. "a strange change, a very strange change," says miss wilmot to herself, while she still stares with the same abashed, astonished expression at the door which has just closed behind her young friend. then she wishes to again take up _figaro_ in order to translate the article on the devil's violinist into german, for which language she has for twenty years had a love. in vain--the paper is nowhere to be found. ii. nita von sankjéwitch is a young austrian who lives perfectly independent on her income in paris. miss wilmot, her former governess, now serves as chaperon in her little home. if miss wilmot can be described in brief as an english old maid who reminds one of david's marie antoinette on the poor sinner's car, it would, on the contrary, have been quite difficult to give in as few words a half-way significant and life-like description of nita. her figure, tall and slender, with very delicate limbs and long, slender hands and feet, has in carriage and movements something of the harsh, so to say, repellant charm with which the greeks loved to characterize their diana statues. her abundant hair, which is cut straight across her forehead and gathered up in a heavy knot on her neck, is of a light-brown color with reddish lights; her face, long but prettily rounded, is pale, with regular features, finely arched little nose, and full, somewhat arrogantly curved little mouth. but the most remarkable in her face, the most remarkable in her whole appearance, are the eyes--large, brilliant gray eyes with greenish and bluish lights in them, eyes which suddenly darken, and then become strangely and unfathomably deep, as if she had tasted all the bitterness of creation, and in the next moment look out upon the world again as challengingly bright and cold as if they did not believe there could be a heart-ache that could not be overcome by a gay jest. in her family nita was called the "melancholy scamp." her age was difficult to decide. just as her nature completely lacked that unrestrained, youthful exuberance, so her face, in spite of the ivory smoothness of the skin, was without all freshness. from her manner she might be forty. she is the daughter of a born countess bärenburg and a baron sankjéwitch, who obtained the theresien cross and the title of freiherr on the battlefield. both parents are dead. on her father's side she has no relatives; with her mother's numerous relatives she stands on the best footing, without letting herself be much influenced by them. "it would be very uncomfortable to me to be obliged to be as distinguished as the clan bärenburg," she used frequently to say, and preferred to say it to the face of the clan bärenburg. the clan bärenburg shook its head sadly at that, and regretted her peculiarities, without losing its respect, or even its sympathy, for her. the sharpest judgment which the family had ever pronounced upon her was: "nita is an original." even the sun has spots, the most charming being has her unlovely peculiarities--nita von sankjéwitch is an artist! she has her independent studio in the rear of a building in a little court adorned with a pleasure ground, in the avenue frochot. since some months she has shared it with a friend, a young russian, of whom she is very fond. nita's studio has two doors: one which leads directly out on the little court, and one which connects nita's own sanctum with the great painting school of which monsieur sylvain is at the head. she has the key of her art nest in her pocket. before she has yet had time to put it in the key-hole, the door is opened from within. a pretty, blonde young girl comes to meet her, and embraces her as if they had been separated for two years. it is sonia--_i.e_., sophia dimitrievna kasin. "do i come too late?" asks nita. "has monsieur sylvain already been?" "no," replied sophie, "we are about to give him up. will you have tea?" nita laughs. "tea, and yet again tea! at home miss wilmot has already pursued me with offers of tea; that comes of it if one lives between an englishwoman and a russian. well, give me a cup of your nectar, sonia. i am a little out of tune to-day; perhaps it will do me good." "you must wait a moment; if is not yet ready," replies sonia, and bends listening over the copper tea-kettle, which stands on a little table delicately set with all kinds of tea things. it is four o'clock in the afternoon. the last whitish light of an already quickly dying november day falls through a large window occupying almost one entire side of the studio, a roomy, square apartment, whose gray walls are adorned with a couple of studies, abundant bold sketches by nita, anxiously neat attempts by sophie; beside those, a plaster cast of st. john, _bas reliefs_ of donatello, with many bits of picturesque old stuffs, and two or three japanese crapes. furniture is scarce: a divan, over which an old persian rug is spread; a couple of comfortable chairs, mostly of cane, but with a supplement of silken cushions; tables which bend under a weight of books, portfolios, plaster casts, and paint-boxes; many easels; a vase of withered chrysanthemums; in one corner a manikin with gracefully bent arms, in the other a skeleton, many old paint tubes--form the furnishings. the door into the adjoining painting school stands half open. idly waiting for the completion of sophie's brewing, nita glances in there. between a forest of easels she sees eight or ten women, who look weary, yawn; one of them smokes a cigarette, another nibbles at a biscuit; a third, her hat already on her head and veil over her eyes, makes a correction on her picture; while still another sits at a little piano, and with desperate energy drums the saint saens _danse macabre_. the lady who is making yet another correction in her picture is the countess d'olbreuse, a butterfly of fashion, who not only raves over painting, but also has a great love for music. "it is useless to wait longer for sylvain," she remarks, laying aside her brushes and addressing the lady at the piano. "apropos, have you procured tickets for lensky's concert in eden?" "not yet, and yet i have telephoned for twenty-four hours like a detective or a broker." nita turns away, and closes the half-opened door between the two studios, not without force. "tea is ready," says sonia; "but what is the matter, dear, you look so gloomy?" "nothing," says nita, "only that"--with a glance at the door--"vexes me so. such a ladies' studio is only a kind of hospital for ruined feminine existences. there! what an absent-minded being i am! where is it?--a letter for you; perhaps it contains something interesting." and after some search, nita finds the letter in the pocket of her jacket. scarcely has sophie opened the letter when she cries out for joy. "well, what is it, little goose?" asks nita, quite pleased at sophie's beaming face. "the letter is from my cousin, nikolai lensky, the son of the famous violinist, you know----" "i know nothing. i had no suspicion that you were related to lensky," replies nita, quickly and harshly. "my mother was a cousin of his wife," stammers sophie, somewhat vexed at nita's unpleasant tone. "yesterday i met nikolai at the jeliagins. he has recently come from st. petersburg. he will soon come to see me; meanwhile he sends me two tickets to his father's concert day after to-morrow--the concert for which there is not a seat to be had in all paris, either for good words or for money. so you can rejoice with me." "over what?" "you will go with me to the concert?" "i?--no." "but, nita, what are you thinking of?" "i really cannot; i have no time. go with the countess d'olbreuse, who hurried here from madrid and missed a bull-fight in order to be present at lensky's concert, and who appeals by turns to the russian ambassador and her music-teacher to coax a ticket." but sophie shook her head. "i would rather burn the ticket than give it to any one but you. i do not understand you, nita--you who are so musical that you attend every concert that is worth the while. you do not wish to hear boris lensky? what is the reason?" nita tapped her little foot vexedly on the floor, and said: "when not long ago a sceptical old frenchman, who had nothing to do with death, learned from his physician that his last hour had come, he said: 'well, it is not agreeable to me, but still i have one consolation: i shall, at least, when i am dead, hear nothing more of sarah bernhardt and the great french nation'--he could have added, and of boris lensky!" iii. "you will certainly not run into the _foyer_ after him?" asks nita, dryly. "i am not thinking of it," sophie assures her. "well, i only thought that you are one of his relatives," says nita. "since his wife's death i have had no intercourse with him," sophie confides to her friend. "he cannot bear me, thinks me narrow and prudish. as a man, i have never been in sympathy with him; he treated my dear cousin, his wife, much too badly for me to ever pardon him. but as an artist--as artist--he stands alone. i have heard other wonderful violinists, but it is only he that sends such hot and cold shudders over one's back at each stroke of his bow." "yes, he is a great artist," says nita. her voice sounds weary and hoarse, and the words fall slowly, syllable for syllable, from her lips, as if they were forced from her in a magnetic sleep. she looks pale, and her eyes again have their mysterious look. after much coaxing and pleading from sophie, she has at length resolved to go with her friend to lensky's concert, announced for that afternoon, and now seems to regret her decision. "i think that we have a great musical treat before us," remarks sophie, after a while. "lensky has an uncommonly fine programme to-day. the first number is a trio of schumann; then his accompanist plays a couple of little things; then comes a saraband, by bach; something by paganini, i do not know what; then a melody by lensky himself--'la legende' is the name, i think. it is dedicated to his wife." "ah! he plays that also?" asks nita, shortly. "have you already heard him play it?" asks sophie. "yes, once, a few years ago," replies nita, without looking up. "i am usually not very fond of his compositions, but i know of nothing that goes to one's heart more than this melody when he plays it," says sophie. nita is silent. "you seem tired and ill, my heart," says sophie, after a pause. "if you really do not want to go to the concert, if you were really going merely on my account, i would rather stay at home." "no," says nita, gloomily. "i have said it. i will go." * * * * * lensky's concert is to take place at four o'clock. about half-past three nita and sophie, in a rattling fiacre, roll out of the quiet rue murillo into the noisy heart of the city. all at once the cab slows its pace. "what is the matter?" asks sophie, putting her head out of the window. "i cannot go on. the row of carriages blocks the way," answers the coachman. the horses stop. nita also looks out. "what a tumult!" says she. "one carriage crowds another; it is as if a celebrity was to be buried." meanwhile the rain pours down on the roofs of the carriages, on the hard macadam, on the umbrellas of the pedestrians, who remorselessly push each other forward on the sidewalks. the coachmen crack their whips, cry out, curse; the horses stamp and press against each other. at last, with difficulty enough, the carriage with the two girls pushes forward a few steps. sonia looks at her watch. four o'clock! with a start, she remembers lensky's fabulous punctuality. "nita, if we do not wish to miss the beginning, we must get out and walk." and they get out. they are not the only ones. the most distinguished ladies get out of the prettiest coupés, thread their way between the muddy carriage wheels, crowd on the slippery sidewalk between piano teachers with waterproofs and overshoes, musicians with turned-up coat collars and dented silk hats, and among them the countess d'olbreuse, with a great bundle of music under her arm. the young girls' places are on the stage. they go, or rather are pushed forward by the crowd, through an endless length of corridors smelling of gas and sawdust. all the places on the stage lensky has given to acquaintances. there is no more generous artist than he--none who, with such an immense crowding, and with doubled prices, still continues to keep hundreds of free tickets for his personal disposal. in consequence, all kinds of people are crowded together on the stage--ladies of every age and quite every rank in life, music teachers, conservatorists, ladies from the highest society, people who speak spanish, french, russian, or english. "where are our two places?" asks sophie, looking round attentively--" , , , ." "here, sonia," says a gentle, good-natured man's voice. sonia suddenly becomes fiery red. her blue eyes sparkle. she stands as if rooted to the ground. a young man, tall, broad-shouldered, under whose severely english exterior something of his true russian bearishness is betrayed, with an oval, rather yellow, unusually regular face, sympathetic, almond-shaped eyes, and thick brown hair, comes up to her and gives her his hand. "these are the places," says he, "here in the third row. i only came day before yesterday; my father had no better ones to give away." "but, i beg you, we are splendidly placed. it was so nice in you to think of me," sophie assures him cordially. "well, the time has not yet come when i have forgotten you!" suddenly his glance rests on nita, and remains fixed on her face. "have the kindness to introduce me, sonitschka," asks he. his voice trembles a little. "my cousin, nikolai lensky," says sophie, in a tone which betrays that this cousin is not merely a cousin for her. "fräulein von sankjéwitch," she adds, explanatorily. "but what is the matter, my heart, you look so faint?" this turning to nita. "it is nothing; it will pass off," murmurs nita, and sits down. nikolai's features take on a truly anxious expression, and he cannot take his eyes from off her. why does she, just she, please him, before she has exchanged a word with him, better than formerly any woman has pleased him? she looks unusually attractive to-day, besides. the weary fever which quite weighs her down to the ground takes from her appearance the harshness which often makes her somewhat cold. the outline of her face is much softer than formerly. a mysterious light shines from her large eyes, the eyes in which a strange grief lies buried, and round her mouth trembles an expression as of death-sentenced tenderness which will not die. "could you possibly get me a vinaigrette, colia?" asks sonia, anxiously. a mad storm of applause cuts short her words. through the passage left between the audience on the stage strides a large man, with long, half-curled hair, which begins to grow gray; with a face whose features remind one of an egyptian sphinx, a face with an indescribable expression of gloomy sadness, austere pride, and touching kindness; a face that is not handsome, but which one never forgets when one has once seen it, the face of a man who has tasted all the pleasures of earth and who is yet always hungry--the face of a man who still desperately longs for something in which he has long ceased to believe. the two coöperators are behind him--the 'cellist, a parisian celebrity with curly hair parted in the middle, and a very long mustache, which he had inherited from an exiled polish martyr; the pianist, a pupil of de sterny, like him in appearance, blond, slender, medium sized, faultlessly attired, almost dandified. lensky bows simply, benevolently, in all directions; the schumann trio commences. dominating the two other instruments, the silvery sweet tones of the violin vibrate through the hall. nita bends her head forward--listens--listens. young lensky has brought her the vinaigrette which sophie had asked for. she turns it absent-mindedly in her hands. her eyes become gloomier. why had she come here, why?--to oblige sophie? no: because, again and again, the whole night long, she had ever heard these silvery violin tones, in a thousand caressing shadings, oppressive, sad, alluring. she had promised herself the highest musical enjoyment which can be offered to one, and feels a fearful disappointment. already after the first bars lensky begins to hurry. he is vexed at the cold playing of the parisian 'cellist, at a gnat which has flown against his face, at god knows what. from that moment his playing differs from other violin virtuosos only through a raging acceleration of _tempo_, an astonishing lack of purity, and a luxuriant fulness of sound, an inimitable softness and satiety of tone which none of the other violinists have ever attained. his playing is of an arbitrariness which completely confuses the 'cellist, ignorant of his peculiarities. at many parts the three instruments are not together. it is pitiable music. the veins in lensky's forehead swell with rage. ever more fiercely he draws the bow across his violin; it is now for him merely an instrument on which he can vent his bad moods. a critic who is present describes his playing as a musical crime, the performance of the trio as a sin against schumann's creation. still, at the close of the number, abundant applause falls to the share of the artists. it is the fashion to rave over the "devil's violinist." what in any case seems strange in the performance to the parisians, they describe as "slavonic," and with this short word lull all such thoughts. "it is one of his bad days," sighs sophie, "or it is no longer the same man." for the first time nita's eyes rest on the virtuoso, who now, recalled by the audience with loud cries of applause, again steps on the stage between the two other performers. he stoops, his lower lip is flabby, deep furrows are in his cheeks, there are heavy shadows under his eyes, the chin has no longer the firm, marked outline of formerly, and still-- "he is quite the same," says nita, shortly, and turns away her head. naturally he is the same, only the dross in his nature comes to light more hatefully and intrusively than formerly, when the whole charm of fiery manhood glorified his faults. these faults become a young man, but an old man they do not. at last the audience has become quiet; the concert proceeds. monsieur albert perfection sits down to the piano, plays a nocturne of chopin, an _étude_ of thalberg, and a liszt tarentella with blameless technical perfection, and without faltering a single time. after the impure, confused, over-hasty, and still, in spite of everything, fascinating playing of lensky, his performance has a calm, soothing effect on the nerves, and without reckoning to what phenomenon to ascribe the effect, the public breathes freely, breaks out in stormy bravos, then suddenly recollects itself--considers. to distinguish his accompanist at one of boris lensky's concerts! it is not fitting. then follows quite a long pause, and at length lensky once more steps upon the stage. in two minutes scarcely one of those present remembers that albert perfection exists. whatever musical adherents lensky had lost, he has quite won back. even now his playing is not perfectly free from continual little technical faults and impurities, but still, who would have time to stop at those while this sense-enthralling, oppressing, resonant charm flows from his violin? it is now no longer a violin; it is a human heart which spreads out all its treasures before the crowd, exposes its holiest of holies to it, and in a wonderful, mysterious language, a language which all understand, and to which no one can lend words, confesses his joys and sorrows, his heaven-aspiring enthusiasm, and, swooning, back to earth sinking, human sadness. his appearance also has changed, become ennobled. his formerly flushed face is now deathly pale; the deeply sunken eyes are almost closed; the hateful expression about his mouth has disappeared, and has given place to an inconsolably melancholy expression; his lips are half parted; he breathes with difficulty, sometimes something like a gasp interrupts his performance. the insane story from _figaro_ comes to the mind of more than one of his listeners. it is not to be denied, his playing gives the impression of a bad charm to which he himself has fallen victim. now lensky plays his own composition, his famous, wonderful "la légende," for which every one in the audience waited eagerly. in the middle of the powerful, striking melody of the piece something like a sob and the wearily fluttering wings of an angel who has wandered into hades, and now vainly seeks the way to its home, sounds from beneath his bow. the audience is beside itself. men laugh, weep, rejoice, clap their hands, stamp their feet, mount on chairs in order to see him better. "_bis, bis, bis!_" sounds from all sides. he repeats it. then a murmur goes through the room: some one has fainted yonder on the stage--nita! her head falls forward. with difficulty sophie holds her for one moment upright in her arms; then nikolai springs to her help, carries out the unconscious woman. sonia follows him. an unpleasant excitement overpowers the audience; without entirely stopping, lensky retards his strokes, coughs compassionately, looks short-sightedly squinting after his son. a splendid fellow! how easily he carries the dark form! who was she? a slender, supple young body, evidently. then he takes up the rhythm anew--the incident is forgotten. iv. now the concert is over. after much that was beautiful and noble, in conclusion lensky, in a superior, quite negligent manner, threw to the public a bravura piece by some unknown russian composer, a wild, triumphal fanfare of neck-breaking double notes. they hurrah, clap, are mad with enthusiasm, call him back again and again, but lensky shows himself no more. he and his son roll along in a cab to the hotel westminster, where the great violinist, according to old custom, has his quarters. the fever of his musical excitement still throbs in lensky's every vein. his nerves are still quivering from the fierce, jubilant storm of applause. something like an echo of the hand-clapping, which sounds quite like a hail-storm, yet rings in his ears. nikolai has no noise of applause in his ears, therefore he hears again and again the first sweet, dreamy bars of the "légende." they form in his soul the musical background for a pale little face with large, gloomy eyes and melancholy, lovely mouth. how she had listened to his father's playing, quite with a kind of horror in her solemn gaze! he had never seen any one listen so. at every tone the expression of her face had changed. were there, then, really people upon whom music could have such an effect? and then how she had suddenly sunk down! ah! how charming it was to take the slender, supple body in his arms, which scarcely felt the weight. her head had rested so heavily and wearily on his shoulder; her hair, the silky, soft, golden-brown hair, had touched his cheek. he could not forget it; it seemed to him that he still held her; he felt the unconscious leaning of the warm young body against his breast. and this little face! how much more beautiful it had become when the forced self-restraint had left it. the cold, gloomy expression had vanished; it looked deathly sad, the poor, pale little face. but what an indescribable tenderness and goodness mingled with the sadness! what might the great pain which lay hidden in her young heart be? ah, to be able to console her! a foolish wish! where were his thoughts wandering? "have you a match, colia?" asks a rough voice near him. nikolai starts. he seems to himself impolite in his silence to his father. he should have said a few words to him upon his success. "to-day was an inspiration, father," he remarks, while he hands the virtuoso his match-box. "there was a great noise, at any rate," says lensky, and shrugs his shoulders. "that does not mean much. i beg you! a success is always like an epidemic or a conflagration. no one really knows why. sometimes one achieves it, and not at other times. apropos, some one fainted to-day. who was it? an old woman, was it not?" "no; a young girl." "was she pretty?" "she pleased me." "h-m! h-m! and she fainted because she was too tightly laced?" "no, father. she evidently fainted from excitement. i have never seen any one listen as she listened to you." "swooned from excitement," repeats lensky. "a pretty young woman! _mais c'est un succès de torreador_--the highest that a man can attain." the carriage stops before the hotel westminster. "will you dine with me?" lensky asks, as he gets out. "if you will permit me," replies nikolai. "only no such formalities!" bursts out the violinist. "do not force yourself to anything from politeness. you must not, if you do not wish. the company which you will find with me will not suit you without that." lensky says that quite roughly and angrily. in general, the opposing manners of the two men are strange enough. at heart they evidently cling to each other very greatly; still, a perceptible lack of confidence is apparent in the relations between father and son. "and at what hour may i come?" asks nikolai. "may i come!" his father mimics him. "that is really not to be borne. leave me in peace with your aristocratic manners. do not forget that you have a proletary for a father. my guests come at half-past eight, and you can come when you will." with that they have reached the first story of the hotel, where are the violinist's secluded rooms. nikolai's room is one story higher. "for, near each other, we would mutually annoy each other," the virtuoso has from the beginning signified to his son. "_adieu à tantôt_," he calls to the young man. with that they separate. when nikolai joins lensky, half an hour later, they are already at table. the atmosphere of the little dining-room is filled with the savory odor of _potage bisque_, the virtuoso's favorite dish. gay dishes of dessert stand on the table, the chandelier sheds its glaring light over an extremely mixed assembly. at lensky's right sits madame grévin, a very old friend of his; at his left, the countess d'olbreuse, who, probably to accentuate the situation, has kept on her hat. this great lady, in the _rôle_ of guest in artistic circles, is in some manner annoying to nikolai. he feels especially constrained, seems to himself awkward in his pedantically correct clothes; he wears a dress-coat and white cravat, because after dinner he is going into society--laughable. the place opposite his father has been left vacant for him. his eyes wander over the guests. he sees a strikingly dressed young harpist, with loud, noisy manners and bold expressions, mademoiselle klein, from vienna; then a violin virtuoso of good family, monsieur paul, not without intelligence and wit, but without belief in his art, which he seems to consider a moderately remunerative trade; a vain french journalist with pretentious cynicism--no single artist of really significant renown; and in the midst of all this unenlivening gang--his father. [illustration] "can he feel at home with these men?" nikolai asks himself, and looks at him scrutinizingly. at first he sits quite silently there, and only addresses a few friendly words across the table to madame bulatow, the wife of a poor, unrecognized composer. his boundless kindness of heart never fails with poor unfortunates, however raging, untamably wild, quite rough he may otherwise be. but to no one is he so tender as to his own country people. poor russians in a strange land he treats as relatives. the further the dinner progresses, the worse becomes the universal tone, the more unrestrained lensky. his manner to the countess d'olbreuse becomes completely inadmissible. in the beginning he scarcely noticed her. but as she, from vanity and a whim, had evidently determined to make his conquest, to rouse him from his indifference with all kinds of flatteries and coquetries, he gradually warms, presses her hand, whispers all kinds of insidious remarks to her with wicked glances, permits himself so much that at last she is frightened and tries to restrain him. but to restrain lensky after the second bottle of wine, at the close of a good dinner, and near a very pretty woman, who has suddenly become prudish after she had, a few minutes before, thrown herself at his head, is no easy thing. nikolai, whose blood burns in his brown cheeks, foolishly lets himself be brought to remark a shy, "_mais, mon père!_" and by that attains a not at all pleasing result. always excited by the slightest weight or restraint, to violent opposition, lensky is least of all inclined to submit to be lectured by his "aristocratic son." his face, flushed by wine, becomes distorted, his eyes glisten. he is just about to say something horrible, unpardonable--the word dies on his lips; he turns his head and listens. a very excited child's voice outside is heard by turns with a waiter's voice: "i wish to go in, _laissez-moi donc!_" was it possible? the door opens. breathless, with cheeks flushed from the cold, a girl of perhaps seventeen years bursts in and into lensky's arms, who has hastily sprung up. "here i am at last!" said she, breathless, between laughing and weeping, in russian. "oh, if you knew how much trouble i had in getting to you! they would not let me in. what does it matter, now i am with you? and how are you? are you well again? oh, you poor dear, i could not bear it any longer, i was so worried about you!" he holds her delightedly to his breast, covers her whole face with kisses. "it is my daughter," he explains to his astonished-looking guests. "please make room for her near me, madame grévin." and as a waiter pushes a chair between the old woman and the virtuoso, he continues: "take off your coat and hat, mascha, and now sit down and get your breath." then he passes his hand over her soft dark hair. his touching tenderness has wiped away every trace from his face of the hateful expression which formerly disfigured it. "yes, yes, this is my daughter, my foolish, ignorant daughter, a little goose, who loves me dearly." and the voice of the spoiled despot, who recently only tolerated the homage of hundreds of women crazy about him, trembles at these words quite as if he wondered that his own child loves him! "are you hungry, my little dove?" asks he. "no, papa, i am too happy to be hungry; but i am thirsty." and she reaches for his champagne glass. "oh, you little wretch!" admonishes lensky, tenderly, while nikolai calls to him across the table: "don't give her any champagne; she cannot stand it. a thimbleful goes to her head." "and i like it so much," sighs the girl. "tell us, please, how you really came here, mascha," lensky asks his daughter in french. "i thought you still in arcachon." "i ran away," says she, gayly, and laughs till her white teeth show between her full child's lips. "ran away secretly, and quite alone!" "so, well, that is good," says lensky, and immediately is vexed at having made an unsuitable remark before his daughter. he adds: "you at least took your maid with you?" "no, papa, no one. ah! please do not look so gloomy; only do not be angry. if you must quarrel with me, quarrel to-morrow, but not to-day; i am too happy to be with you. see, it was this way: since october, i have been with aunt sophie in arcachon, because aunt barbara has not yet arranged her house in paris, and therefore cannot take me. ah! i must always go from one aunt to another, because you will not have me with you, you naughty papa!" at this jesting reproof lensky's face darkens; meanwhile, the girl continues: "all at once i heard you were in paris. ah! to know you were in paris and not dare to come--that was unbearable. but, however, i begged.... 'it is impossible,' was the answer every time. aunt barbara could not receive me before the fifteenth, and then, besides, no one had time to accompany me to paris--and all sorts of simple excuses, which made me furious. meanwhile, i read in the papers how people half kill each other for places at your concerts, how all paris is on its knees before you, and i am happy and proud of you." "ah! you are proud of me?" says lensky, in a tone which among all those present only his son understands. "but, papa," says mascha, shrugging her shoulders impatiently at this interruption, "am i proud? how can you ask? yes, immensely proud of you. but then i read that you look pale and weary; then i am quite consumed with anxiety, and dream every night that you are ill. then yesterday evening i read that you had had a stroke of apoplexy. i was beside myself. they tried to talk me out of my anxiety, to convince me that if you were dangerously ill they would certainly have already telegraphed me. they were all very kind, and wished to telegraph to you, but i could not sit there idle for hours, waiting for a telegram. and so i ran away at six o'clock in the morning while every one was asleep. it was bitterly cold. i sold my watch, and then did not have money enough to buy my ticket; a young man was so kind as to assist me." "ah! an obliging young man," interrupted the journalist. "he was very nice," affirmed mascha. "he took the ticket for me--he spoke english to me; only think, papa, he took me for an englishwoman. then i left him and hurried into a coupé, and away we went. in my coupé sat an old man and an old woman. i thought they were married, because they quarrelled incessantly, but the old woman got out at bordeaux. i remained alone with the old man. for one moment i was afraid." "of what, then?" asks the journalist in an unpleasant tone. "it was just before a tunnel; he drew out a large pocket-knife. i thought he would murder me, but no, it was only to peel a pear. he wished to force half of it upon me. when i refused, he offered me chocolate; he became very insolent. i cannot bear that, and threatened to signal for help." she interrupts her confession with a pretty little shudder. "i did not know that it would be so unpleasant to travel alone." "in a ladies' coupé you would have been spared these unpleasantnesses," said madame grévin, provincially stiffly. "ah, madame!" says mascha, with her soft eyes looking first at lensky and then at the old woman, "i had quite forgotten that there were ladies' coupés. i only thought to come to paris as quickly as possible. it all turned out well, you shall see. god be thanked, just then the train stopped. i opened the window, called to the conductor to open the door; he did not hear me. french conductors never hear one. then my young gentleman discovered me. you know the one from the station in arcachon, who was walking up and down the platform smoking. he threw away his cigar and hurried to my help. i would like to change my coupé, i said, with a glance at my objectionable travelling companion. he understood, took me in another compartment, said i was evidently not accustomed to travelling alone, and asked if i would permit him to offer me his protection. i was very thankful to him, and then i told him my whole story, and that i was your daughter, papa. he said that he was an old friend of yours, nikolinka"--to her brother. "he told me his name, count bärenburg. he is a diplomat, was in st. petersburg, and said he had often met you at uncle sergeis. do you remember him, nikolinka?" "i believe it," said nikolai. "he is a man who saved my life on a bear hunt. i was in very close quarters with a wounded beast." "and he shot the bear?" said lensky. "no," replied nikolai; "he was, as he modestly expressed it, too cowardly to discharge his gun--the ball might have hit me. 'every one who will cannot be a william tell,' said he, afterward, laughing. he stabbed the brute with his hunting-knife, in danger of being strangled with me." "he saved you with danger to his life? then he must like you very much," bursts out maschenka. "he scarcely knew me." "ah, how generous!" said mascha. "how glad i am to have learned to know him, and you cannot think how nice he was to me. he spoke so pleasantly of you, colia. then he got a paper to see whether there was anything about you in it, papa. we found a notice which relieved me as to your health, and then after the worry i had had, my heart was so light that i cried. arrived in paris, he sent his servant with me because he did not want me to drive all the way through the city alone, and here i am. you see, madame"--she turns coaxingly to grévin--"on the whole it was certainly better than if i had travelled in a ladies' compartment." but madame grévin only shrugged her shoulders, and said: "that is a matter of taste; for my daughter, i should have preferred the ladies' compartment." lensky is silent; he notices vexedly what a false effect the story of his petted daughter has made on those present. most of the men smile; they seek behind mascha's _naïveté_ calculating frivolity seeking for adventures. meanwhile, without embarrassment, she drinks a few sips of champagne from her father's glass, and continues: "the stupidest was that they did not want to let me in here to you in the hotel. they said, 'monsieur lensky is dining now.' and yet i told them that i was your daughter. they said very coarsely: 'anyone could say that.' for what did they take me, then--for one of those fools who run after you?" "mascha!" lensky says, reprovingly. "and, besides, i look so strikingly like you," she continues. "so, do you really look like me?" asks lensky, who cannot look stern before this sweet childish tenderness. "really like me?" then, taking her by the chin and looking attentively at her face: "well, yes; the dear god is a great artist. strange what wonderfully beautiful variations he can write on an ugly theme!" "mamma always said it was quite laughable how much i resembled you," whispers mascha; and adds softly: "she always said that to me when she was especially good to me." those present have ceased to interest themselves in the child; only madame d'olbreuse looks at her kindly across the virtuoso. the journalist industriously supplies mademoiselle klein with champagne; the other men talk together, murmur bad jokes in each other's ears, half aloud, with the evident intention to be heard. the champagne goes more and more to mademoiselle klein's head. after an animated tirade upon lensky, she says, laughingly: "i have been in paradise often enough to hear lensky, but if it were necessary, i would go into hell for him." "ah, so!" calls out lensky, amused at the immoderateness of the young woman. "but if they would not let you into hell?" "i would pay a few sins for admittance." and looking at him boldly from half-closed eyes, she takes a flower from the bouquet on her breast, and throws it across the table at him. he catches it laughingly. suddenly he feels something strange. his daughter's eyes rest upon him, astonished, surprised. with a gesture of anger, he throws the flower under the table. "nikolai, i beg you, take the child home," says he, springing up. "where, father?" "where?" repeats lensky. "why, to the jeliagin--anywhere, only away from here." "will you permit me to take your daughter to princess jeliagin's? my carriage waits below. i have room for her and monsieur nikolas," says the countess d'olbreuse. "i am very much obliged to you, countess," replied lensky. then, dismissing mascha with a kiss on the forehead, he turns to his guests. "i think we can go in the drawing-room; coffee is waiting already." still, while mascha, quite amazed at her father's sudden unfriendliness, slips into her sable-lined velvet coat, lensky comes up to his two children. "see that she is well wrapped up, colia," says he to his son. "she is very delicate, and takes cold easily. she is, indeed, thoroughly like me, but still in much she is like her mother. god, those eyes! and say a good word for her to barbara; see that she is not too harshly received." "we will both defend her," says countess d'olbreuse kindly. "i understand that an anxious papa is frightened at such a mad prank, but one must be very hard-hearted not to pardon it." "ah, you have no idea what is before me! aunt barbara is not bad, she even likes me; but her daughter, my cousin anna, is terrible!" says mascha "why do you send me away, papa? i hoped that you would keep me with you." "it is impossible," says he, with a short, characteristic motion of the head and shoulders, and with a gloomy decision which permits no objecting. "really impossible?" repeats mascha, depressed. "well, then, good-by. it still was lovely to see you again. if only those horrid people had not been there! that bold girl who threw you the flower--how could she dare to presume so with you!" and mascha's eyes sparkled with anger. "she is charming, your daughter; i am quite in love with her," says the kind d'olbreuse; "but now come, my dear child." "one more kiss," murmurs lensky, and takes the sweet, pale little face of his daughter between his great, warm hands. it is as if he could not look long enough on this sad, tender loveliness. "oh, you angel, you! i will visit you to-morrow in the morning; but do not come here any more, i beg you. so--one kiss, and one more on your dear eyes--goodnight!" v. now he sits alone in the desolate hotel parlor. he who usually flees solitude, who keeps his guests always until his eyes close, has to-day given them to understand before ten o'clock that they bore him. but now he would fain call them back, however indifferent all, however unsympathetic most of them are to him. at least they could dissipate the troop of recollections which pass through his mind in a confused throng. involuntarily he compares his heart to a caravansary through which thousands of men have gone in and out, without a single one settling there, or leaving a trace. he did not believe in friendship; he remained faithful to his old acquaintances even if they became burdensome to him, from a characteristic or from obstinacy; but he felt drawn to no one. his passions were of such a fleeting nature, left his heart so completely untouched, that the impression of women to whom he had stood in near relations was quite summarily a mixture of scorn, compassion, and disgust. he had forgotten the names of the most. the pressure of every restraint, every discipline, every check, had been unbearable to him; he had given rein to all his instincts, had been moderate in nothing, had submitted to nothing, had always preached that one must forget one's self, and yet could never quite forget himself. no; during this mad bacchanal, in which the last fifteen years of his existence had been spent, something which he could not satisfy had remained within him. he denied every religion, even that of duty. he only lived for enjoyment; but enjoyment died when he touched it, pleasure was in his arms a cold, stiff corpse. the only thing which could still rouse him was his art; and he was about to lose his power in this. his compositions--that of his art which really was dear to his heart--had more and more become a group of contrasts seeking after effect. the inner voice which had formerly sung him such sweet songs was--not strong enough to be heard in the noisy confusion of his life--wearily silent. his creative power was paralyzed, and his playing--the parisians might clap as loud as they wished; he knew best of all that it went downward. for more than forty years he had given concerts, and for twenty years he had played over the same _répertoire_--an immense one, but, with a few little exceptions, still the same. it bored him. he no longer listened to himself when he played, only sometimes, half unconsciously, all that wounded head and heart slipped into his fingers, and then he sobbed himself out in tones; and what so powerfully moved his listeners was not what they suspected--it was compassion for a great man who despairingly tries to find in art what he has wasted in life. how slowly time passes! he had not suspected that it would be so unpleasant for him to stay alone. more, yet more, of those strange faces! there are princesses of blood royal among them; then, again, beauties for whose favor potentates have sued in vain; famous artists, and, finally, pale, poor girls whom a moment of morbid enthusiasm had robbed of their senses. they nodded to him, smiled confidentially, all the same smile of secret understanding. "one just like the others," he calls out, and stamps on the floor, as if he would stamp upon the whole crowd. "one just like the other----" then one form separated itself from the throng, and stepped up to him. he stretches out his arms to her. "natalie," he calls. she vanishes. it was his wife; how plainly he had seen her! she was not like the others. how had he ventured to name this angel in the same breath with the others? he had loved her passionately, however immoderately he had offended against her. her name was natalie--yes, natalie. and when he led her to the altar she was a charming, petted young girl, a princess assanow, who had married him against the wishes of her family. he had worshipped her, and strewn flowers at her feet, and she had been happy, and he with her. the children had come--how delightful all that was! those were the golden years in his life--five, six years. then--then the demon had begun to weary of paradise. his gipsy nature had demanded its rights. he had left home, only for a time, and to let his passions have their sway; then oftener, ever oftener. at first she had pardoned him only too easily, so easily that it had almost vexed him, so easily that he had thought she would bear anything. but at last even she could endure it no longer--had separated from him. that was terrible, so terrible that he had thought he could not bear it. she also could not bear it, he imagined, but would recall him. he waited for that every day, and she called him back--when she lay dying. that was now four years ago; but it seemed to him that she had died yesterday. he saw it all so plainly before him--the large room in rome, the half-emptied medicine bottles on the invalid's night-table, and the ticking watch, a watch which he had given her years before at colia's birth; the dim night-lamp in the corner, her white morning-dress that hung over a chair, the little slippers--the dear, tiny little slippers! there in the white bed, she, so long, so thin, with her poor wasted body, whose outline was so plainly visible under the covers, a white flannel covering with red stripes on the edge--he even remembered that. but, best of all, he remembered her, her wonderfully beautiful face. she raised herself from the pillows at his entrance, and greeted him with a smile that forgave him all; no, not only forgave, but begged his forgiveness that she--she, the poor angel--had been too weak to save him from himself, to redeem him. then he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. he would not believe that all was over. then, suddenly, the sun had risen, there, over the spanish place, behind the church of trinita de' monti; a broad, golden ray stretched out to the dying woman. it was like the shining arm of god who had come to take her soul. she had raised her weary hand to point upward--the hand sank, sank. what a horrible time! he, to whom the thought of dying caused a terror that could not be overcome; he, who, if he met a funeral procession on the street, turned away his head, and could not bear the sight of a corpse, he had watched near her coffin for two nights long without moving, without eating. in the second night he had fallen asleep from unvanquishable weariness. he had dreamed of old times, of dead happiness. it seemed to him that he sat with her on the terrace of the country-house near st. petersburg, where they had passed the mid-summer, the short northern summer. it was a bright august night; they sat together hand in hand, and her voice fell softly and caressingly on his ear. sometimes she laughed, then he laughed also, only because she laughed, and pressed a kiss on her lips. ah, how warmly her thirsty young lips met his! suddenly he awoke; an insect had flown across his face. around him all was black--the walls, the floor, the ceiling--and there, near him, surrounded by tall, red flickering candles by a blooming wall of flowers--ah! how beautiful she still was! he bent over the coffin and raised her from the white satin cushions and kissed her. the chill of this touch penetrated to his marrow; for the first time he understood what a terrible gulf had opened between her and him. when colia had come to relieve his father from his watch over the corpse, he had found him lying senseless on his face near the coffin. yes, the one, the only one whom he had passionately loved; but she had not been able to protect him from himself, either by her life or by her death. at first, really, in the first few days after her burial, he had thought the fever had left his veins. he no longer felt it. miserable and weary, at that time, he had shut himself up for hours, for days in her room, in the room in which all had been left as it was before she had been carried out, in which all looked as if she must come back. and when he had at length resolved to leave rome, he had passed a few months quietly and soberly with his children. he had even tried to work again, to compose--but he had accomplished nothing. then despair at his wasted genius had come over him, and with despair the fever. he could not bear quiet, he simply could not. he needed noise, incessant change, excitement and stunning. he sent mascha to relatives--maschenka, his charming little daughter, whom he adored, and whom he now pushed out of his way with a violent haste, as if she were merely an inconvenient burden for him. and then-- then he took up life again exactly at the point where he had left it before natalie died. from city to city, from concert hall to concert hall, from hotel to hotel he rushed, always the same, restless, joyless, without peace, always idolized, raved over, only still madder in the waste of his life than formerly, because sadness was greater in him, and it needed more excitement to kill it. now all that was to some degree bearable, but how would it be in a couple of years? involuntarily his glance wandered to a pile of papers which lay on the table in the centre of the room--thirty, forty copies of that number of _figaro_ which contained the fable. he laughed at the people who had sent him this absurdity to flatter him. "'i will lay a charm in your art which no one can resist,'" he murmured to himself. "bah! how long could that yet last?" he did not deceive himself; things were going rapidly down with him, his violin playing, his health, all. "the devil will no longer be able to use me," murmured he. "one will know nothing more of me; i am growing old!" he gasped out. suddenly he seized his head and called: "but what does a man like me do when he is old?" for the first time in his life he asked himself the question. "to grow old without the courage to calmly submit, to be like a languishing spendthrift who drinks repulsive sediment from emptied goblets." how hateful, how horrible! would it not be better to break with all, to devote himself to his children, to lead a prudent existence? he laughed bitterly. a prudent existence--he, whom two hours of solitude brought almost to the boundaries of insanity! there could be no more talk of that; it was too late. to grow old! vain spectre of fear! people like him never grow old--they die! yes, that was the end. to die, to leave nothing behind him, no name in art, no enduring work; to be forgotten, wiped out of the world. a little while longer, sunshine and air, and motion, color, and sound, and then all dark, a great black blur, nothing more--death. yes, it was that. perhaps it would come to-morrow, perhaps in a few years. come it must; he also would not fight against it. but meanwhile--meanwhile he would live with every fibre, live with every drop of blood--live! then--around the window crept something like a sad, sighing, ghostly voice. his face took on a strained, listening, thirstily longing expression. it was like the sob of a tormented soul which has forgotten to take the way to heaven because a great love holds her back to earth--a great love and unrest at an unfulfilled task, an unlifted treasure. was it an over-excitement of his nerves of hearing, or the beginning of that mysticism to which, at a certain period of life, quite all great russian minds fall victim? however this may be, he would have sworn that he heard her voice compassionately and tenderly. there, once more. "boris! boris!" he feels something strange, the calming of a loving presence. a passionate, indescribable longing takes possession of him. he stretches out his arms--it is gone! he shakes as with frost, sweat stands upon his brow. he thought of the repellant coldness which had met his lips when he had raised the corpse from the lace-edged pillows of the coffin. no; death took all, it lets nothing return. weak-headed nervousness to believe in such a thing! there is nothing but life! and while the longing for the unattainable heavenly still consumes his heart, he murmurs hoarsely: "yes, to live, to live!" vi. to-day there is nothing left of lensky's melancholy; at least for the present he has put it aside, has not had much time to devote to it. since nine o'clock in the morning he has been overwhelmed with visits. at the moment there is no one with him but the gay violinist of yesterday, monsieur paul. as lensky cannot remain unoccupied for a moment without being nervous, he has proposed to monsieur paul to play a game of piquet. just then nikolai enters the room. he brings with him a cool, well-bred atmosphere, which disturbs the two musicians. all comfort is over for them. monsieur paul looks at his watch and declares that it is high time for him to go and have his hair cut. father and son remain alone. "so you show yourself at last, sluggard?" says lensky, while he still mechanically shuffles the cards. "i wished to present myself several times already," remarks nikolai, "but i heard that you were engaged." "that need not have prevented you," replies the virtuoso. "your discretion has deprived you of great enjoyment, _per primo_, the praises sung of a young lady whose voice i really could not well judge, because she, as her companion told me, had been hoarse for six months from unhappy love. i did not really learn what she wished to get from me--a stipend, an engagement at the opera in st. petersburg, or that i should cure her of her unhappy love; but, apropos, i am really a little tired of playing the brahmin who gives his body prey to vermin for penance. you can ring the bell. i will tell the waiter he shall admit no one else." the waiter has appeared and disappeared again. father and son can be assured not to be disturbed. they can now talk unrestrainedly together. but the somewhat forced, humorous flow of speech of his father has ceased. stronger than yesterday is apparent the mutual lack of confidence of the two, a lack of confidence which in the young lensky betrays itself by a quite exaggerated deference; in the older by a grumbling roughness. he cannot understand this son. not that anything about him displeases him; his eyes rest not without pride and satisfaction on the young giant with the slender, delicate hands, the fine, aristocratic face. the most exacting father would be content with this son. he has studied with distinction; he has never made debts; he is scarcely twenty-three years old, _attaché_ to the russian embassy in paris, and a thoroughly good fellow. what more can lensky wish, what does he miss in nikolai? a little imprudent enthusiasm, hot-blooded frivolity, a little youthfulness--that he misses in him. nikolai is old at twenty-three. and then these perpetual well-bred manners. lensky could never bear men of the world, and nikolai is one; that enrages him. "how did the jeliagin welcome my little tomboy?" he asks his son at last. "very graciously," replies nikolai. "that pleases me." nikolai is silent. after a while lensky begins anew. "yes, yes, i am very glad that things went well with the little one. i was worried. no one can less easily bear loveless treatment than our kobold." nikolai looks straight in his father's eyes. "do you imagine that aunt barbara will treat her lovingly?" he asks, dryly. "well, you said--" says lensky. "i said that she received our mascha graciously, _voilà tout!_" says nikolai. "her manner to the child did not please me. as the countess d'olbreuse insisted upon pleading mascha's cause, and as she is, as aunt barbara informed me later, in spite of her apparent eccentricities, very well accredited in the faubourg st. germain, the warmth with which she defended mascha may have made some impression. in any case, aunt pleased herself with laughing at mascha's exaltation. she and her lovable daughter were about to go out, and it was arranged that i should accompany them, but i would have preferred to remain with mascha to lecture her a little as she deserved for her over-haste." lensky frowned. "so you would have liked to scold the poor child! what a narrow-hearted philister you are; have copied in everything your distinguished uncle, the correct statesman, under whose protection you are making a career, he who tore us apart--your mother and me. poor little mascha! poor little dove! but she was charming with her foolish, childish anxiety and her incredible innocence." lensky struck his fist on the table. "i would have liked to box their ears, all of them, as they sat there, the scoundrels who dared to wink at her tale," called he. "so should i, father, but still they did all wink," said nikolai, dryly. "the idiots!" "yes, indeed, idiots--but----" "well, what will you say?" asked lensky, roughly. "i will say that mascha will still meet many idiots in life who will misunderstand her innocence, and that she may once meet a rascal who will misuse her innocence." "nonsense! nonsense!" murmurs lensky. "you do not understand your sister. if she were frivolous, then she would need strict surveillance. but our mascha is not frivolous; she is given to exaggeration, tender, romantic. and, between ourselves, life is so common, so boundlessly common and dirty, that it seldom affords a temptation to a truly exalted nature. no, no; i have no fear for my pretty defiant one. i do not believe in the necessity of strict guarding." "i think that young girls should be watched," said nikolai, earnestly. "our mascha has no more worldly knowledge than a six-year-old child. she does not suspect that there is a danger in the world which she must avoid." "but that is beautiful, wonderfully beautiful!" the virtuoso thunders at his son. "would you wish it otherwise? not i. no; i would not have our little gipsy differ by a hair from what she is." "nor i, on the whole," says nikolai; "but under the existing sad circumstances----" "what sad circumstances?" lensky interrupts him. "well, yes, that she has lost her mother is sad; i can never replace her to her. a mother cannot be replaced, least of all, one like hers; there is not another one like her in the world. but otherwise i think she does not fare badly. one pardons her wherever she goes; she is always treated like a little princess, always well cared for." "well cared for!" nikolai bursts out. "well cared for! i think she cannot be worse cared for than with the jeliagins." "why?" asks lensky, uneasily. "barbara is not a bad woman. she is very good-natured." "and perfectly characterless," replies nikolai. "you were pleased that she overlooked mascha's precipitation so easily yesterday. i was not. aunt barbara is in bad circumstances; if i am not mistaken, she will very soon turn to you in her money matters, and with mascha she will play the _rôle_ of an indulgent step-mother, who flatters the step-child in order not to offend the father. if mascha is to prosper, she must live with people who understand her, who love her, but who are conscientious enough to be severe with her, and to guide her from time to time, tenderly but firmly, in the right way. she is much too gifted, much too obstinate for one to dare to leave her to herself. mascha is a little race-horse who must be caressed, spared, but held very firmly in check. i know her better than you, for i have had more opportunity to observe her, and i tell you it is really dangerous to leave mascha with people who will trouble themselves as little about her as the jeliagins." "you exaggerate, you exaggerate," grumbled lensky. "besides, how can i help it? shall i shut up my song-bird in a cage, in a convent or a boarding-school? i tried it. she would not bear it. what shall i do with her?" "take her with you," says nikolai. "with me! that is impossible," bursts out lensky--"impossible! what can a widower do with a grown daughter?" nikolai frowned. for a moment he is silent, then he says: "do you remember how strongly you expressed yourself about kasin, when he sent his daughter out into the wide world merely because she interfered with his bachelor life?" lensky's face darkens. this time nikolai's remark has hit its aim. "and you will draw a comparison between me and kasin?" says he, slowly, cuttingly. nikolai thinks he has gone too far. "naturally i did not think of that," he begins; "the actions of a great artist, of a genius----" but there lensky interrupts him. "spare me this genius; i am sick of being eternally pursued with this word," he cries. "i will be judged as a man with kasin. as a man, what have i in common with this frivolous egoist, who first ran through his own and his wife's property, and then lived on still poorer devils, while he went about the world without troubling himself that his wife, his child, meanwhile suffered from hunger, without asking if they were well or ill; while i"--he drew a deep breath--"while i have tormented myself, worried myself about you my whole life long? all that you possess i won with my head and hands. god knows, i desired little for myself, but for you nothing was good enough. and if one of you wanted anything, i left everything and came from the ends of the earth to look after you--" he stops, out of breath. "and you stayed with us as long as you were worried about us," says nikolai, softly. "yes, father, you were boundlessly generous to us, and still miserly. you never denied us anything, and still everything--yourself!" "h-m! and did you miss me?" asks lensky, harshly, quite repellantly, and looks at his son sideways, mistrustfully. "very much!" replied nikolai. lensky had not expected that; the short, simple words went deep to his heart. he changed color, rose, walked up and down a number of times, and at length remained standing before nikolai, and laid his hand on his shoulder. "i know that i was in the wrong," says he, in a changed, indescribably gentle voice. "i do not deserve any children such as you are. if you had both turned out quite badly, i still could not have wondered. but you have but another's blood in your veins, and--and--" [....than you] and lays his hand over his eyes, then he [...e her, a ...] foot. "i have neglected you, that is true [... ..u] must not imagine--" again he pauses, [...] after awhile he continues: "as regards mascha, god knows i should like to have my little lark about me, but with me it is really somewhat different than with--well, with kasin. kasin has his brilliant position and lives in st. petersburg; but i--to-day i am in paris, to-morrow in berlin, the next day in vienna. how, then, can i take a young girl about with me?" "is it, then, necessary that you should still so torment yourself?" remarks nikolai gently, quite pleadingly. lensky is silent. and nikolai, who, in spite of his early knowledge of life, is still an inexperienced idealist, thinks he has persuaded his father, hopes to win him entirely to the plan laid out for him. "you could certainly settle down now," says he. "i have planned that so finely. you could have an old relative, marie dimitrievna, for instance, mamma's cousin, who is sympathetic to you, to keep house for you; and under the united influence of your fame and mascha's charm, your home in st. petersburg or moscow would become a true paradise. you could be so gay and happy, so petted and honored in your old age, if you only would not grudge yourself rest!" "not grudge myself rest?" groaned lensky. "yes, if i could [en.. ...] rest." and with a gesture peculiar to him, [...] this back his thick hair with both hands from h[...] and [...], he adds: "ask what you will of me, [only ...rer dev...] i should sit still; that i can do no more [..." ...bli...] is silent for awhile, then, with hoarse, hollow voice, as if in a dream, he begins anew: "yes, if they had left me your mother, perhaps it would have been different; just at that time, before our separation, i began to be weary of the dancing-bear life: with her, i perhaps could have led a respectable old age. but you knew better what was suited to her than she herself. you pointed out to her what would never have occurred to her of herself, poor angel!--that it was a shame to have patience with me. please yourself with the result! you have killed her and me. but of what use to bring up again the old grief, what use to reproach others? it is all my fault. now nothing can be changed. i am what i am; i can no longer subdue myself. i cannot be without women and applause," says he, brutally. "be as horrified as you will, i cannot, i cannot. i will some time die with my bow in my hand, and can be happy if i am not hissed before that!" his breath fails him. he is silent. they stand opposite each other, father and son, gazing into each other's eyes. never before has nikolai seen a face which expresses a more incurable sadness. why does he understand now, just now, in spite of the inconsolable confession which his father has just made to him, the unescapable charm which he exercises on all men not fish-blooded? something of his thoughts are mirrored in his features. the polite mask has disappeared, and for the first time lensky feels that it is his own flesh and blood that stands before him; for the first time he sees not only a young diplomat, dressed in the most correct english style, but his son, and in the features of the grown young man he finds something of the dear little face of the boy who used to spring joyfully out to meet him when he came home, who was so proud if he could show his father the slightest service, who boasted so imposingly to his playmates of his father's fame. he thinks of the tall, pale youth whose ideal he was until the day when nikolai began to understand, and his bright eyes suddenly saddened with the hardest suffering that a young man can experience, the pain of being obliged to see a flaw in the one who is highest to him. and from that time it was like an illness to the boy. he had learned to understand life so soon that it had made him old before his time. from his sixteenth year, and before that, he had carried about with him the grief of his poor, idolized mother. and lensky reproached him for having lost his freshness. suddenly he takes his son by both shoulders and draws him to his breast--for the first time in years. vii. a little later, nikolai and his father are rolling along the boulevard to see mascha. the cab stops before a pretty private residence in the avenue wagram. "is madame jeliagin at home?" asks lensky, while his son pays the cabman. lensky never carries a groschen of money about with him. "madame cannot be seen," replies the servant at the house-door. then a charming figure in a short, dark blue dress rushes down four, five steps at a time to the virtuoso. "ah!" how often the little cry of joy with which his little daughter throws her soft, warm arms round his neck will ring in the ears of the artist as he grows older. and the kiss of her dewy, fresh, innocent lips--will he ever forget it? mascha has lips like a four-year-old child. "papa! colia! how lovely that you are both here, but how late!" says she, taking the hand of each and leading them into the hall. "yes, how late! i have been standing at the window since ten o'clock, and looking to see if you were coming." "you have lost much time, little one," says lensky, and laughs. "i had nothing to do but be happy with you, papa," replies she, and rubs her delicate, flower-like face against his hand. they are now in the hall. one can scarcely think of anything more attractive than this room, with its old flemish tapestry hangings, and in the background the heavy oaken stairs leading to the upper stories. "it is pretty here, is it not, papa?" says mascha, as she notices lensky's glance slowly wandering over every object. "the colors all harmonize so charmingly," she continues; and with the important consciousness of saying something wise, she adds: "i call that eye music." "a highly descriptive word. i will write it down," jests lensky. "i had no suspicion that the jeliagins lived so well," he adds, and seeks nikolai's glance. how could he have asserted that barbara alexandrovna was in bad circumstances? "yes, the whole house is pretty, all the rooms," says mascha. "i have been all over it already, in the stable and in the attic. but sit down here near the chimney, papa; and you here, colia. ah! how nice to have you both together. only poor mamma is missing!" and the tender-hearted child, with whom joy and pain are always near together, rubs the tears from her eyes. then she gives herself a little shake--this is not the day to be sad. "only think, papa!" "well, what then, my angel?" "when one comes in here, one imagines that aunt is very wealthy; but she is quite, quite poor." maschenka's voice sinks tragically. "early this morning some one came with a bill from the dressmaker, i think. at first aunt denied herself; and then there was such a noise that she came out to quiet the people. poor aunt had to beg the people to wait. how horrible! but the worst of all was"--maschenka whispers quite mysteriously to him--"the worst of it was that then, afterward, anna scolded poor aunt; the daughter scolded her mother. '_vous manquez de dignité maman!_' cried she. 'you behave like a baker-woman. never would these dirty loafers'--yes, she expressed herself so, '_ces sales canailles_'--'permit themselves such insolence if you knew how to act like a lady.' and poor aunt only replied quite humbly: 'don't be vexed, my heart. i will be wiser another time. have patience with me.' that went to my heart. i would have liked to fall on poor aunt's neck, but i dared not let her perceive that i had heard anything. she is very nice and good to me. except anna, they are all good to me." she throws her arms round lensky's neck, and drawing his head down to her, she whispers in his ear: "what has nikolai against me, papa? he does not look at me to-day." "he is dissatisfied with you." "with me?" mascha springs up. "what have i done to you, colia? i have noticed the whole time that you have not laughed a single time. please say it, so that it will be over." nikolai stands there like the picture of an earnest young mentor who prepares himself for a lecture that will not cross his lips. mascha loses patience. "don't cough incessantly; open your mouth and speak!" calls out she, and the energetic little person stamps her foot violently. "do not be so angry," says nikolai, good-naturedly. then he takes his sister's hand in his, and looking down at her very lovingly, he says: "yes, mascha, i am dissatisfied with you; you have guessed rightly. every one who really loves you must be dissatisfied with the imprudent self-will which you showed by your yesterday's prank." "h-m! were you dissatisfied?" asks maschenka, turning to her father, defiantly. to her great astonishment, lensky remains silent. she pouts, and nikolai continues: "father was so touched by your tenderness that he forgot everything else, but i assure you that the thought that you could a second time go about in the world so unprotected is just as fearful to him as to me." "god knows it," lensky assures her emphatically. maschenka's childish self-sufficiency diminishes considerably; she lowers her head and bites her under lip; she fights back tears. she had been so proud of her stroke of genius, and now---- "i do not want to quarrel with you," continues nikolai, kindly, "only warn you. you imagine that i am displeased with you for worldly reasons, which you despise. oh! we know that. but this time i have nothing to say of the gossip to which you expose yourself. the principal thing with me is, that by such wrong precipitation as your flight from arcachon you run the risk of dangers and embarrassments of which you have no suspicion, and which could destroy all happiness in your existence for you. therefore, maschenka, be wise, give me your hand upon it, and your word of honor that you will never again run away from home secretly and unprotected." the tender tone in which nikolai has delivered his little lecture has evidently gone to mascha's heart. "well, maschenka, darling, will you give me your word of honor?" asks nikolai, earnestly. she is just about to stretch out her hand to him to seal the solemn promise he has asked; then suddenly her manner changes, she throws back her head. "i will promise nothing," says she, looking at her brother out of her dark blue eyes with tender roguishness--"nothing at all." "but, mascha!" "no, no, no," says she. "why should i? it would be no use, nikolai. for, do you see, if i should ever be in a similar fit of anxiety about you, then, then, colia, i should lose my head again, and not only run away a second time, but, if it was necessary, break my word of honor." and laughing, but with eyes full of tears, she throws both arms around nikolai's neck and says: "now be angry, very angry, quickly!" lensky laughs his good-natured, deep laugh, and repeats mockingly: "so, please be angry, colia, really." and nikolai draws himself up, wishes to once more explain to his sister more emphatically and severely how perfectly unsuitable he has found her behavior, and instead of that--yes, instead of that--he only kisses her tenderly, and murmurs: "ah! you dear, good-for-nothing little witch, you, if you were only half so wise as you are good and charming--or, or if one could always be with you to protect you!" at these loving words, maschenka bursts into tears. "what is the matter, darling?" asks nikolai. "but, my little dove!" says lensky, quite amazed. she turns from one to the other. "you are both too good to me, and i am too happy," sobs she. while father and brother are still occupied in calming her with jests and caresses, the rustle of a silk dress causes them to turn their heads. down the broad oak stairs came two ladies, madame jeliagin and her daughter anna; the first, her hair arranged in the fashion of twenty years ago, in a faded violet silk dress; the second, a brilliant apparition in faultless morning dress, tall, blonde, with regular features, which, alas! are disfigured by an expression of great arrogance. barbara jeliagin throws herself upon lensky, and kisses him on both cheeks. anna scarcely gives him her finger-tips. she cannot bear these barbarous caresses which are repeated at all russian family scenes. lensky himself feels a little surprised at his sister-in-law's affectionateness; he looks at her in astonishment. is it possible that this withered old woman in the faded dress is really the barbe jeliagin formerly celebrated for the luxuriance of her toilets, the exotic unusualness of her entertainments, his wife's sister, the arrogant "princess barbe," who had never ceased to regard her sister's marriage to the violinist as a _mésalliance_? "my poor sister! you know that she refused pierre trubezkoy. we were horrified at her marriage. lensky is really a great genius!" he knew that she used to say this to all her distinguished acquaintances. he had heard her say it himself once, and now---- * * * * * "was i right with regard to the jeliagins?" nikolai asks his father, when, an hour later, they leave the pretty house. "yes," replied lensky, thoughtfully. he did not tell his son that barbara had made use of the first moment when she was alone with him to ask him for money, but he murmured frequently to himself: "things have gone down with barbe. who would have thought it? life has not used her tenderly!" he remembered his son's words, who had boldly asserted that mascha could nowhere be worse taken care of than with this good-natured, characterless woman, who turned with the wind, and who was completely without will opposed to her daughter's arrogance. "not worse!" repeated lensky. now that was exaggeration. still he must try to seek another home for mascha. but where, then, where? on the whole, colia's plan was not so bad. in spite of the extravagant generosity which he had always shown to his family, in spite of the unlimited benevolence which would have put many princes to shame, his means sufficed to make mascha's life as happy, as comfortable as the vain little thing could wish. and how delightful it would be to have this charming little being always about him, to be able to pet her from morning to evening! that was his manner of loving a child! but that would be all the same if it did not happen to-day or to-morrow. no; only this one more last time would he loose the reins, satiate himself with the mad, gipsy life. the virtuoso tour which herr braun had planned for him lasted into june. that was not much longer, scarcely six months. with that he would finish, in order to then found a calm, quiet home somewhere. viii. if any one had ventured to tell nikolai that he would fall in love at first sight with a girl with whom he had not exchanged a word, he would really have laughed in the person's face. in love with an unknown, he, nikolai, the prudent nikolai lensky, doubly prudent from opposition to his easily excited father, giving way unresistingly to every momentary impression? nonsense! and still he could not deny it. for a week he had thought of nothing but nita. besides, it must be said that fortune seemed to have given herself the task of exciting into uproar his power of imagination, of fanning into a flame the slight fire within him, by continually letting her appear before him like a lovely _fata morgana_, without granting him an opportunity of meeting her. the day after the concert he had presented himself at the two young ladies' studio, to inquire after nita's health. he had not seen nita, only sophie, who told him that her friend had kept her room on account of a severe headache. dear, good sophie! how glad she was to see him, so heartily, so truly. she had grown much prettier in this last year; he told her so to her face, at which she blushed charmingly. then he asked about all kinds of things: how she liked the modern babylon, where she had learned to know her friend, what kind of a person she was. that he naturally did only in the interest of his little adopted sister. he must convince himself whether association with the young austrian was desirable for her. sophie did not need to be urged to tell him of her idolized friend. the harshness, and at the same time the boundless goodness, of her nature she described to him, the strange mixture of man-like strength of decision and the charming loveliness with which she could make good her vexing roughness. she repeated to him nita's gay _traits d'esprit_, she showed him nita's studies. an hour, an hour and a half he remained in the studio. sophie made him a cup of tea, told him of nita's family, that she had a cousin in paris whose name was count bärenburg, _attaché_ to the russian embassy, a very good-looking man, and very amusing in conversation, without much depth. he often visited nita in the studio. nikolai must know him. yes, nikolai said he knew him, and sophie talked on until at length twilight fell. nikolai accompanied her to the house-door in the rue murillo, and assured her that for a long time nothing had so truly pleased him as to see her again. what conclusions sonia might draw from this unusual warmth of her cousin he did not for a moment consider. two days later, at the opera--he sat in the parquet--he heard some paris dandies whispering of the beauty of a new apparition. these young men's opera-glasses all aimed at the same front row box. he looked up. there, near an old lady whom he had seen as a child in st. petersburg with his mother, and had recently met again in raris, lady bärenburg, he saw nita. she wore a white low-neck dress, and a few red roses on her breast. meanwhile the representation of "l'africaine" went on with all the effect which is given to a meyerbeer opera in paris. nikolai scarcely noticed it. unchangedly he looked up and observed the young girl, each characteristic movement, the incessantly changing expression of her face, on which light and shade seemed to chase each other. she attracted him as everything mysterious attracts one. why did she affect this mocking coldness? he asked himself. why did she conceal the most beautiful part of herself? at the close of the performance, he stood at the edge of the broad stairs to see her pass by. from afar he discovered her gold-lit hair. now she came by him. she was leaning on bärenburg's arm. she was wrapped in a white wrap whose fur border came up to her ear tips and concealed half her face. his look met that of the young girl. before he had time to remove his hat nita had turned away her head with a short, repellant gesture. the sweetness of fresh roses passed by him with her. he stood there as if rooted to the ground. why had she avoided his greeting? what had he done? rage gnawed at his heart; no longer would he trouble himself about this arrogant girl; it was indeed scarcely worth the trouble to rack his brains as to what secret lay hidden in her cold gray eyes. the next day he met her again unexpectedly on the boulevard de courcelles. she wore the same simple dress in which he had seen her the first time at the concert, and walked very quickly without looking to the right or the left, like some one who has a significant aim and a fixed time before her. a little child, frightened by a large dog, slipped and fell down on the sidewalk, crying loudly. nikolai wished to pick it up. nita was before him. she picked up the child and asked if she had hurt herself. she had only scratched her hands and chin a little, but she was very dirty. she soiled nita's dress while she leaned close up to her in her four-year-old sobbing, childish fear. but nita did not seem to notice that, or, at least, to pay any attention to it, and calmed her with all kinds of caressing talk. then she wiped the child's face with her handkerchief, kissed her, and finally she took one of her hands, red with cold, in hers, and quite unembarrassed, pursued her way with the poorly dressed little thing to a cake-shop. there she seated the child at a table. the child drank chocolate from a large, thick cup which she had to hold with both hands; then she set down the cup with a sigh of deep satisfaction, and consumed a cake with the thoughtful slowness of a child unaccustomed to the enjoyment of such luxuries, who seeks to prolong it as long as possible, while nita looks at her pleasantly, nothing less than sentimental. nikolai's heart beat loud. he left his post as listener from fear that she would discover him at his lover's watch. for he was in love, that he now knew himself; he no longer denied it, for he knew better; he knew very well that the girl with the pale face and the brilliant eyes held the happiness of his life in her hands, that great, warm happiness for which his care-laden youth longed in vain. ix. there is a great uneasiness in the ladies' studio in the avenue frochot. in spite of its being merely the beginning of december, already many of the students have begun to think of the great yearly exhibition of sending to the salon. nita's sanctum has not caught the fever of acute striving for effect in the adjoining room. sophie still paints with the same conscientious industry and touching lack of skill at a skull, and nita--nita is quite sunk in the study of a new model, over which she is unusually enthusiastic. the model is none other than the brown-curled child whose acquaintance she recently made on the sidewalk when nikolai watched her. just now she has gone to look at the different attempts in the adjoining school, when she hears a short scream, and a rattling, banging noise in her room. "pardon me, ladies," says she, while she turns her head and listens; "if i am not mistaken something has come to grief in my room, probably my little lucca della robbia. what is it?" says she, opening the door of her studio. a memorable sight meets her eyes then. in the middle of the studio, her little hands clutching her temples with horror, stands a young girl with the face of ribera's maria egyptiaca, and stares down at a skull which, broken in two pieces, lies at her feet. "it is only my cousin mascha, who is afraid of the skull; she even threw it on the floor," says sophie, in her wonderfully phlegmatic manner, and with that she stoops down for the pieces to fit them together and put them in their place again. "oh! how can you touch the horrid thing?" says mascha, holding her hands over her eyes, and tapping her foot. "oh, oh!" "poor little thing, how she trembles!" says nita, compassionately, while she goes up to mascha. "throw your stupid skull in the fire, sophie. you see that the child cannot bear the sight of it." "that is very foolish; one should be over that at seventeen. it is very hard to get skulls," replies sophie, vexedly. but nita does not notice that. she has taken mascha in her arms, and caresses her like a mother who would calm an excited child. "so, dear heart, the ugly thing is gone. you can open your pretty eyes. poor little soul!" "fräulein von sankjéwitch is very good to you," now calls a young man's voice. nita looks up and perceives nikolai. evidently the little beauty is his sister. he bows, and turning to mascha once more, he says: "and now tell fräulein von sankjéwitch that you are sorry to have been so ill-bred." mascha has wiped the tears from her eyes; she looks at nita touchingly, thankfully; then smiling, with the tender roguishness which adds so much to the charm of her little personality, she says: "i am not sorry. you would not have been so kind to me if i had been polite, would you?" and with that she lays her arm somewhat shyly around nita's neck and presses her soft lips to the young artist's smooth cheeks. "i was beside myself," says she. "ah! i am so afraid of death! if only there was no dying!" "it is a peculiarity of hers. one must have a little patience with her in that direction," explains nikolai. "give us some tea, sophie. that will give the child something else to think of," says nita, without noticing nikolai's remark. to-day, also, she is strikingly stiff and cold to him, so that he asks himself: "what has she against me?" nevertheless, she warms somewhat in the course of conversation. the young man visibly gains ground with her. he is decidedly very agreeable in intercourse. he has the quiet manners, easily adapting themselves to circumstances, of a true gentleman. he talks well, without tasteless chattering. nita listens to him with interest, asks him all kinds of questions about russia, and, on the whole, treats him with the indifferent kindness of a fifty-year-old woman to a boy. the ladies in the next room have long left their work; twilight falls. still they talk. sophie is quiet for the most part, listens, comfortably and idly reclining in her easy-chair, to the conversation of the two persons who are dearest to her, and wonders at them both silently. but maschenka, whose mood has completely changed, and who has now become immoderately gay, is not at all content to play the _rôle_ of silent listener. every moment her trilling, childish laugh, or some strange little remark, interrupts nita and nikolai's earnest conversation, so that finally nikolai, who is always afraid that his sister will be misunderstood, remarks: "my little sister has lately been with relatives who were a little too cold and formal to understand her exaggeration. one must not be astonished if she is at times a little bit wild; she is like a little brook, long held captive by winter, which, after a little bit of sunshine has set it free, now doubly laughs and chatters and foams, because it is so happy to be free of the heavy, oppressive ice. are you not, little goose?" and he takes mascha by the chin. "do not make excuses because you have a charming sister," nita hereupon answers him. "i shall be glad if you will bring her to see me very soon again." * * * * * if nikolai's vexation at his sister's flight from arcachon very soon lost itself in tender emotion, on the contrary, the horror which sergei alexandrovitch felt at this headlong self-will was of a much more enduring quality. the tender, repentant letter with which maschenka begged the uncle from whose house she had fled to pardon her over-haste, sergei left unanswered. to nikolai's note which, joined in his sister's request, tried to excuse mascha's fault a little, and asked whether he might, after his father had left paris, again bring the child to arcachon, the old bureaucrat replied that there would be no talk of that. the condition of his nerves would not permit him a second time to undertake the oversight of such an unreliable being as mascha. in his opinion the best thing would be to send her to boarding-school. this was also nikolai's opinion under the circumstances. for the present a stay in an ordinarily strict school seemed to him decidedly more desirable for mascha than a continued existence with the jeliagins. he even succeeded in winning his father to this view, but when mascha learned what they planned for her future, she rebelled angrily, desperately, and with anxious, touching tenderness for so long that lensky, in spite of all his son's representations, gave way to her. he could not bear to see the little one unhappy. he formally begged her pardon, with caresses and endearing words, that he had proposed anything which had excited and vexed her. nikolai shrugged his shoulders and was powerless. but mascha laughed gayly, happy at her victory. how happy she was at that time--from morning till evening, happy! except for the little tear intermezzo, she had never been so happy as in the three weeks which passed between her arrival and her father's departure from paris. every morning he passed at his sister-in-law's house; usually he remained to lunch. he sent his pretty daughter all the wonderfully beautiful floral tributes which enthusiasts sent him, and besides that, indulged her with imprudent, immoderate generosity. again and again he turned to nikolai with the same: "get me something for the child; she is so bewitching when she is pleased. she rejoices like a gipsy!" "i have something for you, puss," said he, when he went to see her, after she had greeted him, and handed her a package done up in paper, usually an ornament that was much too costly for her youth. "ah! give it to me, papa," and then she tore off the wrapping with the active impatience of a young, playful kitten, and opened the parcel. lensky watched her good-naturedly with smiling expectation, like a great child that every day rejoices in playing the same trick--a sparkle of two dark blue eyes, a gay, penetrating cry of joy, and two soft, warm arms are thrown round his neck. but he presses his lips to the great, wonderfully beautiful eyes again and again, and murmurs something tender, incomprehensible, to the girl's curly hair. "really, do you love me much, papa?" said she once, and looked at him in astonishment piercingly at his moved face. "have you ever doubted it?" "yes, often," she nodded, earnestly. "i thought to love mutually with all one's heart was only for ordinary people like we others; but a great genius like you only tolerates one love, and sometimes is pleased without really returning it. but no; you really like me!" "oh! you foolish little monkey!" murmured he, and kissed each separate dimple in her soft, white, child's hands. sometimes he came at ten o'clock in the morning. at that time he frequently saw barbara in a spotted morning dress, creeping about the house armed with a duster, polishing and putting everything to rights. he never saw anna at such an early hour; at most, he heard her sharp voice wounding her mother by some sharp, insulting expression. not only did she never help her mother in her domestic activity, no, she shut herself up in her room in order not to see barbara about it. but whom lensky very often found busy about the house with madame jeliagin, was mascha. enveloped in a large blue apron, she appeared now here, now there, as zealously as gayly trying to assist her poor, sickly aunt; and what a capable, vigorous assistance! her firm young fingers arranged things quite differently from barbara's trembling hands. she climbed up on the furniture to remove cobwebs from the picture frames, she polished the mirrors and dusted the ornaments, practical and active as a housemaid by profession, and still laughing with gay, fairy-like grace, as a little princess, as if it were all a joke. all the servants worshipped her; even the weary, stupid, tormented old aunt jeliagin learned to love her. it would be hard not to love this quick, lively, impetuous, but always kind-hearted little girl; only the intolerable anna did not. but if one, on the one hand, could think of nothing more enchanting than the girl, glowing with happy, tender young life, on the other hand, one could hardly imagine anything more touching and noble than lensky in the hours passed with his little daughter. if he now, as soon as his nature was aroused, lost all restraint, and then the worst part of him showed itself rougher, and less vaguely than formerly--rougher than could be understood in a civilized man--on the other hand, as long as the evil in him slept, he showed himself nobler, more blameless than formerly in his best moments. what had formerly been united in him was now separated. nikolai, who frequently accompanied him to the avenue wagram, observed him in astonishment. this was not the same man who in the evening, greedily eating, and with cynical, twinkling eyes, sat between some pair of hysterical enthusiasts, to whom he permitted himself to say all that was coarse and familiar--the man with the hard, joyless laugh, the two-sided wit, the shameless scorn of men, and especially women. no; the lensky who in the morning took his pretty little daughter in his arms, was a pale, somewhat weary and sad man, a man with a hoarse but soft and rather low voice, a man who spoke little, but listened pleasantly, who was always ready to interest himself in the most foolish childishness. after lunch he usually remained an hour or so, and played with mascha. even his art he involuntarily changed for love of her. the wild fire with which he enslaved his concert audiences was perhaps lacking, but how tender, how delicate, how noble, became his playing if he felt the gaze of the child's eyes filled with tears and enthusiasm resting upon him. she might accompany him! ah! how proud she was if he called out a hearty word of praise to her in the midst of his playing! and there was no lack of opportunity to applaud her. frequently he let her play to him alone on the piano, listened to her with the greatest patience, yes, with true pleasure. he made little conscientious corrections, mingled with jests--really troubled himself seriously with her instruction. nikolai, as child and youth, had in vain tormented himself musically, only at length to separate _à l'aimable_ from the piano, the violin, and the 'cello. mascha, on the contrary, was incredibly talented in music. what others attained by weary study, she had inherited. the flexibility of her wrists, the smoothness of her touch, were something at which lensky could not cease to marvel. how they rejoiced in each other, father and child! the only hours of those three weeks disturbed by unrepulsable melancholy were, for mascha, those which she passed at her father's concerts. naturally, she never missed one; but, very pretty and tastefully dressed, sat now with colia, at other times with her aunt, in an especially good place, which was reserved for her, and listened attentively to every tone. in the hall there was no one--no, not even among the many professional violinists who envied him his triumphs--who had more plainly remarked the great change which began to take place in the genial virtuoso than his idolizing daughter. she felt it every time that he played falsely. she could have wept, her breath failed her, she looked around the hall, frightened and yet defiantly. but unconfusedly the parisians raved over even the falsest tones with the same enthusiasm. one kindled another with the same madly expressed animation, until at length mascha persuaded herself that she must have heard falsely from anxiety for her father, and, carried away by the noise, forgot all her grief. x. "they have come from félix with the dress for mademoiselle--oh, a wonder of a dress! the girl is waiting up-stairs," the maid calls out to mascha, who has just returned with nikolai from a walk in the champs elysées. it is the last day before lensky's departure. maschenka is very depressed. she has almost cried her eyes out over the approaching separation, and nikolai has taken her out-doors to distract her, and also so that she may not disfigure herself for the evening. an important event is before her for this evening. mascha is for the first time to appear in society as a young lady, for the first time to wear a real evening dress, a félix evening dress. madame jeliagin gives a _soirée_ in lensky's honor. she hopes that the charm which the great artist for the moment has for parisian society will suffice to at last once more fill her empty rooms. "yes, a dress, a true wonder of a dress," the maid had called out to mascha, and although the girl's eyes yet shone with recent tears, she cried out with joy at this message. throwing gay kisses to her brother, she runs quickly up the stairs, and bursts open the door of her room. "where is the dress--where? ah!!" indeed, a lovely dress, and how it fits! no, not quite; a little alteration must be made, declares the girl who brought it. "when one has the fortune to work for any one who has such a beautiful figure as mademoiselle, one must not be careless." beautiful figure! no one had ever yet told mascha that she had a beautiful figure. she turns her head on all sides to look at herself in the glass. for the first time she finds the mirror over her toilet table too small. her eyes dance, her finger-tips twitch for joy. incessantly she turns over the dress, discovering new beauties. "ah, it is superb! but will the seamstress finish the alteration in time?" she asks, anxiously. now all is arranged. the maid has thrown a red scarf of india cashmere around mascha's shoulders. she hurries down the stairs, bursts into the room, and throwing away the scarf, hurries up to her father and nikolai. "_eh bien!_" says she, and turns slowly around like a figure in a shop. "_eh bien!_" they are alone in the drawing-room, the two lenskys and the young girl. what joy to let herself be admired by father and brother without being at the same time submitted to anna's icy, depressing criticism! "i am quite ready on this side," she declares importantly, and points to her right arm, which is enveloped to the shoulder in a tan-colored glove, while the left is still bare. "so! well, i prefer the other side," says lensky, laughing. and in truth one can think of nothing more charming than this bare, round, slender arm, not statuesque, white as the arm of a married woman of thirty--no, even a trifle red on the upper part, but with such a bewitching dimple at the elbow, with such tiny blue veins around the wrist. "yes; i decidedly prefer it," repeated lensky, and pushes his daughter somewhat from him in order to observe her more particularly. nikolai also looks attentively at his sister, tries to make the necessary remarks, to criticise a little. but as she stands before him in her artistically simple white dress, her little fingers twitching with embarrassment, and with her large, anxious eyes seeking approval in his face which she awaited so securely and now cannot find, it really seems to him that never in his life has he met a lovelier young girl than mascha. what shoulders, what a figure, so beautifully rounded, without the immature thinness of other seventeen-year-old girls. and what is most charming in this unusual little being, on these plump, dazzling shoulders rests such a sweet, pale, little childish face, with such a tender, innocent mouth, with such indescribably pure eyes, looking out boldly and fearlessly at the world, so that the contrast is really painful. one feels that the girl has been desecrated by no grovelling curiosity, no passionate dreams; that she is perfectly unconscious of her physical maturity. "you are not as beautiful as your mother was," says lensky after awhile. "no one else is as beautiful; but that is not necessary," says mascha, now really troubled. "but--but do i not, then, please you at all?" "you foolish little goose, do you believe that?" says lensky, drawing his daughter to him. "we will not tease you any longer, eh, colia? we will at last tell her quite simply that she looks charming. yes," he repeated, holding her head down on his shoulder and stroking it, "you are charming, my little dove. you will certainly hear it often enough to-day, and later. why should i not enjoy the pleasure of being the first to say it to you? you are still a little bit tear-stained," adds he very gently. "poor little heart, poor angel! but it is becoming to you!" for the moment, mascha is so filled with childish desire for praise that she has no sense left for what is the dearest thing in the world for her--the tenderness of her father. "if i only had a cheval glass in my room," sighed she. "i really have not seen myself yet." and, exhilarated by her father's praise, she climbs up on a stool, and, turning her head to all sides, she tries to see herself as well as possible in the glass over the chimney. the chandelier sheds a golden light over her dark hair; the reflection of the fire flickers over her white dress. "father, colia," asks she, somewhat hesitatingly, "do you think that any one could ever fall in love with me?" just then "herr graf bärenburg," calls the servant, and opens the door. blushing to the roots of her hair, mascha springs down from the stool. bärenburg has only had time to wonder at a pair of very white shoulders in the fullest light, then to see a pair of tiny feet appear from a fragrant cloud of valenciennes and muslin, and jump down to the ground. "well, what do you say to my vain daughter, count bärenburg?" asks lensky, gayly, to help mascha over her embarrassment. bärenburg shrugs his shoulders with an approving expression, and replies: "that i have never seen a pair of smaller feet, that is all." lensky laughs, nikolai frowns, and maschenka, with a quick gesture, picks up the formerly discarded red cashmere scarf from the ground and wraps herself in it. her bare shoulders suddenly annoy her. she is ashamed. "only so that you will not take cold," jokes lensky, and teasingly draws the red scarf together under her chin. "she appears in the world to-day for the first time as a young lady," says he, turning to bärenburg, and looks at him significantly. does the conceited austrian really remark how charming his little girl is? the conceited austrian notices it only too well. "the first evening dress. i congratulate you," says he, bowing respectfully to mascha. "i had no idea--" now begins mascha. "that you would have the misfortune to be obliged to endure me at dinner to-day," bärenburg completes her sentence. "mademoiselle jeliagin wrote me asking, if i were not engaged, to dine _en famille_ at her mother's. i was already engaged"--with a side glance at mascha--"but i excused myself. have i perhaps made a mistake in the date?" "oh, no!" replies mascha. "now i remember, anna told me some gentleman would come to dinner, and i was vexed that my last dinner with papa would be spoiled." "mascha!" says nikolai, shocked. and lensky says, half vexed, half laughingly: "my daughter looks like a grown girl; really, she is, i believe, twelve years old at the most." "papa!" says mascha, blushing hotly. "i did not know that it was to be count bärenburg when i was vexed." "so, and that alters the case," laughs bärenburg. "it seems so," replies nikolai. but mascha, observing that they are making merry over her _naïveté_, suddenly becomes very dignified and says: "it stands to reason that a man who has saved my brother's life should not be a mere casual acquaintance to me." then, becoming defiant from embarrassment, she slips her little hand in nikolai's arm and adds: "i love my brother dearly." then the jeliagins enter the room, the temperature falls a couple of degrees, the atmosphere becomes icy. they look strangely: barbara in her faded lilac dress and imitation diamonds. as for anna, she is, in her cold, blond manner, without doubt very handsome, and her black tulle gown becomes her somewhat too tall and slender figure wonderfully. but although she is but twenty-six, her appearance has already that not to be described sharpness, pointedness, dryness, the sign of girls whose bloom begins to wither before it has yet found opportunity to fully unfold. but without criticising her cousin's charms, mascha only calls out enthusiastically and childishly: "oh, anna, how lovely you look--oh, how lovely! what a shame that i am not old enough to wear black!" "do not act as if you had never seen a well-dressed woman before," anna whispers to her impatiently. "you behave like a village girl." and mascha blushes and lowers her head. during this skirmish between the two cousins, madame jeliagin has welcomed bärenburg in the most friendly manner; now anna stretches out her hand with the manner of an empress conferring a favor. "it is very nice in you, count, to have drawn a mark through our old cotillon quarrel." and turning to the others, she explains: "this autumn in spaa, at a ball of the marquise d'arly, i had no favor left for count bärenburg. he--h-m!--did me the honor to be mortally offended at it." bärenburg, who has forgotten the whole affair as completely as the date of shakespeare's birth, bows deeply, and murmurs something. suddenly anna turns critically to her cousin. "but, marie," she exclaims, looking at the thick string of pearls around mascha's round throat, "what were you thinking of to adorn yourself with wax pearls like an indian?" "wax pearls?" burst out mascha, indignantly. "they are the pearls which our dear dead empress gave papa for mamma once when he played at court. they are wonderful pearls!" "i had already noticed them. i have seldom seen such beautiful ones," says bärenburg. "my mother possesses a similar string, but only wears them on great occasions." "my mamma wore them day and night, from the hour when papa hung them around her neck," announces mascha, cordially. "mamma told me at first she was frightened at the gift, and said pearls mean tears; then papa kissed the pearls and replied: 'yes, but tears of joy.' do you remember, papa?" asks she, looking up at him. "yes," says he, shortly. "and when, two years before her death, she hung the pearls round my neck, she also kissed them, and said, with her dear smile: 'do not forget, maschenka, they are tears of joy!' since then i have never parted with them." "that is all very pretty and poetic," replies anna, condescendingly, "but as you cannot tell this touching commentary to your splendor to every one, i would advise you to take off the pearls for this evening. it is absolutely unsuitable for a girl of your age to wear such costly ornaments. you are, without that, dressed absurdly elegantly--_c'est d'un goût douteux!_" "take off my pearls!" calls out mascha, unspeakably vexed at anna's condescending tone, with a violence which plainly betrays the dangerous vehemence of her nature inherited from her father. "no, never! never!" she repeats, seizing the necklace with both hands. "i would rather stay in my room the whole evening and not show myself, if you are afraid i might shame you." a moment before, lensky felt an almost uncontrollable desire to throw something at anna's head, but mascha's burst of rage has a subduing effect on his own excitement. not for anything in the world would he have his daughter appear to disadvantage. "but, maschenka," says he, gently, laying his hand on hers, "collect yourself. anna does not mean badly. in the end it is quite indifferent whether an insignificant little thing like you has a black or a white neckband on. restrain yourself, my little dove. do not forget that you are a guest here." a stern word would, perhaps, have steeled her. lensky's gentleness spoils everything. "ah! i am everywhere only a guest, and no longer at home anywhere," says she. tears came to her eyes. she tried hard to be mistress of herself, choked down what she could; her unpractised seventeen-year-old self-restraint does not endure, and suddenly bursting into convulsive sobs, she leaves the room. an unpleasant silence follows. anna boldly displays her vexation, old madame jeliagin smiles sweetly and politely into air, lensky looks angry, and colia murmurs excusingly: "she is very over excited. she cannot console herself for the parting from you this time, father." "yes, yes, i know," says lensky. "poor child! no self-control--no self-control." and turning directly to bärenburg, he adds: "she lost her mother three years ago, just when she needed her most, and since then she has been, so to speak, left to herself. but she is a good child--a very good child." "shall i perhaps go up and look after her?" asks madame jeliagin, coaxingly, of her brother-in-law. "no, no, aunt, let me go," says colia, hastily preventing. "i know her better than you. i usually succeed quickly in calming her. she really deserves to stay in her room, and she will be ashamed to come down again; but if you will let me, i still will bring her. she has looked forward so to this evening!" "what would you do if your sister had behaved like marie?" anna whispers to count bärenburg. he knits his brows in lazy consideration. "h-m! h-m! the same that nikolai did--run after her to console her," replies he, slowly. "that is, granted that my sister were as charming as your cousin, which she is not." xi. except for a few trifles, the dinner is prettily served, abundant and good. the mood prevailing leaves so much the more to be desired. lensky, who is vexed that maschenka has made a scene before the "stupid, arrogant austrian," says nothing. old madame jeliagin is consumed with anxiety lest the service be broken. mascha is awkward and shy as an eight-year-old child who is ashamed of her naughtiness. only anna feels thoroughly at ease, for it always has an exhilarating effect upon her to sit between two handsome and polite young men, as to-day between nikolai and bärenburg; but the latter looks quite uninterruptedly over at mascha. "a charming creature, this mascha," he thinks to himself. it pleases him to repeat her strange name to himself. "yes, a charming creature. what a complexion, what a charming little mouth, and what a delightful expression, changing incessantly from petulance to moving tenderness, in her eyes! what shoulders! what a shame!" yes, what a shame to marry marie lensky. he could not think of it, but--why should he not be a little pleasant to her? what count bärenburg understands as being "a little pleasant," others would describe as paying desperate court to a girl. but he sees nothing of the sort, but takes the situation poetically. "if only this silly anna would not be so unbearably attentive!" thinks he, and still looks secretly over at mascha. she now stands near lensky, before the mantel, pale, and with a treacherous redness of the heavy eyelids. with a kind but very earnest face, bending down to her, holding one of her small hands between his large ones, her father speaks very gently but impressively to her, evidently reproves her, and in a strange, melodious language, which goes to bärenburg's heart, although he understands not a word of it, the wonderful russian tongue which, like no other, contains and reflects the whole character of the people for whom it serves as expression. after lensky has finished his admonition, maschenka, innocently unembarrassed, stretches out her arms to her father, and kisses him. bärenburg is thrilled. meanwhile, lensky, gently reproving her, says in french: "and now behave like a sensible being, mascha. so! sit up straight, and play something for us, now, before the people come." "but papa!" "yes, no evasions, only play. rely on me, you may venture it," says lensky. "i have been enough ashamed of you to-day, and, for a change, would like to be proud of you. sit down--my heart--i take the risk; it will go!" and with that he raised the piano lid himself. "the a minor rondo of mozart!" for one instant she hesitated, then the wish to distinguish herself before bärenburg, to please her father, comes to her. she plays, and how beautifully she plays! as if electrified, bärenburg rises and goes up to the piano. he has a great love for good music. the a minor rondo is his express favorite. in this composition of universal sadness, in which the purest artist soul which ever came down to us from heaven weeps over the frivolity of an entire century, mascha's still immature but always tender and delicately shaded mastery is especially noticeable. "that was entrancing," calls out bärenburg, with true enthusiasm. "you are a god-gifted artist!" "that is she; i heard her without," suddenly a deep, old woman's voice joins energetically in his praise. the first of the ladies invited for the evening has appeared. she is a very handsome old lady, an old lady with gay, mocking, and still good-natured, sparkling blue eyes which betray her irish origin--a woman whom calumny has never ventured to touch, although she has for thirty years been one of the "influentials" of europe, one of the two or three women for whom lensky feels respect, lady banbury. "i congratulate you on your daughter, lensky," says she, greeting the artist cordially. "so this is the fat little baby whom i used to carry about in st. petersburg. i am very glad to see you again, my child." and lady banbury gives her hand to mascha. but when mascha, with a shy courtesy, wishes to draw it to her lips, the old lady says: "i grudge the leather your fresh lips; let me embrace you, that is, if it is not unpleasant for you to kiss an old woman who loved your mother very dearly. ah! good evening, nickolai. you here also, charley?" to bärenburg. then, at length, remembering the circumstance that she is really not lensky's but his sister-in-law's guest, she turns to the latter. strange, all the truly distinguished ladies who are present this evening commit the same, perhaps somewhat voluntary, error--they have all come on lensky's account merely; they come early, in simple toilets. all have a pleasant word for mascha, tease lensky with some ancient reminiscence, and mascha is pleased with their charm, with the gay mood which they have brought with them, with the great respect which they show her father. sonia comes, but not nita. it is a great disappointment for nikolai. he has not yet ceased to inquire of sophie for her friend's health, when a large, stout, handsome, painted blonde enters, a woman with too bare shoulders and too long train, a woman the sight of whom has the effect of the medusa's head upon all the other women. "how does she come here?" ask the other ladies. "how does she come here?" they ask each other oftener and oftener, as, one after the other, a procession of brilliant social ambiguities file in--a cosmopolitan battalion of lensky enthusiasts, recruited from the highest circles. men appear sparsely. they form scarcely a third part of the numerous guests. lensky has been playing for more than an hour. the women crowd around him so that he has scarcely room to move his arm. his eyes wander about him. he sees a confusion of bare necks, of brilliant eyes, of half-parted lips. the sight goes to his head. the most insane flatteries are repeated to him. he feels twenty years younger; a triumphant insolence overpowers him. in a concert hall, where the resonance is better, where the public is more critical, he exerts himself with all the force of his powerful nature; but here, in this narrow room, where nothing can be distinctly heard, surrounded by an audience of musically ignorant women, he plays like an intoxicated person. the air becomes ever more oppressive. one person is boundlessly unhappy this evening. it is mascha. totally ignorant of what her duties as hostess may prescribe, she is incessantly corrected by her cousin, pushed about, has the feeling of being in every one's way, and while she, quite unknown as she is, creeps through the crowd assembled in the adjoining rooms, she hears remarks about her father, his playing, his relations to women, which send the blood to her cheeks, although she only half understands the most. at length lensky has laid down his violin. all the respectable women have withdrawn. maschenka has helped them find their wraps. most of them were very pleasant; some kissed her good-by, some even asked nikolai to bring his sister to see them--but not very urgently. if dear natalie were still alive, why then they would be delighted to see this charming mascha, but to be forced to take these unbearable jeliagins into the bargain--that one must consider! the lensky enthusiasts have remained. madame jeliagin has invited them to partake of light refreshments. mascha tried to help her, and had the misfortune to upset a cup of tea, whereupon, for the tenth time this evening, she is bidden to "get out of the way." depressed and namelessly unhappy, she stands among the guests, not knowing where to turn, when bärenburg, coming up to her, remarks: "how pale you look! it must be frightfully fatiguing to be hostess on such occasions, especially if one is not accustomed to the task. come into the adjoining room, it is cooler there, and rest a little." he gives her his arm and leads her into the adjacent drawing-room. many guests have already found the way here; it is not especially secluded here, but enough so that the sympathetic pair can talk apart and undisturbed, if not unobserved. he leads her to a divan which is partly concealed by a miniature thicket of palms and ferns. "will you not have an ice? it will refresh you," says he, and beckons a servant. maschenka takes an ice, tastes it, and pushes it away. "you are evidently very tired," remarks bärenburg compassionately. "it is my first evening in society," sighs mascha. "i looked forward to it so, but if society is always as tedious as to-day--" she sighs inconsolably. "great assemblies of people are always disagreeable," he answers. "one can at first not find among the crowd the people one seeks, and must not stay long with them when one has at length found them. at such routs i mostly spend my whole energy in keeping from treading on ladies' trains and being discovered yawning by the hostess. but this evening an exceptional pleasure has been afforded us----" "do not speak of it," says mascha. "my father's playing has given you no pleasure this evening." bärenburg pulls his mustache. "your father's playing is almost too grand; it has a paralyzing effect in a drawing-room," he murmurs. "ah, no, it is not that. you should only hear him play when we are quite alone in the same room. oh! then it is beautiful enough to move one to tears; but this evening i scarcely recognize him." maschenka interrupts herself and lowers her head. he is very sorry for her in her wounded, childish pride. he feels the necessity of distracting her in some manner. a brilliant thought comes to him. "before i forget it," says he, "would the skin of the identical bear in whose arms nikolai almost perished, give you any pleasure? i possess it." "oh!" says mascha, jubilant, "an indescribable pleasure!" she gives him her hand. just then anna, with two very beautiful and elegant englishwomen, goes through the room. bärenburg rises and goes up to them. mascha waits for him to return to her. no; he gives his arm to one of the englishwomen, and escorts them out with anna. mascha creeps away. she seeks her father, colia--any one who really cares for her. she looks through the portière into the smoking-room. the whole room is full of smoke; suddenly she hears a laugh which she does not know, rough, harsh. she looks through the smoke. there sits lensky in a low chair. now she sees him plainly, sees him as she had never seen him before. his face is very red. he laughs to himself and strikes his knee with a coarse gesture. he is telling some racy story, and with an unpleasant glance presses the hand of a woman who sits near him. how they all crowd round him! mascha turns away. when nikolai, who has been very busy assisting his aunt all the evening to do the honors, resting from his labors, stands with sonia in the vestibule, he hears the light rustle of a silk dress. he looks up. there, up the stairs, with dragging feet, deeply lowered head, and hand resting heavily on the balustrade, goes a little white figure. "maschenka," calls nikolai in russian, "is anything the matter?" "no!" answers a voice choked with defiance and grief. "will you not at least wait until father goes?" asks colia. the little form quivers, a half-suppressed sob escapes her, then she says shortly, violently: "no." a half-hour later all is quiet, the last guests have vanished, the servants extinguish the lights. xii. "where is mascha?" asks lensky, as nikolai helps him into his overcoat. "she has retired. will you go up to her room?" "no, it is too late," says lensky, frowning, and adds: "do you object to walking, colia? a stroll has charms for me. i never walk in the daytime, for every street boy runs after me; that is vexatious." nikolai himself was pleased to breathe some fresh air after the close rooms. lensky was in an elevated mood. with head somewhat thrown back, overcoat open, with swinging arms, he walked near his son. not far from the house two belated wanderers met them. they started at sight of the virtuoso. "ah, lensky!" they exclaimed, and stood still. when lensky looked at them smilingly, although they were not personally acquainted with him, they took off their hats as though he were a crowned head. lensky bowed politely, graciously. "it is too absurd," he remarked, walking on. "not even at two o'clock in the morning can one walk on the street without being recognized. i believe bismarck and i have the best-known faces in europe." scarcely had he said this when he felt how laughable it was; he is vexed at it, and, as always after his great or small triumphs, now, when the momentary intoxication of it begins to wear off, an embarrassing, suffocating, quite humiliating feeling overcomes him. all at once he stands still. nikolai looks at him. he is frightened at the tormented expression of the artist's pale face. "are you not well, father?" asks he, taking him by the arm, anxious lest a new attack of giddiness, had overcome him. "no, no, there is nothing the matter with me." they had reached the end of the champs elysées. "stop a little," says lensky. "sit down on the bench--no, not that one near the light; here in the shadow--and let us talk, that is, if you are not sleepy." "i? far from it, father. but you! remember you leave at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. you should rest." "no; i can sleep to-morrow on the train. sit down." nikolai does as his father requests. for a while they are both silent, then lensky begins: "now i think of it, what was the matter with the hysterical enthusiast who fainted that time at my concert in eden? mascha told me of her. i thought she was invited this evening." "she was invited," replied nikolai. "so!" murmured lensky. "and she did not think it worth the trouble to come?" "she was ill." "excuse!" says lensky. after awhile he begins again. "i was vexed that she did not come. i asked after her. mascha is quite in love with her. who is she?" "fräulein von sankjéwitch." "sankjéwitch, sankjéwitch? is she a pole?" "no; her father was a sclavonian, her mother was of a bohemian family." "so, h-m! you have seen her often?" he looks penetratingly at nikolai. "yes." "and are you as charmed with her as our little curly-head?" "i find her very charming," murmurs nikolai, softly. "in what a tone you say that!" lensky lays his hand on his son's arm. "you are in love, eh?" nikolai is silent. lensky laughs. "h-m! h-m! it is the first time that i have ever discovered you in any serious enthusiasm. tell me, now you should be already decided, have you any intentions?" "what do you mean?" asks nikolai, hoarsely. "just what i say." in this moment nikolai feels almost a kind of horror for his father. "you cannot know of whom you speak," says he, icily; "it is a question of a young girl of very good family." "i know very well of whom i speak," replies lensky, vexed at his son's admonition. "it is a question of a young artist who, separated from her family, goes her own way. i cannot possibly expect of such a gifted exception that she will be restrained by the same prejudices as any little goose." the blood rushes to nikolai's cheeks. "i would be in despair if i believed that she thought herself above such prejudices," says he. "laughable," said the elder, unconvinced. then looking askance at his son: "h-m! you seem to have taken it greatly to heart. if you carry such views with you through life, i congratulate you; you will have much suffering. but i pain no one willingly. if i had known that you--i would have been silent. i will not deprive you of your illusions; no one should do that for any man. heavens! what would men be without illusions! they would creep on all fours. i am no longer far from that. but let us not speak of me; it is better that we speak of you. only rave calmly to the blue air if it pleases you. i envy you the capacity." "i have not the slightest intention of raving to the air," replies nikolai, calmly, but still somewhat stiffly and coldly. "i have a fixed purpose before me." "you wish to marry?" lensky exclaims. "yes," says nikolai, shortly. "marry at your age! pardon me, but i never thought you so unpractical." an unpleasant pause follows. nikolai at length begins in a trembling voice: "father, when you look back upon your whole life, even now a long one, what is there in it more beautiful than the first years of your marriage?" lensky's face twitches with a painful, scarcely to be mastered emotion; he breathes difficultly. then he murmurs bitterly: "you would be a poor surgeon, colia. you have a heavy hand, a very heavy hand. it pains." nikolai is shocked. he would like to make good his awkward roughness, to say something loving, tender to his father. nothing occurs to him. then lensky suddenly turns to him and says: "if you should really meet such a girl as your mother was, and she takes you, then hold her fast in your arms and never part from her; carry her over every stone which might bruise her feet, protect her from every too hot ray of sunlight, from every too cold breath of air, which might harm her, and kneel down before her every evening, and thank her for the happiness which she gives you. but i do not believe that you will find her--she is not to be found!" "i am very sorry that you have not met fräulein von sankjéwitch, father," begins nikolai, in a warmer, changed tone. "so am i," replies lensky, shortly. "how does she look? a beauty, naturally--that is, you think her one." "no, father, no beauty; but so charming, so lovely." "h-m! and her manner? if a lady of society wanders on parnassus, she is usually particularly genial. is she a decided artist?" asks lensky, lighting a cigarette. "a--well, yes, a little--not very much, but a little," answers nikolai, "and only in the best signification of the word. if you learn to know her you will be just as charmed with her as i!" "so!--h-m! that is a little bit strong," says lensky. his voice this time sounds decidedly more kindly, and he pulls the young man's ear. "i am convinced of it," asserts nikolai, boldly. "you have never seen such a girl, so full of grace in every movement, and still with such an interesting abruptness; peculiar, full of spontaneity; one moment gloomy, repellant almost to rudeness, then again so kindly cordial, so truly womanly and compassionate; all against a background of incurable sadness--in short, charming, and comparable with nothing else in this world!" "there has never been any one similar," lensky assures him earnestly, and adds: "see, see how you thaw; you grow quite animated, dreamer." he is silent awhile, then he begins again: "does she receive much company?" "no; she sees as few people as possible." "ah!" says lensky, with the triumphant expression of a hunter who has at length found the trace which he has long sought. "she does not go into society, because conventional society is too tedious, too unmeaning for her," nikolai hastily assures him. "they all say that," replies lensky, shaking his head. "my dear child, as long as i thought that it was only some passing fancy of yours, i was perfectly ready to let you have your way. but when it is a question of something so important as your marriage, i must earnestly beg you to be on your guard, to look into the matter more closely." "but, father," says nikolai, horrified, "all that i have told you should certainly prove to you----" "it proves to me that you are intensely in love," says lensky, good-naturedly. "for the rest, it points to all sorts of things which you have overlooked." once again nikolai wishes to interrupt his father, but without noticing this, the latter continues: "from all you say, she is much too interesting, much too attractive, for a girl of good family, who lives alone with an ex-favorite governess. and then, from whence comes the mysterious unsimilarity of her mood, the incurable sadness which forms the fundamental tone of her being? inquire, colia. if you come upon any trace of an unhappy love, a sad disappointment, then i will own myself satisfied, then all is explained. but if you discover nothing, then--then, be cautious. on the risk of falling completely from your favor, i would wager that she has secretly experienced some fearful shock--in a word, that she has a past." "it is not possible!" exclaims nikolai. "do not be so violent," lensky replies. "you are not the first young man who has asserted that. besides, i will not condemn her. not the most faultless are the best. human nature is not different. i would only be naturally very sorry if you, in spite of such a hateful circumstance, still would persist in your resolution." "you need not fear, father," bursts out nikolai, harshly. "i would never resolve to marry a dishonored, degraded girl. i would rather kill myself." "those are great words," says lensky. "they are words which express my convictions. i should not have let myself be drawn into speaking of my feelings to you. you see all in the same light." "in the light of my experience, colia, in the light of truth. i cannot help it if the world is as it is. the depth of our whole nature is mire, and nothing but mire!" "do not speak so inconsolably, father; i cannot bear it," says nikolai, quite supplicatingly. "there is much that is beautiful everywhere, also in your life. think of your art!" "of my art?" says lensky. "of my art!" he repeats with indescribably bitter emphasis. "do you think that i do not know the condition of that? an art whose highest achievement is to rob a few hysterical women of the miserable remnant of respectability which they had. no; the effect of my art--what is left of it--is not calculated to restore me my lost idealism. i am sorry to have pained you; the last evening we should have passed comfortably together. it vexes me not to have learned to know her. if i had seen her, i could have told you exactly whether she is a wife for you or not." all the time it is to nikolai as if a cold, slippery monster which he could not shake off sat upon his breast. "and have you in your whole life never been mistaken in a woman, never too lowly estimated her virtue?" asks he, somewhat sharply. lensky looks thoughtfully before him. suddenly he shudders, then rising, he says, with the tone of a man who would fain break off a useless and painful conversation: "i am cold, colia; come home. why thresh mere straw?" he takes a few steps, then looking in colia's face, he stands still. "heavens, how sad you look! put everything that i have said to you out of your head--everything. i am mistaken; let us agree that i am mistaken, and that i have a quite false view of life. roses are not rooted in the earth; angels throw them to us from heaven. believe all that you will, but show me a gay face for farewell!" he lays his heavy, warm hand on the young man's shoulder; his voice sounds hoarse and broken, while he continues: "yes, yes, we will agree that i am mistaken, that something beautiful is before you. see, of the three things which were dearest to me, i have crushed two--your mother and my genius. my children are left to me; i wish to see them happy!" xiii. the sunbeam which wakes mascha every morning lies broad and full on the carpet in her bedroom, creeps caressingly on her pillow, strokes her round white cheeks, but she sleeps soundly and sweetly, like a very young child who sleeps heavily after a great grief. there is a knock at her door, first gentle, then louder. "maschenka, my little dove, it is i," calls a dear, well-known voice. she does not hear. softly lensky turns the knob, hesitates a moment on the sill. he approaches the little white bed; there she lies sleeping so innocently, so peacefully. a touchingly sad expression is on her slightly swollen eyelids, her red lips. how long and thick are the black lashes resting on her cheeks! "maschenka--sluggard--lazy-bones!" calls he, teasingly, and strokes her cheeks. "ah!" with the short, soft cry of a bird frightened out of its sleep, she starts up. "you, papa!" "yes, i--who else? i have knocked twice at your door without any answer. if one sleeps as soundly as you, my little witch, one should certainly bolt one's door." "ah! i am not afraid of thieves, only of ghosts, and they creep through key-holes," says maschenka, laughing, and he laughs and strokes her cheeks. "childish one!" murmurs he. "how dear, how beautiful that you came!" says she, tenderly, and presses her lips to his hand. "and did you think that i would go away without taking leave of you?" asked he. she turns her head slightly away from him. "ah! i did not know," murmured she. "how should i? yesterday i no longer knew whether you really loved me. you were so busy with all those insolent women who swarmed around you. ah! papa, how can you associate with that rabble?" "that does not concern you at all," says he, looking at her quite harshly, while he this time, as his old custom was, conceals his embarrassment behind defiant obstinacy. then he notices the significant traces of the difficultly vanquished sadness of the past night in the little childish face, and when maschenka, frightened at her father's roughness, starts anxiously and shyly, the greatest anxiety overcomes him. "how pale you are, my angel; is anything the matter?" "no, papa--no--only--i was ragingly unhappy yesterday, and then i dreamed so horribly." "what then?" "it was oppressive; and i was followed by a horrible monster, and when i called to you, you were busy with--with other strange men, and did not look round--and in my mortal fear i called to mother--in my dream i had forgotten that she is dead--and then i awoke." "my poor little dove, my poor, orphaned little dove!" murmurs he. "who can replace your mother to you? that was a fearful loss. there is no second mother like her." for a while both are silent, then mascha asks: "how long shall you be away?" "i shall come back to paris in june." "then--then you will be unendingly loving to me again for two days; and after that leave me alone again?" "no, no; then i give up the wandering life, mascha. it is the last time. it is only to win a princely dowry for you that i go about the world." "father, if you knew how willingly i would resign your wealth!" said she, very softly. he laughs somewhat constrainedly. "no, no; you must be wealthy. for this time all must remain so; do not make my heart heavy; for believe me that i long greatly for a calm, comfortable home, that it pains me to part with you. you have grown fearfully into my heart, you defiant, tender little curly-head, you! but how long will you stay with me, my little white lamb? who knows? when i return i will find a dreamy, sentimental mascha, a quite different----" "papa, you will be late!" now calls nikolai from below. "is it time?" "high time. you will miss the train." "adieu, papa!" he bends over her. she throws both arms round his neck, kisses him, sobbing violently. "farewell!" "my heart, my soul," murmurs he. "write to me very, very often." he has kissed her again and again; at last he has left her. at the door he turns round to her once more, sees her in the snow-white bed, with her tender, tearful face, with her sun-kissed hair, breathes once more the atmosphere of the room slightly perfumed with violets. carrying away with him an impression of childish purity and innocence, he goes out. [illustration] xiv. two or three days after the elder lensky's departure, mascha, who is busy dressing for dinner, is told that a large package has been left for her. immediately suspecting what it is, she summons the maid to bring it to her. "it is a huge package," the maid sighs while she drags it in and lays it down before the chimney in mascha's room. "where are the scissors, lis, please?" mascha dances with excitement while she cuts the string in all directions. her suspicion has not deceived her: the skin of a remarkable bear, with immense head and mighty paws, comes to view. in his horrible open jaws the monster holds a bouquet of white roses and a note as follows: "a disarmed enemy, fräulein marie lensky, for friendly remembrance of an adventure in katerinowskoe, and "your humble servant, "k. bärenburg." beside herself with delight, mascha immediately hurries into anna's room, and with sparkling eyes calls out: "anna, anna, please come--see--count bärenburg--he has----" "well, what about him?" asks anna, indifferently. "he has sent me the bear-skin, you know, the skin of the bear which almost strangled colia. it must have been a splendid bear. it has a head--a head----" "ah! that is very nice," replies anna, without moving. "but i beg you, hurry a little with your dressing, and another time do not run into the hall with floating hair and in your dressing-sack, like a prima donna in the fifth act." "h-m, she is jealous!" thinks mascha. and shrugging her shoulders, with a triumphant smile on her fresh lips, she returns to her room, where she first completes her interrupted toilet, then crouches on the floor and sinks herself in contemplation of the bear. then anna comes in to her--anna, with quite a changed, sweet face. "vinegar with sugar, we know that," thinks mascha to herself, without rising from her strange position. "ah! that is the skin," says anna, with condescending interest. "yes," says mascha, slowly rising, with a humorous, quite childish impertinence, which would have forced a laugh from every unprejudiced spectator. "that is the skin, those are the flowers, there is the note." "and you, indeed, take that for a proof of great admiration?" lisps anna. mascha nods defiantly. "you are very inexperienced, my little mascha," says anna. "you always have such a hostile manner to me that it is unusually hard for me to--h-m! how shall i express myself?--give you the enlightenment which in a certain manner, as your relative, i owe you. you do not know men as i do, dear child." "have you had very sad experience in this direction, poor anna?" sighs mascha, compassionately. "i have had no experience, but i have observed," says anna. "bärenburg is a man from whom one must guard one's self. he has a new flame every moment, whom he overwhelms with the most poetic attentions until--one day he no longer greets her on the street. i am very sorry to diminish your pleasure, but i must warn you." "h-m!" says mascha, in the same tone of humorous impertinence; and copying anna's glance with photographic exactness, she says: "my dear anna, would you like very much to marry count bärenburg yourself? _seniores, priores_--i withdraw." "one cannot speak to you," says anna, and rises, blushing with anger. but maschenka holds her back; her impertinence suddenly truly pains her. how indelicate it was to reproach anna with her age! as if she could help it! "anna," says she, cordially, "i did not mean badly; i only wanted to laugh. but tell me, i will not repeat it, do you like count bärenburg? i will certainly not stand in your way." instead of being touched by this childish sacrifice, anna stares arrogantly at her cousin from head to foot. "i can, perhaps, put up with your rivalry," says she. "calm yourself, _moutarde après dîner, ma chère_! if i had wished to marry bärenburg, i could have had him this autumn in spaa. he is as indifferent to me as that"--with a snap of her fingers. "but show me your hands; _comme vous avez les ongles canailles_. i always tell you you should not practise so much; you already have nails like a professional pianist--_c'est très mal porté_." * * * * * the jeliagins have paid mascha a little attention. to-day, at lunch, she found on her plate a box-ticket for the porte st. martin. it has long been her most ardent wish to go to the theatre. "you can invite sonia and fräulein von sankjéwitch. nikolai will accompany you. it would be better that you dine with fräulein von sankjéwitch," proposes her aunt, "if that suits you." "oh, it suits, naturally it suits!" cries mascha, and springs up to embrace her aunt. "do not make so much of this trifle," says madame jeliagin, a trifle ashamed. "it is not worth the trouble. i rack my brains often enough to think how one can amuse you. but with girls like you, who are too old to play with dolls, too young to go into society, it is hard." "am i, then, really too young, auntie? i was seventeen the fifth of last december," says mascha, looking longingly and coaxingly at barbara. barbara jeliagin is silent with embarrassment, but anna speaks. "your age alone is not the thing. you have no _tenue_, are not sufficiently lady-like. you must accustom yourself to more repose and self-command before one can think of taking you into society without fearing to be embarrassed by you." this kind remark mascha receives silently, but with burning cheeks. madame jeliagin, who has learned quite against her will to love mascha, perhaps because mascha's obliging lovability is the only bit of sunshine which has warmed her for years, pats her kindly on the shoulder, and says: "it is not so dreadful. to be old and sedate is no art; that comes of itself." and mascha wipes the tears from her eyes, and again is happy over her ticket, inquires what she shall wear in honor of this festive occasion, and is only sorry that one visits the porte st. martin in street costume. the box ticket is for the next evening. all arranges itself splendidly. nita and sonia dine with the brother and sister in the avenue murillo. the little dinner is excellent and colia happy. but after the meal, when they are about to break up, mascha notices that she has left her opera-glass at home. great despair! sonia has none, and nita's is really not enough for three shortsighted persons. they decide to take the roundabout way through the avenue wagram and get the glass. "i will come immediately; i will not keep you waiting a moment," says mascha, gayly. but scarcely has she entered the hall when she perceives that something unusual is going on. the vestibule is brilliantly lighted, several ladies' wraps and men's overcoats are there. mascha's large eyes become gloomy. "and i thought they wished to give me a pleasure," thinks she, angrily. "they only got me out of the way because they were ashamed of me." then, turning to the servant who appears, she asks ruthlessly, directly: "who is dining here?" "the ladies anthropos, count bärenburg, monsieur d'eblis, prince trubetzkoy----" but maschenka hears no more. "bärenburg!" her passionate heart beats loudly. "_moutarde après dîner_ it may be; but, in any case, anna seems not to so lowly estimate my insignificant youthfulness as rival, as she acts thus," thinks she to herself. "but we will see, anna, we will see!" and maschenka sets her teeth and clenches her tiny fist. xv. the next morning she makes a great scene for her aunt and cousin, reproaches them violently and with bitter tears for that she is unlovingly pushed about and repressed, that she plays the _rôle_ of a cinderella in their house; that she cannot endure living with people who do not love her, etc. barbara alexandrovna bows her head with shame at these reproofs. anna, on the contrary, opposes the anger of her passionate, excited cousin with icy calm. "before all," she begins, "i would beg to remark to you that we are not at all obliged to put up with your rudeness. i do not condescend to answer your ill-bred accusations, for i think without that you will be ashamed of them in a calmer frame of mind. but for the rest, i tell you very plainly, if life with us does not suit you, you can take refuge in a boarding-school." if mascha had possessed shrewdness enough to declare herself agreed with the plan of boarding-school, it would have placed the jeliagins in great embarrassment, on account of the pecuniary aid which they received from mascha's stay with them. but she did not think of that. a boarding-school is for her something horrible--a prison, where she must give up all possibility of seeing bärenburg again. and so she submits, shyly, shame-facedly. when they tell her that, for the third time this week, she is to dine alone, she takes it with such sad, helpless submission that it pains her aunt, and she proposes to ask nikolai to share her solitary meal; perhaps he may be disengaged. "yes, that would be nice," says mascha. and completely reconciled with her fate, she sends a message to her brother, forms the most delightful plans--then comes her brother's answer. "dear heart:--just received a despatch from aunt katherine. uncle sergei is ill, desires me urgently. i must leave by the . train. have not even time to take leave of you. unfortunate for our cosey evening. god keep you, my little dove; be brave and prudent for love of me, and also for your own sake. write me all that is on your heart, every little annoyance which weighs upon you. if you ever need immediate advice, go to sonia and fräulein von sankjéwitch, who both love you. i kiss and embrace you. "your faithful brother, "colia." "is there nothing but unpleasantness in the world?" sighs mascha, upon receiving this note. "but still, what use to torment one's self?" after she has devoted perhaps fifteen minutes to the deepest sorrow, she runs singing about the house, and makes gay little jokes. now it is evening, and they stand in the vestibule and await the carriage--anna and aunt; anna with her regal bearing and carelessly trailing draperies; barbara with her nervous anxiety and scant, short dress. "what lace is that around your neck?" calls out anna, angrily, looking at her mother through her _lorgnon_. "did you buy that fichu on the campo dei fiori? it is grotesque! you look like a stage mother." barbara pulls uneasily at her fichu and drops her purse. "wait, auntie, i have such wonderful lace of mamma's up-stairs," says mascha, who until now has been sunk in childish admiration of anna's ice-cold blond beauty and white _crêpe de chine_ splendor. "only a moment, auntie, i will bring it immediately." and she rushes up-stairs and returns in a minute with sewing utensils and a box smelling of _peau d'espagne_. "see, you must put on this scarf, auntie." "we will call the maid," proposes madame jeliagin. "ah, no! i will do it myself. you will be beautiful at once, now, auntie," says mascha, while she removes the shabby ornament condemned by anna and replaces it with splendid old point lace. "see, so; mamma wore it so. no, not the old mosaic brooch; here, take my pin." and mascha drags it from her neck. "oh, how that becomes you! look in the glass, and see how pretty you are. only a few stitches to make it firm. is it not nice so, anna?" "_mais oui, très bien_," anna lets fall from her thin lips. the servant announces the carriage. madame jeliagin becomes uneasy. "now we are ready." and mascha springs up from the floor, where she has knelt to fasten one end of the lace to her aunt's girdle. then the servant gives them their wraps, anna's red embroidered one, another of the unpaid-for articles which her mother has begged from the dressmaker with tears, and barbara's old-fashioned shabby mantle, and they go. but at the door barbara turns round. her flabby, wrinkled, painted face twitches a little, and taking maschenka's head between both hands she kisses the girl on the forehead. "my good child!" murmurs she, "my dear good child, i am very sorry that you must pass your evening alone. we will try to come home soon." "how you smell of benzine, mamma!" maschenka hears anna say, as they get into the carriage. maschenka had taken no further notice that the hands which had caressed her were incased in cleaned gloves. it was so lovely to be a little bit caressed. mascha has eaten her solitary dinner. afterward she played a little, improvised all sorts of droll, charming nonsense. about ten o'clock--they have just brought the tea to her--she hears the house-door open. have they returned already? no; that is a visitor, a well-known voice--he. how unpleasant, just to-day, when no one is at home! then the maid--a new one who has been engaged for mascha and works for anna--opens the door. "count bärenburg," she announces, with her insinuating, theatrical smile. "does mademoiselle receive?" before she really knows what she does, mascha says, "yes." scarcely has she spoken the word when she would like to recall it. she knows that it is not permissible from a social standpoint for her to receive him, but for eight days she has longed so unspeakably to see him again, to thank him for the bear-skin, and then, why was anna so hateful to her? he enters, very handsome, very distinguished, very respectful. she forgets all the _traits d'esprit_ prepared for him, and as if paralyzed with shyness, she stammers: "my aunt is not at home; had you perhaps a message for her which i can deliver?" and with a charmingly diffident gesture she stretches out her hand to him. he takes it in his, holds it a moment longer than is absolutely necessary. "do you find it absolutely necessary to send me away again?" asks he. ah! she feels so happy in his presence. "at least not before i have expressed my thanks for your gift," she stammers. bräenburg, to whom it would be indescribably vexatious to be forced to break off his conversation with this strange, interesting little being, seeks some pretext to prolong his visit. his glance falls on the tea apparatus. "would your thankfulness go so far as to give me a cup of tea?" he remarks, and adds with genial inspiration: "perhaps your aunt will return meanwhile." "yes; aunt said she would soon return," assured mascha, gayly. the situation is justified; how happy she is to dare keep him there, were it only for a quarter of an hour. she gives him his tea, he sits down in an arm-chair near the chimney opposite her. a deep silence follows. in vain does she try to find something suitable to the occasion in her carefully collected hoard of intellectual anecdotes. at length she says simply: "it must have been a splendid bear." "yes," replied the count. "it also was russian boldness to creep into the thicket after the beast. poor nikolai, how the brute had cornered him! really, i owed him the skin; but as i know him, he is always ready to share the best of everything with his little sister." "yes; he spoils me very much," says mascha, moved. "i shall miss him fearfully--fearfully. you know, perhaps, that he has left the city to-day. you cannot think how unpleasant it is for me to be so quite alone." "alone?" repeated he. "that is--well, yes, i am with relatives," mascha hastens to explain. "aunt is very good to me, but i cannot warm to my cousin; i do not like her. she is very beautiful, but intolerable. and you, count bärenburg, how do you find anna?" "she has a very decorative effect," says he, dryly. "she reminds me of an aloe, she is so stiff and pointed. she would do very well on a terrace." "i am only surprised that she has not yet married," remarks mascha, very pleased at bärenburg's cool description of anna's charms. "i am not at all surprised," replies he. "i have often noticed that these acknowledged beauties usually marry very late. they are like the too beautiful apples on the dessert dishes, which remain because no one has the courage to reach for them. and then, finally, to kindle a flame one must have somewhere a spark about one; and your cousin is of ice." "yes, that is true," laughs mascha; then, restraining herself, she adds: "but i really should not speak so of my nearest relatives to a stranger. i--i always forget that you are a stranger; you seem to me like--a friend." he smiles at her, and says softly: "when i so soon feel such warm sympathy for any one as for you, it seems to me as if we had long been good friends in heaven, and had found each other again on the earth." "really?" "certainly," says he, earnestly. "i can distinctly remember our acquaintance up there. you were a lovely, gay, half-grown little angel, with short, unformed wings, with which you could not yet majestically sail about in the air, but only helplessly flutter a little. but every one loved you, and all the other angels were jealous of you. then--now the affair becomes considerable; shall i go on?" he smilingly interrupts his improvisation. "oh, yes, yes, please," begs she. she looks charming, leaning back in the immense chair, with curious, friendly gay expression in the eyes fixed on him. "yes, yes, please!" and unconsciously she makes a movement as if she would push the chair nearer the young man. "well," bärenburg continues, "one day the devil presented himself in paradise and demanded you for himself. he said you were his property, and had only by chance got into paradise. we did not want to give you up, but as it could not be agreed upon, it was decided to send you back to earth so that you might make a second decisive trial of life and show whose being you were. i was so frightfully bored without you that i hurried down to earth to seek you." "how droll you are!" says maschenka, laughing loudly and childishly, and again she makes a movement as if she would draw nearer to him. "and do you think that i will go back to heaven?" "i hope so." meanwhile the clock strikes--eleven. maschenka suddenly grows red. "how long aunt stays!" murmurs she, and rises. bärenburg also rises. "i really cannot longer wait for the ladies," says he in an undertone, and gives her his hand. she sinks her head. "i--i really should not have received you," stammers she with confusion. "why not?" says he, impatiently. "no, i know it--but--" and suddenly raising her head, she looks at him from a pair of such wonderful, tearfully bright eyes that his senses swam--"but, i so longed to speak to some one who sympathizes with me a little," whispers she. the whole pitiful neglect of the poor child dawns upon him, and a great compassion overcomes him. "you really need not fear being misunderstood by me," says he. "oh! if you only had a suspicion of how lovely you are-- good-night. and if you ever need a man who would go through fire for you, you know where to seek him." he kisses her hand tenderly, passionately, and goes. long after he has gone maschenka stands on the same spot, frightened, paralyzed, and looks at her hand. a little later she goes up to her room. "has mademoiselle amused herself well?" asks the maid, while she helps her undress. "i was so sorry that, mademoiselle must pass the evening alone. naturally, i will say nothing of it to madame." "and why not?" burst out mascha, violently. "oh! as mademoiselle wishes. i only thought----" "i shall tell aunt myself that count bärenburg was here," says mascha, defiantly. "and now go!" in the midst of all her tender-heartedness she has fits of harsh, repellant roughness, which, like so much about her, are an inheritance from her father. with loosened hair, half undressed, she sits before the fire, with her bare feet resting on the bear-skin. "ah, it was lovely!" a great embarrassment robs her of breath. again she looks at her hand. "he loves me!" and suddenly an uneasiness, something like dissatisfaction, creeps over her. why had he not immediately told her that he loved her? why had he not drawn her to his breast and kissed her? she kneels down on the bear-skin, draws the shaggy head of the beast to her breast, and kisses it on the forehead. * * * * * "why are you so out of temper; is anything the matter?" this question karl bärenburg hears to annoyance in the days which follow his visit in the avenue wagram. and old friend even asked him: "have you gambling debts? confide in me." he looks badly, and his manner is absent-minded. he does not show himself in the avenue wagram. the recollection of the scene with mascha is painful to him. he repeats to himself incessantly that he has behaved perfectly correctly, that every other man would have taken the situation differently. he would have given his life for a kiss, and--really, she would not have fought against it. to have renounced that was an heroic deed which bordered on quixotism. why, then, was he not satisfied with himself? he was not a bad, but only a weak, wavering man, a man without any originality, who, of his own inclination, had courage neither to do anything good nor bad which was not on the fixed programme of life of his companions in rank. still, he had fallen desperately in love with this little russian. it was really fatal, for he could not marry her. in principle he was resolved to marry, to marry soon; he was urged on all sides to marry. what could he wish better than sylvia anthropos? she was beautiful, wealthy, of very good family, and, more than all this, she was wise, practical, and possessed the strength of will which he lacked. she would take the responsibility of his existence upon herself, think for him, act for him, resolve for him. there had formerly been a time when he was one of her most ardent admirers. she had refused him, but that was long ago, full three years, and in the life of a young diplomat that is an eternity. she had done her best to recompense him for her former unkindness and win him back; but the charm was gone. he knew that if he offered her his hand to-day it would not be refused. but never had he felt such a warm feeling for any one as for mascha. with all her unconventional impulsiveness, her lack of restraint and social routine, her physical and moral personality was yet penetrated by such a subtle refinement! shame, eternal shame! well, he did not need to decide to-day or to-morrow. perhaps it would pass. before he had made up his mind he courted sylvia anthropos, and in a sympathetic hour, in the hôtel meurice, she laughed at him quite unexpectedly, and suddenly resting her large eyes very seductively upon him, she said: "you good, faithful, stupid man! can you then never find courage to tell me that you love me?" when, about an hour later, he left the hôtel meurice he was betrothed, and carried away with him a comfortable feeling of general satisfaction with himself. at least, all was now settled! between his betrothal and the moment when he had murmured to mascha, "if you ever need a man who would go through fire for you, you know where to seek him!" scarcely five days had elapsed! xvi. among the different returns of attention which the jeliagins' musicale have brought them, come several invitations to a large charity ball in the hôtel continental. anna is not disinclined to attend it, but has already been invited for the same evening to a dance. but mascha is going with madame d'olbreuse, who, at the last moment, has good-naturedly offered to take her with her. it is against custom to take such a young girl to this ball; but what is not against custom in mascha's loveless, unprotected existence? mascha, who has passed the last days in feverish expectation of bärenburg's proposal, looks forward with a kind of feeling between hope and fear to this ball. perhaps he will be there. "but will he trouble himself about me?" she asks herself. ah! what does it concern her? he is quite indifferent to her, she persuades herself--quite, however little she can understand him. who could? how can one say such feeling words to a girl, look at her with such tender enthusiasm, kiss her hand as he had kissed mascha's, and then suddenly disappear, and for eight long days let nothing be heard of him? it is incomprehensible. "perhaps he thinks that with a child like me he can permit himself anything," says she to herself, "but i will show him that he has deceived himself in me. i wish he would be at this ball, only that i might show him how little i think of him, how arrogant i can be!" meanwhile she prepares for the ball, and takes the greatest pains about her toilet. as, since nikolai is gone, no one has time to accompany her, she drives about the boulevards alone, and makes the wildest purchases. in the midst of her preparations she takes a trip to the avenue frochot, where she is always a welcome guest in nita's studio. with no one is she on such a good footing as with nita, whom she clings to with a kind of idolatry, and--nita returns her affection. sonia is consumed with jealousy when she sees her friend, formerly not at all inclined to exaggeration, caressing the dear little witch. on the evening of the great event, mascha puts on the same white dress which she had worn in honor of her social _dêbut_, and places a wreath of loosely fastened pink anemones on her head. that this adornment, which she herself thought of and which became her excellently, was a trifle too picturesque for a young girl of good family she does not suspect, and who should direct her attention thereto? the jeliagins have already gone their own way, before she had begun to dress, and madame d'olbreuse, when she comes to get mascha, does not leave her carriage, but merely sends her servant to announce that she is waiting. they have reached the hôtel continental. in the vestibule a gentleman comes up to the countess d'olbreuse, some vicomte, who is introduced to mascha, bows to her, and troubles himself no further about her. he offers the countess his arm; she looks around for a cavalier for mascha, but finds none. "keep by me, dear child," says she, taking the vicomte's arm. and so, somewhat ashamed and vexed, as an accidental dependant of the countess, maschenka enters. people like the countess visit such entertainments from curiosity, from a wish to admire the arrangements and criticise the people. she walks through all the rooms on the arm of her cavalier, and from time to time turns round to maschenka with a "are you here, my child?" whereupon her companion shows her something droll, and she immediately forgets mascha again. the heat is stifling, the crowd fearful. at first maschenka takes pleasure in shyly looking at herself in the mirrors along the walls, then no longer--her eyes meet such a weary, disappointed little face, with such a vexed, gloomy look. "now you have shown me enough foolishness. i should like at length to see something beautiful," says the countess, petulantly, to her companion. "do you really wish to see something beautiful--the most beautiful thing ever created?" replies the vicomte. "a beautiful woman. then you must come with me into the patronesses' room." "oh, clear, no; i know all the ladies; they would immediately take possession of me, and there would be an end of my independence for the rest of the evening." "at least take a peep through the door," the vicomte proposes. "there, the lady under the palm near the statue--an englishwoman, one sees at the first glance--blonde, and in a white gown." mascha puts up her _lorgnon_, looks into the room. there, near the statue, in a white toilet slipping far down from her shoulders, sits sylvia anthropos with her imperial diadem of reddish curls, her short, antique upper lip, her large dark eyes, her golden eyelashes, and finely pencilled eyebrows. the regular faultlessness of her features is to-day warmed by an expression unusual to her. she holds her head somewhat bent back, and looks up--to whom? mascha feels something like a cold, hard blow on her heart. there, leaning against the pedestal of the statue, speaking to the beautiful englishwoman, stands karl bärenburg. now he raises his eyes, discovers mascha, starts perceptibly, and turns his eyes away from her. * * * * * an hour has passed since then. maschenka is one humiliation richer. the only man who has asked her to dance was her italian teacher, signor supino. besides, a wealthy leather dealer has offered her his arm for a promenade. poor supino she dismissed with a harshness which later pains her, but her strength and resolution did not suffice to shake off the leather merchant. he had met mascha a single time in nita's studio, and treats her as if she were his niece. at length she is rid of him. with convulsive resolution she clings to an old, white-haired american, whom she knows as the father of one of the scholars in the sylvain studio. his daughter is waltzing in the ball-room, the countess d'olbreuse is waltzing. maschenka sits with mr. cornelius merryfield in the prettiest room, a winter garden with artificial moonlight and rocks; sits there weary, sad, and lets the old man explain to her the narrow influence of the north american quakers. suddenly she hears a voice near her say: "at last! i have sought you already for half an hour!" it is bärenburg. all the blood in her body rushes to her heart. she has but the one thought, not to let him notice how much she cares for him, to be as indifferent to him as possible. "ah, really! then miss anthropos has already left the ball half an hour ago?" says she, slowly, raising her brows, whereupon, turning to mr. merryfield, she asks: "did you know president lincoln?" "have the kindness to introduce me," interrupts bärenburg, irritably. "count bärenburg--mr. merryfield," says she, shortly; and still turned toward mr. merryfield, she continues: "i heard once that when an englishman, in conversation with lincoln, let fall a french phrase, the latter remarked that he did not understand greek. do you think that possible?" "it may be," says mr. merryfield, with an uneasy glance at the door. "i do not understand what keeps my daughter so long; she promised to only dance one waltz. permit me to go and look after her a little." "but, mr. merryfield, i promised countess d'olbreuse to wait here for her," says maschenka, very excited, and catching him by the sleeve. the american looks helplessly at bärenburg. "you see that you must put up with my protection, fräulein," says the latter, whereupon the two men bow formally, and mr. merryfield withdraws. then she is alone with him in the green twilight of the winter garden,--as good as alone. truly, from time to time people pass by the young couple, men with ladies and alone, but they are people who know neither him nor her. here, in the pale pseudo-moonshine of the electric lights, her beauty has a quite magical effect. the mixture of pride and sadness in her manner, the poetic unusualness of the arrangement of her hair, the pink wreath, on whose bloom lies already a touch of sad weariness, the dark green background, against which her white child's face stands out--all unite in heightening the charm of her fantastic, peculiar loveliness. for a while both are silent, he and she. at length he begins: "in my whole life, a week has never passed so slowly as the last." "indeed! i find it, on the contrary, very short. in my monotonous life one day follows the other before one perceives it." "do you not go out at all?" asks he. "no; my aunt says i am too young to go out in society; my cousin says i have too bad manners; in consequence of which i stay at home," says she, to a certain extent dropping the superior _rôle_ which she childishly and defiantly has planned for herself. "your cousin speaks nonsense, and if your aunt really thinks you too young to go out, she should not send you to such a ball as this one." "is it an unsuitable ball?" asks mascha, quickly. "no; but it is a ball which such a young girl as you does not visit with a superficial chaperon like countess d'olbreuse. if one of the patronesses had taken you with her, it would be quite different." "the patronesses?" mascha shrugs her shoulders. "the patronesses are great ladies, with whom i have nothing to do; i am no one, only papa's daughter." her voice trembles a little. "that does not count here in foreign parts; anna tells me so every day. i did not know it; it was certainly very necessary, but it pained me." she fans herself with her large fan, and smiles as one smiles to keep from weeping. bärenburg pulls his mustache. "and except your cousin, have you no one in paris who is near to you?" he begins anew. "yes, one--one person whom i love with my whole heart," says mascha, with the exaggeration to which hurt and vexed people are always inclined. "she is sweet to me. it is your cousin, fräulein von sankjéwitch." "do you ever go to the studio?" "yes," says mascha, shortly. "h-m! will you be there to-morrow morning?" she throws back her little head, looks at him from her dark eyes with unspeakable, reproving pride, and says: "no!" a longer silence follows. he knows that she was justified in repelling him; knows that he acts unresponsibly to her. this consciousness only assists in robbing him of his self-control. he loves her passionately, unspeakably. he must have her, only her. more and more the recollection of his betrothal shrinks to a purely theoretical hinderance which can and shall be removed. then a large, bearded man comes up to mascha, a man with round shoulders and the insolently careless manner of men of good family who have long moved in dubious circles of society. his eyes are watery, his lips twitch, while bowing to mascha, he says in french: "do you remember me, miss marie?" "prince orbanoff," replies mascha, affirmatively, nodding cordially, "from nice." behind the russians stand two young men who have admired mascha with unconcealed boldness, and watch the scene. "may i ask for this waltz?" stammers the russian. with the greatest readiness mascha rises. "you forget that you are already engaged to me," bärenburg interposes. "you are entirely mistaken, count," replies mascha arrogantly, and takes a step toward the russian. "for nikolai's sake, listen to me, do not dance," bärenburg whispers in her ear. softly, hastily, and in a strange language as the words were whispered, the prince still has heard them. "may i ask who the young man is who so insolently wishes to influence your resolve?" he asks mascha, with still more difficult utterance, and his red face becomes yet redder. bärenburg draws out his card and hands it to him; at the same moment the countess d'olbreuse comes up to her. the russian has disappeared. "have you entertained yourself well, my child?" says she. "i have danced _comme une perdue_; it is not suitable for a woman of my age. now we can go, the ball begins to be too amusing." silently, laying the extreme tips of her fingers in bärenburg's offered arm, mascha follows the countess and her cavalier into the ante-room. suddenly she raises her head. "why did you prevent me from dancing with the prince?" she asks in an angry tone. "first, he was intoxicated; secondly--but that you do not understand-- secondly, he has such a horrible reputation that i would rather see my sister dance with a clown from the circus ring, for example, than with him. to dance with orbanoff at a public ball when you had not moved your foot before, and at two o'clock in the morning, would be something so fearful, so ambiguous, so--well, i would rather have my right arm cut off than let you do it." they now stand in the ante-room. bärenburg takes mascha's wrap from the servant and lays it about her shoulders. but mascha's rage flames stronger than ever. more than before she feels the need to pain him, to injure him, to insult him. "so you would let your right arm be cut off for me! how easily that is said," mocks she. then looking him full in the face: "i am very much obliged to you for your good intentions, but i should have preferred that you had not further troubled yourself with my affairs. i have known the prince longer than you." scarcely has she said these impolite words when she would give everything in the world to recall them. it is too late. "i was wrong; pardon me," says he, shortly. and taking leave with a deep bow, first of her and then of countess d'olbreuse, he retires without another word. "now, _ma petite_, come!" says the countess, looking for her _protégée_. mascha stands there, pale, petrified, and looks at the crowd in which he has disappeared. he did not once notice that, repenting her rudeness, she had stretched her hand out shyly to him; he did not even look at it. yes, she has shown him how little she thinks of him, how arrogant she can be. but now that it is over, she has little pleasure in her heroic achievement; on the contrary, torments herself over it, and would take it back at any price. she suddenly knows that she loves him with all her heart; loves him so that she would die to spare him one pang. and this poor, physically mature, mentally still childish little being suddenly longs for one thing only; namely, to see him very, very soon again in order to expiate her harshness and intolerance. but how should she see him again? she thought, as in the early morning hours she sleeplessly tossed her curly head here and there on the pillow. after her repellant manner, he would scarcely wish to come to the avenue wagram. ah! why had she not simply rejoiced in him, and let herself be so happy and confidential with him! xvii. the following day was a sunday. when mascha came home from church, anna had just returned from a ride in the bois. the marquis de lusignan had come for her early with his horses, and accompanied her in the bois. several diplomats had there joined her; they had been attentive to her. she was in the best of humors, and so hungry that she did not take time before lunch to take off her habit, but sat down to the table in it. anna told of her ride, of the leaps she had taken, of the enthusiasm she had excited, and that she certainly must have a new habit from wolmerhausen. maschenka listened with the childish, quite reverential astonishment which the elder cousin always caused in her when she told of the triumphs she had achieved in the great world. "did you see bärenburg at the ball?" asked anna, suddenly, turning to her. "yes." "did he dance with you?" "no; i did not dance at all." "that is better," said anna. "young girls do not dance at such balls. at such bacchanals in honor of charity, all sorts of things are permitted. have you a suspicion who the young lady was whom bärenburg was so attentive to?" "miss anthropos." "not she, every one knows her; a new beauty whom nobody knows. it must have been one of his austrian cousins--a very young girl, exquisitely dressed in white, with a wreath of red flowers on her head. it seems that he had a scene on her account with orbanoff, whom he would not permit to dance with her. evidently, it must be a girl who is very near to him, one whom he thinks a great deal of, or else he would not have interfered with the old tiger for her sake. as it seems, orbanoff has challenged him. it is a bad season for duelling; monteglin told me that three men of our set have already fallen in a duel since autumn. i felt quite upset, especially as they say orbanoff is the most unconscientious man and the best pistol shot in paris. he seems very angry with bärenburg-- but what is the matter? you are deathly pale. heavens; if you take the fate of every superficial acquaintance so to heart!" * * * * * anna has retired to her room and lain down. she is invited with her mother to a dinner, and spares her complexion. another solitary evening for mascha. but she does not think of that. only of one thing does she think: "he fights for my sake; fights on account of my arrogant, obstinate lack of tact! why would i not understand him; why did i not let it pass when he said he was already engaged to me for that dance? but no, i would not let him dispose of me as of an unresisting child, and must show him that i thought nothing of him, and now--oh, my god! now perhaps he will die, and it is my fault." uneasily she walks up and down, quicker and quicker. she sees nothing in the future but a horrible, cold void, where he will no longer be, and nothing will be left to her heart but the consciousness that she has offended and misunderstood him, and that he died for her. his death has ceased to be a fearful possibility for her; it is something that must come if she does not prevent it. but how can she prevent it? if colia were here, she would beg him to arrange the affair, to speak to bärenburg or orbanoff. oh! there must be some way of escape which he could find. but colia is away. she cannot longer bear her despair. she must confide in some one, ask advice, seek consolation, or, at least, pity. she goes down in the drawing-room to speak to her aunt. her aunt has a visitor, an old russian friend. with a kind of rage, she closes the scarcely opened door of the drawing-room, and hurries back to her room. a half-hour passes, a desolate, endless half-hour. it is half-past four. before the house still stands the visitor's cab. ever more restlessly mascha wrings her poor little white hands; ever more reproachfully every unkind word that she has said to him comes back to her memory; her heart grows heavier. oh! if she could only see him, at least beg his forgiveness before he dies! no, he shall not die; she cannot let it happen. colia's farewell words come to her mind: "if you should ever be in any embarrassment, go to fräulein von sankjéwitch." yes, she will speak with her; nita is his cousin, she knows his affairs; nita will advise, will help. "hurry, eliza, you must go out with me," says she, going into the maid's room. but near the maid stands anna. "must you go out just now?" says she, vexedly; "my dress is not ready. where are you going?" "to fräulein von sankjéwitch." "eliza has not time. you can go the few steps alone." and she goes alone, fairly runs through the rue de la prony, through the parc monceau. she pants for breath, there is a ringing in her ears. now she has reached no. of the avenue murillo. she hurries up the steps, rings. the maid opens the door. "the ladies have gone out; they will not be back before evening." quite crushed, mascha stands there in the pretty little ante-room. "has mademoiselle any message for the ladies?" asks the maid. "no, no!" sadly mascha shakes her head. she trembles in her whole body, rests her hand on a little table on which stands a plate with visiting cards. her eyes mechanically dwell on one which lies uppermost: le comte charles de bärenburg, attaché, etc. _avenue de messine, no_. ----. then suddenly a new thought comes to her. roughly she repels it; she cannot make up her mind to do that. but why not? how cowardly, how small she is! only a few hours before she had longed for an opportunity to prove to him her love by some painful sacrifice, and now, from foolish fear that people might talk, she suddenly hesitates to do something so simple. the accusations which her father used to hurl at cold, calculating wisdom of the heart, and the scorn with which he condemned women who could not once yield to inspiration, comes to her mind. how does she know what he means by that? she creeps down the steps slowly, as if in a dream. now she is on the street. an empty close cab comes rolling over the pavement. the coachman looks at mascha. irresolutely she stands there; he drives up to her, opens the door, looks at her, with lifted hat, questioningly. "avenue de messine, no. ----," murmurs she, and springs into the carriage. the coachman dismounts and opens the door. pale, with gloomy but not at all ashamed--rather proud--resolve in her face, mascha gets out and goes up the steps. she reads the cards on the doors; there it is! she rings loudly, violently. a servant opens. "is the count at home?" "yes, but he has company," replies the servant, and looks at her in astonishment. it must certainly be his master's sister, he thinks. she is too young for an adventuress of good society, too unembarrassed; she does not even wear a veil. "if mademoiselle wishes to go in the dining-room, i will tell monsieur le comte," says he, and takes her into one of those gloomy paris dining-rooms, which even by day must be artificially lighted. the curtains are drawn. the light of a hanging lamp falls over a table on which stand the picturesque remnants of a recently left, abundant dessert. suddenly a great confusion and even a painful shame overcome mascha. perhaps it is all not true! how can one lunch so gayly if one is in mortal danger? shyly she turns to the door; she would like to escape. then bärenburg enters the room. "fräulein--you!" comes from his lips. but even in his startled surprise he speaks softly, evidently from prudence. she stammers something; her voice is so choked with shame and excitement that he scarcely understands her. the light of the hanging lamp falls on her deathly pale face, the little, soft, childish face with the great, tender eyes. bärenburg grows hot and cold. he is in the pleasantly excited mood in which an excellent meal and a couple of bottles of fine wine place men of his kind. coming up to her, he bends over her, and taking her hand kindly in his, he says warmly: "you are certainly in some great difficulty in which you wish to turn to me. i thank you for your confidence; you know my life is at your disposal." she comes to herself a little. "ah, no!" says she. "it is about you, not about me. they told me that through my obstinacy i had put you in a painful position with prince orbanoff--that you are to fight a duel with him. is that true?" he is silent a moment, then he says calmly: "yes, it is true." "oh, my god!" she cries out, and then is silent, as if petrified by pain. his eyes rest on her in indescribable surprise. "did you come on that account?" murmurs he, warmly, and kisses her hands again and again. "oh, you dear, lovely being; and you have forgotten the whole world from anxiety for me! i know no second girl who would be capable of such generosity!" but she scarcely notices these words, which would once have filled her with pride. "so it is true," she murmurs to herself, "it is true! but it shall not happen. you must give up the duel!" "that is impossible," replies he, and smiles as one smiles at a pretty child who desires the moon. "my life is at your disposal, but not my honor." "oh, heavens! and if you fall it is my fault!" cries she, violently. "but no; i must save your life. now, how foolish it was of me to turn to you. i must go to orbanoff. i will write to him, i will beg-- when is the duel?" the affair begins to be unpleasant for bärenburg. he had not considered of what such a warm-hearted little barbarian is capable when he told her that he should fight for her. why had he told her? it was overhasty--it was more, was tactless, tasteless. he had not even tried to resist the temptation to excite her tender despair to the utmost. he had succeeded. she is beside herself; she does not know what she is about. at the same time her overstrained nerves give way, she trembles in her whole frame, and with a tottering movement she passes her hand over her temples. her little fur cap falls from her head. how very beautiful she is! she staggers. "drink a drop of wine," says he, really anxious and taking a silver goblet from the sideboard, he fills it with champagne. thirsting with inward fever, she places it to her lips, without knowing in her excitement whether she drinks water or wine. he lays his arm round her to support her; he does not as yet think of misusing her confidence. then he hears a whispering in the adjoining room, then a quick succession of steps; the entrance door opens and closes. his friends have withdrawn discreetly. his blood burns in every finger-tip. he has forgotten sylvia anthropos, all clear idea of life and its duties has left him. "mascha, oh, my sweet little angel! do you suspect how i love you?" whispers he. "do not reproach yourself, even if i should die for you; it seems to me beautiful to be able to surrender my life for you. but mascha, my angel, my treasure, do not grudge me one more happy moment before i die. maschenka, my darling, my love--one kiss!" without hesitating, sobbing, beside herself, with a passionate vehemence of which a few minutes before she had had no suspicion, she throws both arms round his neck. * * * * * the jeliagins had gone when mascha came home. with deeply lowered head, hurriedly, without looking to the right or left, she went up to her room. the lamp burned. the young russian's glance was gloomy and defiant. she held her head high. what had happened had happened, she would not be ashamed of it. she loved him, indeed, and he was in mortal danger. why did her heart beat so loudly? why did the light pain her so? why was it as if she could never raise her eyes to any one? aimlessly, with weary steps, she crept about her room. she put out the light and got into bed and turned her face to the wall. and the hours dragged on and would not end. how long the night was! toward morning she fell asleep. she dreamed that her mother came to her bed, in a white dress and with large, beautiful wings, and whispered to her: "wake up, wake up, long sleeper; have you forgotten that to-day is your wedding-day? i have come down from heaven to dress you and to bless you!" and then she sprung out of her bed, and her mother dressed her. ah! how sweet it was to feel the soft, delicate hands once more about her as formerly! all at once her mother grew uneasy. "i cannot find your wreath," she murmured, and wandered round the room seeking the wreath, and wept bitterly. "here it is, little mother, there," cried mascha, and handed her the wreath which she had worn to the ball. then the mother was frightened and said: "oh, no, that is not your wreath, it is torn and red with shame; hide it, maschenka, hide it. your wreath must be white as my wings, and like a crown, so round and firm, a crown of thorns concealed under roses; that is the bridal wreath, thus we bind it for you poor mortals in heaven. i will bring you one from above, and will break out all the thorns for you, my treasure, my darling!" and her mother wished to spread out her wings and ascend, but she could not, her wings were broken. and she looked at mascha with such large, helpless, sad, deathly, frightened eyes, and then turned away. "mother!" cries mascha, in her sleep; "mother!" she awoke. the sunbeam which waked her every morning penetrated the curtains of her bed. she hid her face in the pillow and wept. * * * * * if it had seemed to bärenburg, on the evening before the duel, that there could be no more endurable hours for him without mascha, and as if the betrothal with sylvia anthropos, which had been forced upon him, must be broken off at the cost of the roughest brutality even, on the day after the duel, when he lay in bed with a wounded shoulder, he had other views. the recollection of his adventure with mascha filled him with vexation, almost with rage. if mascha had formerly been for him the most peculiarly charming being whom he had ever met, she was now in his eyes nothing more than a pretty, badly watched, badly brought up being, whom in his magisterial austrian manner he described as a true russian. the thought of his astonishing experiences with "young girls" in st. petersburg came to his mind, and did its share in throwing a distorting light on mascha's exaltation. he is vexed at what has happened; more than that, he is ashamed of it; but he denies any obligation to expiate his precipitation by a marriage. xviii. it is the jeliagins' reception day. as usual, mascha makes the tea. in vain has she begged to be excused from this to-day. anna, who hates to do it, would hear nothing of this. eight days have passed since she went to him; she is wholly without news of him. only through strangers has she learned he is wounded, slightly, not dangerously. mechanically she fulfils her duty. she looks no one in the face; she does not hear if they speak to her. the opening of a door, the entrance of a visitor, causes her each time a painful excitement. she does not know who comes, nor to whom she gives tea, nor what the people say. she has the same thought, the same feeling of being plunged in a black, miry abyss in which she can find no ground for her feet. sophie and nita have both come to-day. nita, who has visited mascha many times already since lensky's departure, inquires after her health, and why she has not let herself be seen in the last week. "how troubled you look to-day," whispers she, taking the child's pale face--they are a little apart from the others--between her hands, "and how pale! do you want anything, my angel? are you vexed over anything?" "no, no; i do not know what you mean," replies mascha, irritably, and frees herself. new guests come, madame jeliagin desires tea for a lady. mascha again steps to the samovar. suddenly she hears bärenburg's name. "have you seen countess bärenburg yet, madame jeliagin?" asks a certain mrs. joyce. "no; i did not think that she was in paris." "she is only here for a short time," continues mrs. joyce; "she has come from vienna." "to take care of her son?" asks madame jeliagin. "as i hear, he was wounded in a duel." "ah! that was nothing; he has already recovered. he indeed still carries his arm in a sling, but i met him yesterday in the bois. the countess has come here to her son's betrothal. bärenburg is betrothed to sylvia anthropos." "since when?" asks anna, sharply. "since about ten days; sylvia told me to-day," says mrs. joyce. "you know that the countess bärenburg is an englishwoman." "yes, lady banbury's sister." "and lady emily anthropos's cousin," says mrs. joyce. "she is charmed with the betrothal--an extremely suitable match. bärenburg has received a furlough. day after to-morrow he goes with his mother and the anthropos to england. the wedding is to be in june." then a short, crashing sound--a cup has fallen from mascha's hand and broken to bits. "you are intolerably awkward," says anna. "fortunately, the cup was empty." mrs. joyce looks up; her eyes rest on mascha, who looks pitiable. her lips are blue, she trembles in her whole frame. "you have a chill, poor child," says mrs. joyce, compassionately. but, blushing deeply, mascha turns away her face. "i begged you to let me stay up-stairs, anna," she gasps out. "you know that i am ill." and, tottering, she leaves the room. "she is laughable," murmurs anna. the old madame jeliagin is confusedly silent. nita and sophie took leave. "poor child," remarked sophie; "how could lensky leave her with these people? they torment her crazy." "wait for me a little, i would like to see her," says nita, and hurries up-stairs to the door of mascha's room. she opens it without knocking. mascha crouches in an arm-chair, trembling, her teeth chattering. "what do you want?" asks she of nita. "i was worried about you, my heart," says nita. she kneels down near the child, and puts her arms round the trembling young form. "mascha," whispers she, holding the girl closely to her, "tell me--with me you can speak as if i were your mother--are you ill only, or is there something else which torments you?" but mascha, who used so tenderly to lean on nita, pushes her roughly and angrily from her. "leave me," she cries, "i am ill, i wish to be alone--go!" without paying the slightest attention to mascha's repellant rudeness, nita holds the girl still closer to her breast. "i cannot see you so silently martyr yourself, such a poor mite of seventeen, who has no one on whose breast she can really cry herself out! confide in me. your grief is certainly not worth the trouble. it is only because you shut it up so in your heart that it seems great to you, my pretty little mouse, my dear little bird!" and nita kisses her on her curly hair, on both eyes. all at once maschenka begins to sob, but so convulsively, so hoarsely and gaspingly, as nita has never heard any one sob before. it goes to her heart. "how stupid i was!" she thinks, suddenly. "it is karl bärenburg's betrothal which pains her. is it really possible that this fiery, generous little heart wounds itself for the superficial dandy? poor little goose!" she no longer urges the girl to confess her sorrow, she only silently caresses her; and when she sees that her caresses only excite the unhappy child instead of calming her, she sadly withdraws. "you can speak to me as if i were your mother!" the words ring through mascha's soul. and if her own mother still lived, as if she could confess what tormented her! it is not possible! there must be a mistake somewhere. he cannot be so bad; no man can be so bad! she seats herself at her writing-table, dips her pen in the ink; but the words will not come. no; she must go to him, see him, speak personally with him. she takes her hat and jacket and hurries out. however quickly she made and carried out her resolution to visit him the first time, it is hard for her now. she has taken a thick veil with her, loses her way, takes a carriage and bids it wait on the place malesherbes. in the carriage she ties the veil over her face. now she gets out, gives the driver five francs, and does not wait for him to give her back anything. she notices the strange shake of the head with which he looks after her and turns away. now she has retched the no. ---- of the avenue messine. her feet are weighted to the ground like lead. five, six steps she ascends--stands still. a cold shudder runs over her. no, she cannot, she cannot meet him. she turns round, is back in the avenue wagram before they have missed her. xix. in the beginning of february, the news of the death of sergei alexandrovitch assanow arrived in paris. early in march nikolai returned to paris as a wealthy young man wholly independent of his father. his uncle had provided for him brilliantly in his will. anna jeliagin and mascha were wholly excluded. anna was in despair. mascha cared nothing about it. she no longer cared about anything--poor little mascha! "what have you done with my little bird?" nikolai had exclaimed when he saw her again for the first time after his return to paris. instead of the round-faced child whom he had looked forward to seeing, a weary, sad person had come to meet him, who did not fall jubilantly on his neck, as he was accustomed to from his little sister, but only wearily, quite vexatiously gave him her cheek to kiss. when he wished to fathom the cause of her sadness, she grew angry, quite wild, so that, offended and at the same time frightened, he turned from her, and then--it was perhaps half an hour later, at twilight, and he did not know she was in the room--she crept softly up to him and kissed his hand silently and humbly. that went to his heart more than her rudeness. he wished to take her in his arms and caress her, but she escaped and left the room, with a soft, whimpering cry of pain. he inquired of his relatives whether they suspected the cause of the great change. madame jeliagin was silent, troubled. but anna, with a scornful shrug of her shoulders, told him "mascha had certainly set her hopes on count bärenburg, for her lack of spirits dated from his betrothal to sylvia anthropos, which really showed a great imagination, for she could boast of no remarkable attentions on his part." at first nikolai was relieved by anna's explanation. "such a heartache, which is really no heartache, but an imagined affliction, can be cured with a little distraction and much loving patience," he thought. but whatever he tried to amuse his sister failed. the child grew daily more pale and miserable; her breath was short, she dragged her feet along. nikolai consulted a physician. after a few superficial questions he prescribed iron and quinine. she took the medicine patiently, without attaining a favorable result, but when nikolai proposed to her to consult another learned man, she grew painfully excited, and said: "wait till father comes." so everything was postponed until then. they expected the virtuoso back early in june. if he had not been so occupied and self-absorbed, the child's condition would have caused nikolai more anxiety. but like all lovers, he had grown selfish, and his sharp sight was obscured by passion. the only reality in life, the fixed point about which everything revolved, was nita. everything else was of secondary consideration to him. had he approached his aim? on the whole he was contented. nita had greeted him cordially when he appeared in her studio for the first time after his return, and since then had daily been more friendly to him. he came frequently to the studio, was a kind of privileged guest. he did commissions for the ladies at the color dealers, grew very learned in all technical expressions of the trade. he brought them models from places where respectable women can scarcely go. he soon knew all the models by name; they smiled at him on the streets, and spoke to him when they met him. at first he had often gone for mascha before he went to the avenue frochot, but it became ever more difficult for him to induce the girl to accompany him. mascha grew daily more gloomy and reserved. she ate nothing, she neglected her dress. day by day she sat in the library and read--read everything that she could find, she, who formerly, as a thoroughly well brought up girl, had read only what nikolai had proposed. she slept badly, and never without being tormented by fearful dreams, from which she awoke always with the same cry for help on her lips which rang out into vacancy, and was always the same tender word, "mother!" that was an old custom. she had suffered from bad dreams from childhood, and had then always called her mother. as long as she had been able, natalie had risen and gone to the child's bed and petted her, told her all sorts of foolish trifles, until at length she had calmly fallen asleep. but now all that was over. "oh, if you had only been with me, mother! why must you leave me?" sobbed maschenka often. it was the only reproach she uttered during the long, inconsolable months. and nikolai, formerly the tenderest brother, now contented himself with from time to time giving his pale little sister a compassionate caress, and had something more important to do than incessantly to ponder whether unfortunate love for a man whom she had only slightly known could really suffice to so completely change his gay little sister. the only one who thought much about the strange change in her little favorite was nita. but however she tried, by caresses and persuasion, to win mascha's confidence, all failed. maschenka even opposed her with a certain hostility; at least, nita could ascribe her manner to nothing else, so violently and with such gloomy, irritable obstinacy did she repulse all advances. and at length nita also grew weary of knocking at a heart which would not open to her. all went its way. the sun shone, spring blossomed, and nikolai went oftener and oftener to the avenue frochot, just as if a poor little girl were not tormenting herself into despair. yes, the world went its way, and nita and sophie had all sorts of things to do, for it was an important time for artists, the time for sending to the salon. nikolai shared the excitement. nita was really an unusual being, and about this time others beside those belonging to her intimate circle began to find it out. the picture which she had prepared for the exhibition had not only received the congratulations of all her colleagues, but had induced m. sylvain to bring to nita's studio the best-known art lovers and most famous artists in paris to pass judgment on her picture. all were surprised at the young austrian's achievement. but she shook her head quite vexedly at their extravagant praise. it seemed to her that they were mocking her. it was such a simple picture. nikolai was there at the studio when a messenger brought nita, one afternoon, a note from m. sylvain, which, having scarcely opened, she handed to sophie, who read it aloud: "_vous êtes reçue avec acclamation no_. . _espère une medaille_. sylvain." nita grew very pale; she trembled in her whole frame, and began suddenly to cry. this triumph, which he had been the first to prophesy, and which made him proud and happy for her, at the same time made nikolai's heart very heavy. "she is through and through an artist nature," said he to himself as he observed her great excitement; "much more than she herself knows." and in that he was not mistaken. naturally, on varnishing day he was at the palais de l'industrie. not without a certain excitement, he wandered up the great steps between painters, journalists, models, and curious ones. three times he made the rounds through all the rooms seeking her picture, and as yet he had not found it. but there! was not that the picture almost concealed by a crowd of admirers and critics? nikolai found his way through and gazed at the picture. it hung on the middle of the wall, on the line. for nikolai naturally the whole salon was a mere trifle to her picture, and if the admiration of others was of no such large dimension, the success of the picture was still great, decisive. and nikolai sat down opposite the picture, listened to every word, every enthusiastic expression, and imprinted them upon his memory so as to tell them to her. he waited for her. she would surely come in the course of the day to see her work. the crowd had not diminished. a critic took notes of it, a painter, with nose close to the canvas, made gestures expressive of his delight at the drawing. then nikolai heard a step, looked round--yes, there she was, tall, slender, with the proud carriage of her head, and her never-to-be-forgotten eyes. the gloomy shadow was still in her eyes, the shadow which never left them. nevertheless, she enjoyed her triumph, and it became her. she bore it modestly, but still as if it were perfectly natural. nikolai had never seen her so charming. she wore a simple, soft, clinging woollen dress, a little bonnet fastened under her chin. he sprang up. "an immense success," cried he to her. she laid her finger on her lips. "please hush, i have no wish to assemble a court of journalists and colleagues about me!" said she in russian. she spoke in russian sometimes, and it always pleased colia to hear her attempt his dearly loved mother tongue. then one of the men turned round from her picture. he was a famous critic who knew her. "_c'est elle_," whispered he to the others. bowing deeply, he stepped up to her and asked if he might introduce several of her particular admirers. she could not refuse. she was surrounded. nikolai remained respectfully in the background and watched her. at length she freed herself. he came up to her again. "why are you laughing?" she asked him, quite vexedly. "you look so unhappy," he replied. "i have never seen any one who could have received an ovation with such an expression of mere tolerance." she sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "h-m! and you perhaps think that i am above such flatteries, that they are wearisome to me?" she asked. "it had that appearance." "how appearances deceive!" sighed she, humorously. "no one is more susceptible to flattery than i; but, quite aside from the fact that many of these men said coarse things which they considered compliments to me, the expressions of merely two or three of them were agreeable to me. men artists with us women artists completely ignore that thus far and no further, that atmosphere of apartness, which forms a convenient barrier between a modest woman and a man. what _sans gêner_ their conversation requires; they treat us as men, and that is unbearable." nikolai smiled still more. he was indescribably pleased at her unvanquishable maidenly sensitiveness. she thrust her hands thoughtfully in the pockets of her jacket. "do not ridicule me," sighed she; "but how agreeable it is to associate with a really well-bred man like you, for instance. one feels that first when one is an artist." "you are a droll artist," said he, and laughed quite heartily. she shrugged her shoulders comically, and said: "it seems so to me sometimes." his heart was in his mouth. was not that the moment? but before he could have said a word, she turned away her head and said: "ah! there is sonia." sonia perceived her friend. "ah! there you are at last," cried she, gayly. "i have sought you for an hour. your picture is splendid; your success indescribable. you cannot imagine how proud i am of you." her true, unselfish enthusiasm became her so well that nikolai could not help pressing heartily her cordially outstretched hand. "they are closing," said nita, and they turned to the entrance. "a true success, a great success," repeated sophie to her friend as they went out. "are you not a little glad, you pale sphinx?" "certainly," replied nita, "certainly i am glad; but i cannot understand it. i would like to give myself a treat after all this past anxiety. suppose we make an excursion to some of the paris suburbs. are you of the party, monsieur nikolas?" and nikolai's head swam with happiness. xx. "adieu, nikolai! adieu, mascha! thank you many times. i have enjoyed myself wonderfully, splendidly! good-night." it is sonia's voice on the steps of the house in the avenue murillo. she had gone to the theatre with nikolai and his sister. a month has passed since the opening of the salon, the whole wonderful month of may. on the stair landing stands nita, who, on account of great weariness, had refused to go with them--a lamp in her hand. nikolai sees her white face, surrounded with light, over an abyss of blackness. "good-night, fräulein," calls he. "good-night," repeats a hoarse, weary little voice--mascha's. then brother and sister depart, and sonia hurries up the stairs. "did you enjoy yourself?" asks nita, in her sympathetic, motherly way, while she embraces her friend. "splendidly; it was charming," says sonia, enthusiastically. "what was the play?" sonia is silent a moment, confusedly. "'_les deux orphelines_,'" murmured she, hesitatingly, ponderingly. then she corrects herself. "no, no; how stupid i am! '_les pilules du diable_.'" and nita strokes her flushed cheeks laughingly, and kisses her on her eyes. "how pretty you are; you grow prettier every day," she whispers to her. "nikolai said that to me to-day also," says sonia, proudly, and blushes deeply. "so! and did he not say something more significant?" laughs nita. "what should he say?" stammers sonia. "i do not know." "what droll people you two are!" says nita, shaking her head. "to think that this moonlight-twilight has lasted since december. pardon me, sonia, but nikolai is a riddle to me. how can one be so nice, so clever, and at the same time so slow and awkward? how can one need so long a time to bring something from the heart to the lips?" "how do you know what he has in his heart?" replies sonia, with a frown, but with only half-repressed joy in her voice. "and now, tell me, have you nothing for me to eat? i am fearfully hungry." "i was prepared for that; come in our cosey corner." the cosey corner is a little three-cornered room off of the drawing-room. a piano, a chair almost breaking under its load of music, a single sofa, a large arm-chair, and a little japanese table, all grouped about a parisian fire-place, form the furniture. on the miniature table stands a little repast prepared--a dish of strawberries, sandwiches, little cakes, and, amongst all these delicacies, a sensible silver tea-pot. "ah, how nice you are!" says sonia, pleased. "a mother could not care for me better; i cannot bear to think how horrible it was before i was with you! i live as if in paradise with you!" "did poor little mascha become at all gayer in the course of the evening?" asked nita, as she poured tea for her friend. "no; i am sorry for the child. she looks badly, pale, her face so lengthened and aged. i do not understand how she can take the affair so to heart. she scarcely knew bärenburg. his wedding must be soon." "poor midget!" murmurs nita. "nikolai is very anxious about her," goes on sonia. "it is touching to see her with him. at every funny part of the piece his eyes rested on her face to see if she would laugh, but she never did." nita hands her friend a letter. "from berlin; it is your father's writing," says she. sonia opens it. "yes, from papa. he is coming here in a day or two; he may be here tomorrow." "and then you will be untrue to me," says nita, smilingly. "have you finished your supper? do you not wish to retire?" "no, no; i am not sleepy, and it is so nice to talk," replies sonia. "come out on the terrace for a little." silently nita follows. the heavens are cloudless. it is bright moonlight. "only think whom i saw in the theatre this evening," begins sonia. "as you do not know the person, my communication will, alas! lack the impressive effect." "well?" "the most singular woman--a certain njikitjin." "marie petrovna njikitjin?" says nita, who until then has been dreamily looking over the terrace railing. "is she in paris?" "yes. do you know her?" "a little," murmurs nita. "i know her well," sighs sonia. "how so?" asks nita shortly, quite cuttingly. "papa left me with her before he left paris." "that is incredible," says nita, shocked. "he certainly must know--" she hesitates. "naturally, i also wondered at this choice of a protector," says sonia, evenly. "at first it was all very well; she only seemed a little peculiar and very untidy. she passed the whole morning in a wrapper, nibbling now at _paté de foie gras_, now at bonbons. in the afternoon she slept, and in the evening she by turns wrote letters and played the piano, especially beethoven's sonatas. but at the full moon she became terribly abnormal. the whole night long she rushed here and there, wringing her hands, threw herself on my bed, demanded promises of friendship from me, which she returned with the most fiery kisses, and finally--you will not believe it, nita, and you are the first to whom i tell it, but i still remember the petrified horror which seized me at that time--she confessed to me, minutely, it was in vain to wish to restrain her, her love affair with lensky!" "shameless woman!" murmured nita, angrily. "think of my position," continued sonia. "how could i free myself? i could not repeat her confession. then she herself helped me out of the difficulty--in what a manner! three days after the moonlight scene, she told me, in the greatest excitement, lensky was to give a concert in berlin, and asked me to travel after him with her. when i refused, she travelled alone. heavens! how pale you are! my story has angered you. no wonder; i know what an effect the thing had on me! and only think, njikitjin had the shamelessness to speak to me this evening as we left the theatre. she wishes to visit me; what do you say to that?" "she dare not cross my threshold," burst out nita, with flashing eyes. "that is what i say." "when did you, then, learn to know her?" asks sonia, confidentially. "i? as a very young girl in vienna. i visited her then for a short time," says nita, tonelessly. "and have you never met lensky at her house?" "yes, certainly." "you never told me that," says sonia astonished. "why should i?" says nita, very harshly. "it is no pleasant recollection." when sonia again looks round for nita, she has vanished. she is about to hurry after her. then she hears a voice from below call: "good-night, good, good-night!" "good-night, colia," says sonia, joyfully, as answer. "is it you?" calls nikolai, slowly, disappointedly. "whom else should it be?" asks she, frightened, fearfully. and softly whispering, she repeats: "who--who----" yes, it is nikolai, haunting the pare monceau at midnight. after he had taken his sister home, he had returned to the park to look up at nita's windows. he stands before a decisive point in his life. the sudden illness of the russian diplomat in washington has caused him to be sent there. he is advanced from attaché to second secretary. time presses. affairs must be quickly decided; before his departure he must have spoken to nita. but if his happiness should escape him now, at the last moment; if he frightens it away by some foolish, violent word! on the other hand, if she says yes! his heart beats high. he builds the most fantastic air castles, and, charmed by his own fancies, he says to himself: "how beautiful, ah, how beautiful!" and around him the spring dies and the blossoms fall--fall--they all fall! xxi. it is sunday. in the midst of the little english catholic chapel in paris kneels nita, her face in her hands. when mass is over, without waiting to greet any acquaintances, she returns home. she looks pale, has evidently slept badly. the shadow in her eyes is darker than ever. sadly her eyes wander over the park. "spring is dead," says she. and suddenly--she had thought it long past, but the conversation with sonia revived the painful remembrance anew--she thinks of that time, six full years ago, when, in a sweet, dreamy may night, quite like yesterday, a sultry hurricane had killed the spring of her young, pure, sensitive life with all its poetic enthusiasm and heaven-aspiring, jubilant exuberance. and with this recollection, the old, never fully vanquished horror of life has again awakened in her, that terrible, all-consuming, all-degrading horror which must forever exclude her from every sweet, unconscious, surrendering inclination of the heart. wearily she mounts the broad stairs to her apartment. sonia is not at home. nita seats herself at her writing-table, as she does every sunday, unwillingly, but punctually, to make up her weekly accounts. then there is a ring without. the maid announces: "herr lensky." "let him come in," says nita, and as nikolai enters, adds indifferently: "take a seat and amuse yourself as you can. there is a book of leech's caricatures. sonia will be back soon; her father unexpectedly arrived, and she has gone to the exhibition with him; but they are to lunch with me. you are also cordially invited if you choose to accept. meanwhile, permit me to finish my accounts." with pen in hand, she has led him from the drawing-room where the writing-table stands into the pretty little cosey corner, and now wishes to leave him and return to her work. with an imploring glance he withholds her. "i am not in the mood to look at picture-books," says he. "if you cannot let your accounts wait, i will come another time." "how sensitive you are! i would have thought that we two were beyond the plane of common politeness, at least as far as i am concerned." she puts down the pen, and sitting down on the little sofa in the cosey corner, motions him to an armchair. "i have a confidence for you, fräulein," murmurs nikolai. "i thought so," replies nita. over her finely chiselled white face trembles something like a difficultly suppressed smile. "it is so hard," he continues. "will you not help me a little?" "no," says she, energetically. "i have not the slightest wish to assist your awkward circumlocutions." and with friendly playfulness she adds: "how can one find so hard something which is so easy?" how cordially and unconstrainedly she looks at him! an uneasy sensation takes possession of him. "so easy!" murmurs he, hoarsely. "do you find it so easy to ask a question on whose answer depends the happiness of our whole life?" "if one can be so sure of the answer," says she, still playfully, mockingly, but very good-naturedly. "sure?" his eyes rest penetratingly on her face. nikolai feels very unpleasantly, but still can no longer be silent. "i am designated to washington," stammers he, hastily rushing through the words. "i start to-morrow evening. may i come back in the autumn to--fetch you?" she starts up. "me?" cries out she, beside herself. "me?" "and who else, then?" he asks, with desperate harshness. "do you not know that i love you?" "me?" she repeats, hesitatingly, and paling. "do you then believe that it has seemed to me worth the trouble to look at another girl since i have known you? oh, love, darling, only one!" the for years restrained fire of his nature has awakened. her silence encourages him. he kneels at her feet, draws her hands to his lips. he is no longer the well-bred young diplomat whom nita had formerly known; he is lensky's son. more slender, with more finely cut features, his face yet, in the expression, in the kind trace about the mouth, in the violent demand and still tender supplication of his glance, resembles his father's quite mysteriously. it is the same coaxing voice with which lensky, in his good moods, if he had wished, could have charmed down an angel from heaven; they are the same full, warm lips. his words she has listened to without moving, but as his lips touch her hands she repulses him with a violent movement. "leave me!" she gasps. "go!" dizzily he rises. such an expression of anxiety, of horror is depicted on her face that his pride is up in arms. "yet i have said nothing insulting to you," says he, violently, and looks piercingly at her, as if he expected that she would reply something. but as she remains silent, he speaks, with difficulty forcing himself to be calm: "that you refuse my hand is your affair--at heart i was prepared for that; but you shake me off as an impertinent. you extinguish the sun of my life, and do not once tell me that you are sorry for me. whom, then, have i loved so passionately, so boundlessly? the girl who is capable of such horrible treatment i simply did not know!" his voice sounds harsh, but his eyes still supplicate her, tenderly, despairingly. he cannot believe that all is over, that she will let him leave her thus. she will yet find a friendly word for him as farewell. she stands silent, resting her hand on the mantel, her eyes turned from him. she wishes to say something, but it does not pass her lips. her face is ashy pale; she trembles; dizzily she gropes for a support. forgetting all, he makes a step forward to assist her, to support her. as if in deadly fear, she repels him. her face expresses a kind of horror. a last time his eyes rest on her longingly, desperately--then he goes. when sophie, a little later, returns, she finds nita deathly pale, stretched on her bed, her hands folded over her breast, "like a corpse in the coffin," said sophie, when she told of it later. she wished to steal away on tip-toes, so as not to disturb her friend, but nita held her back. she looked anxiously, piercingly, in her face. then sophie bent over her. "i have just met nikolai," says she. "i know what has taken place. oh, nita, nita, you have given him up for my sake, and now you are breaking your heart over it!" "i?"--nita smiled sadly--"on his account? i am sorry that he suffers, but else--no, no, my poor sonia, you are mistaken." "then i do not understand," says sophie in astonishment. "what has so shocked you?" "me?" nita holds her hand before her eyes. "a slight heart cramp; i have it at times. i was frightened. it was very foolish, but i cannot help it. it comes over me suddenly sometimes. poor sonia, poor, dear little sonia! are you not, then, angry with me?" sophie had seated herself by her friend's bed; she was pale, but bore up bravely. "what is there to be angry about?" said she, wearily. "i do not understand why i did not long ago notice it. it is natural that he loves you." "ah, sophie, it is only a mistaken idea; he does not know his own heart. it will all pass. he must return to you, learn to love you," assures nita. "never! if you had seen him go down the steps slowly, step for step, as if carrying something wounded, you would not say that. poor colia!" and, suddenly raising her voice, quite reproachfully: "it is terrible that he must suffer so. heavens! do you really not understand what the love of such a man is worth?" a shudder ran over nita's slender limbs. "leave me alone, my dear, brave sonia; only for a little while," murmured she. "leave me alone." xxii. how he passed this long, terrible sunday afternoon, what he did during these endless hours, nikolai could later not have told. he walked--walked without looking round, like a man who has no more aim in the world, who seeks nothing but weariness. if she had given him a friendly word! but no! he does not understand, does not understand! somewhere there is a secret. it is dark when he returns to the hôtel westminster. he finds his servant in the middle of his room, on his knees before an open trunk. clothes hang over all the chair backs. nikolai remembers that he is to travel to-morrow evening. at first he wishes impatiently to send away the servant, who conscientiously questions him about the packing. then he draws himself up. life must still be borne, even if there were no more joy in it. he gives orders as to the arrangement of his things. the windows of his room are open. a carriage stops before the hotel. that voice! he leans out of the window, but sees nothing but an open cab; from without approaches a step, the door opens, lensky enters. "colia!" the musician's rough voice expressed such hearty, violent joy that nikolai quite forgets his despair. never before has he had the feeling of close, intimate relationship with his father so warmly as now. with unspeakable joy his gaze rests on the old artist. it seems to him as if there were something new, noble about him. he has grown thin, the furrows in his forehead are deeper, his hair is gray. he has aged greatly. but how well it becomes him! the lovable, benevolent expression of the lips, the patient, one might almost say pardoning, sadness of his gaze. "father! you--what a surprise!" fairly rejoices nikolai, and rushes in the arms which his father stretches out to him. and lensky, however spoiled he is otherwise, each time rejoices anew when his children show their love for him. "i came upon the message which you sent me of your transferment. i wished to be with you at least twenty-four hours before you leave. naturally you have already dined. i have ordered the waiter to bring my supper up here, that is, if i am welcome to my son. send away your valet," with a glance over his shoulder at the servant; "we will wait on ourselves. we could go down-stairs, but then braun would appear with my travelling accounts, and--and we would like to be alone, my boy, eh?" the waiter has come and covered a little table and placed upon it tea and cold meat, whereupon he goes. lensky pours tea. "you will take a cup, colia? one can always drink tea." and nikolai, to whom until then the thought of taking any nourishment to-day had caused a true horror, sets his lips to the cup. "i hope that you have much to tell me," says lensky, good-naturedly. "in your letter there was indeed much; i have sufficiently questioned you, have i not? but still not all that i would like to know. mascha, little rascal, did not write at all. apropos, what is the matter with the silly girl? i drove to her directly from the station. she is completely changed. i had so looked forward to seeing her. she was fresh and crisp as a moss-rosebud when i left in january, and now she is flabby and yellow as a withered flower left forgotten in a glass. she is no longer even pretty, our little beauty! what is the matter?" lensky lays down knife and fork, and looks uneasily, questioningly, at nikolai. "you wrote me nothing of it," he continues; "and still you must have noticed the change in her." "what use to write you of it? i consulted a physician; he ordered something for her which had no effect. her condition is not dangerous, only tediously unpleasant--anæmia in a high degree, nothing else. why worry you?" "anæmia! it is incredible that i should have an anæmic daughter. poor mascha!" said lensky. "well, i drove to the avenue wagram, pleased at the thought of seeing my gay, vivacious darling, like the old child that i am. 'mademoiselle lensky at home?' asked i. 'yes; she is in the garden.' there sits something wrapped in a shawl, shivering and bent over her folded hands; a pale thing, with black circles around her eyes. at first i did not recognize her; then, 'maschenka,' said i, 'my little dove, my soul!' if you perhaps believe that she rushed in my arms with the little bird-cry which you know--of all the music in the world, that little cry was perhaps the dearest--far from it! she started, quite as if i had frightened her, came very slowly up to me, gave me her cheek. when i wished to inquire the cause of her change, she grew irritable and excited; she was not well, she said; she had a headache--would lie down. but when i prepared to go, she clung to my neck and sobbed, oh! so bitterly. i could not calm her at all. she was alone at home. the jeliagins were dining out. they must have left her much alone." he is silent awhile; then, throwing back his head, and in an obstinate tone, as if he wished to cut short some one's argument, he said: "anæmia! she must have some unhappy love affair. it is too foolish, just like any other girl! and i thought it must need, at least, a siegfried to unsettle my daughter. now i have it!" he pushes the hair back from his temples with both hands, and sighs with humorous exaggeration. "do you know who is in her mind? she certainly did not wish to confess to me." "i really did not know," stammered nikolai, uneasily, "if she had an interest--" he suddenly ceases. "it is evidently one-sided," said lensky. "but, even then, it needs a cause. has no one, then, made love to her?" "i have noticed nothing," says nikolai, growing more embarrassed. he knows what a burst of rage against aristocrats the mention of the only reason he could give for mascha's unhappiness would call forth from his father. "poor thing!" grumbles lensky. "and one must have a pair of such pretty eyes only to attain that!" "you must not take it so seriously," consoles nikolai. "a little distraction, one of the water-cures. aunt barbara spoke of st. maurice." "ah, yes; and she will probably sacrifice herself," says lensky, with a grim laugh. "but none of that. i will not leave my poor little dove any longer to strange oversight. if the child must go to st. maurice, i will go with her. if only these stupid, insolent women would not follow me everywhere! i am so weary of that, so heartily weary. you are astonished! yes, it has suddenly dawned upon me that it is all over--all--i am old. ah! how pleasant it is to be old, no longer perpetually to have a storm in one's veins, to be able to calmly rejoice in those whom one loves." he laughs, and takes nikolai good-naturedly by the arm. "well, now, about your great affair. when shall i learn to know my daughter-in-law? you are not the only one who raves about her. lady banbury swears by no one more than by her. i wrote you it. i knew it would please you. i was very foolish with my mistrust. why do you say nothing? how do matters stand between you?" "how do they stand?" murmurs nikolai, dully, half confused, as one who has suddenly been awakened from a peaceful dream. "how do they stand?" "well?" says lensky, becoming impatient, harshly. nikolai passes his hand slowly here and there over the table-cloth, coughs, says nothing. lensky takes the shade from the lamp, bends down, squints, looks in a pale face with a stiff, unexpressive smile on the lips. he strikes his fist on the table so that everything rattles. "that is not to be borne!" cries he, springs up, and walks up and down the room. he hums some musical motive to himself, does not finish it, then turns again to nikolai. "you are not a whit better than mascha," grumbles he. "so, have i looked forward to that!" he sits down again opposite nikolai, and vexedly pushes his plate away. "nothing but unpleasantness! scarcely had i reached paris when an acquaintance met me at the station. 'do you know that your _protégé_, bulatow, has hanged himself?' cries he, naturally to please me; and then a relation of particulars: the most absolute need; he had eaten nothing for three days; his wife half mad with grief; they were too proud to beg--yes, yes, proud--they were not too proud with me, if i had not shown him the door! i would like to cudgel braun; as if i were happier for the few hundred rubles which he saved me! then i hurry to mascha to enliven me, find a hysteric, leaden-footed, melancholy being, and now--it is enough to make one beside himself! out with it! why do you make a face as if chickens had eaten your bread? what about your love affair?" his tone is rough, quite harsh. he belongs to the men who at times ill-treat their kin from rage at not being able to make them happy. "she has refused me, to-day, that is all," murmured nikolai, turning away his head, as if in shame. "refused--you!" bursts out lensky; then uneasy, confused, he draws his chair nearer to nikolai's. "refused you! i do not understand it!" suddenly he takes his son's head between his hands, and looking at him with quite childish pride in his beautiful eyes, he cries out: "but that is absurd, boundlessly absurd! what will she, then, the princess, if my splendid boy is not good enough for her? no; do not think anything of it, my boy. hold up your head, it was a misunderstanding!" "really--certainly! it is only the first time," murmurs nikolai, with the same stiff smile. then suddenly, with a gasping sob, which shakes his whole frame, he buries his face in his crossed arms on the table. "colia! nikolinka! poor boy, poor fellow!" murmurs lensky, stroking his head very gently. "so it cuts so deep. see, i do not understand it. at first i was only vexed, reviled her because she wounded my paternal pride. but if you really love her so, we will consider the affair more closely. you poor fellow, you are quite beside yourself, and all on account of a woman! i never suffered so. i really cannot feel for you. truly, if your mother had not wished me at that time in rome! but she was the only one; except her, they were all alike to me. i always said one woman was only like the others. you shake your head, you are right; it is nonsense; but one always speaks so when one is vexed. heavens! if any one permitted himself to tell me that my mascha is no better than--but that does not belong here; we wish to speak of your affairs. i cannot believe that a girl could refuse you unless there was some one else whom she loved." "it still seems to be the case," said nikolai, who now, having mastered his unmanly weakness, calmly listened to his father. "there must be some misunderstanding," says lensky, thoughtfully. "especially as, if your letters told the truth, she did not seem to repel you, but rather encouraged you to repeat your visits to the studio. tell me--there were always three of you, sonia was there--what kind of a _rôle_ did the little prude play between you?" "what _rôle_?" nikolai blushed. "none at all. we were always very pleasant to each other; we love each other quite like brother and sister." "so! and the other one loves her?" "she cares for her as the tenderest mother." "h-m! and she refused you to-day?" "yes; how often do you wish to hear it from me? my god, if she had said a kind word to me, but she fairly drove me away!" nikolai's eyes sparkle quite angrily; then he adds, slowly, heavily, but speaking plainly: "i let myself be so carried away as to kiss her hand, and she shook me off as if she had a horror of me." "so; did she? the simpleton! do you really believe that a girl would so rudely refuse a boy like you if she were quite sure of her heart? torment yourself no more, colia." "father!" "the thing is plain; she sacrifices herself from friendship for sonia. you have done a fine thing, you shy lover, you." lensky laughs. "never mind, we will set it all right. to-morrow, in the course of the day, i will speak with her, and, if she pleases me--you must grant me that condition, my dear--if she pleases me, then," stretching out both hands to the young man, "what reward shall i obtain if i win your plaything for you?" colia did not answer, only buried his long, slender hands in his father's. "the first kiss of your betrothed, do you hear, the first," jests lensky. "i will not do it for less. you shall only receive the second." "yes, father." "fine!" lensky has risen. "it is almost midnight; go to bed. when do you set out?" "to-morrow evening at nine, to calais." "if i bring you a happy message, will you not concede another twenty-four hours?" nikolai only smiles thoughtfully. "now be of good courage, you childish fellow; dream the most beautiful dreams, consoled. i will manage my affair well; and i will not tell her that i have seen you weep like a little girl on her account." this he whispers in his ear, while he once more embraces him before retiring. this evening no one might have dared remind nikolai of any of the excesses which he had formerly, not without bitterness, reproached his father with. all that had ever offended him in the great artist he had forgotten. to-day he understood the boundless love which his mother, despite all the injuries he had done her, had felt for this man. "what a wonderful man," he murmurs, "what a golden heart!" he was really a wonderful man in his way, and generously good. few knew how good he was. like most prominent men, in the course of his life he had been much calumniated, by no one with more convincing cleverness than by himself. roused by the flattery which he met everywhere to angry opposition, he ascribed his noblest actions to the lowest motives, and flatly denied every lofty emotion; and, as the russian national peculiarity of self-depreciation is quite unknown in western europe, his listeners took all that he said about himself as plain truth. but, indeed, he was a thoroughly large-hearted man, and unusually conscientious to his colleagues. one could not charge him with smallness, or any trace of pitiful envy. he had injured few men but himself. he had never crushed a weaker than he in order to take his place, but, on the contrary, was always ready to raise all strugglers and cordially give them his hand. bulatow's suicide had deeply concerned him. while nikolai slept peacefully, lensky did not close his eyes. incessantly the thought of the unfortunate whom he had driven from his door the last time he had applied to him for a loan pursued him--the thought of the dead, and of his widow, half mad with grief. when he joined nikolai at breakfast the next morning he looked miserably, and the first that he said to his son was: "i have thought over your affair; everything confirms my suspicion. you need have no fear, my poor boy, but you must have a little patience. with the best will i cannot visit her this morning. i must go to this poor bulatow and see how things are with her, what she will let me do for her; i cannot bear the thought of her misery." xxiii. monday in whitsun-week. blue heavens, with slowly piling up storm-clouds, and in all paris a close, oppressive heat. toward two o'clock a cab rolls up the rue blanche. in the cab sits mascha, a large bouquet of white roses on her knees. her blue eyes are strangely staring. "is fräulein von sankjéwitch in her studio?" asks mascha, of the _concierge_, as she leaves the cab. "yes, mademoiselle." mascha hesitates a moment, as if she were not prepared for that; then she says: "give her the roses from--" just then nita crosses the sill. "ah!" cries she, gayly, "you have come again at last. please come in." "no, no," replies mascha, in great haste and excitement. "i cannot stay; i only wished to bring you the roses--for good-by." "for good-by. how so?" "papa came yesterday, and----" "you are going away with him." nita completed the sentence. "well, they are very beautiful, your roses, but still i will not accept them if you do not come in. you owe me a great many visits, little dove; come in," she urges, energetically. one moment mascha hesitates, then she accepts the invitation. "only a moment," she murmurs. "i should like to see your studio once more, a last time, and your new picture. colia said it is so beautiful." "see! there it stands on the easel," says nita, while she arranges the roses in a vase. mascha went up to the painting. it represented the corpse of a drowned girl, resting on a bier. her garments drip with water, and so do the outstretched thin limbs, which make the impression of having been recently taken from the water. all this is painted with wonderfully bold truthfulness, but the charm of the face, the touchingly contented smile of the dead, reconciles the spectator with the painfulness of the subject. "how did you think of it?" says mascha, shuddering. "i saw it in the morgue," explains nita. "on a sunday, shortly after the opening of the salon, we were very gay, nikolai, sonia, and i. we went in the morgue, as if in defiance, but when i came out my heart was so full that i felt at once that i would make a picture of it. that is my way of ridding myself of an unpleasant impression." mascha stares with wide eyes at the picture. "who stood model for it?" murmurs she. "a little seamstress." "how content she looks. do you believe that a dead person can look so satisfied?" mascha speaks as softly and solemnly as if a true corpse were before her. "the drowned girl in the morgue had this expression. besides, i have often noticed it in dead people. have you never seen a corpse?" "never!" says mascha, shaking her head--"never!" "not even your mother?" "not even she--i would not. i was afraid." and seizing nita convulsively by the wrist, she asked breathlessly: "nita, do you believe that there is a second life after this one?" if anyone else had asked this question of nita, she would probably have answered all kinds of things. to the child, evidently tormented by anxiety, she only answered earnestly and simply: "yes," whereupon she added: "and now come away from the horrid picture. i would not have asked you to look at it if i had not forgotten what a nervous little person you are. now make yourself comfortable. you will spend the afternoon with me." and nita wished to take her hat. mascha pushed her off. "i must go, i must go," she repeated, with the same hasty uneasiness. suddenly she herself took off her hat. "only a little while--a little while," she whispered. "sit down in the arm-chair, nita, so, and i here." she crouched down on a cushion at her friend's feet; then laying her head down on nita's knees, she begs: "and now love me a little; be good to me, very good; you can be so well!" it is very close even here in the large, airy studio. already nita believes that mascha has fallen asleep, when she murmurs: "what do you call it?" "what?" "your picture." "martyr." "ah! martyr--martyr--and--do you not believe that she killed herself? it is wrong to kill one's self." nita says nothing. "and--do you not think--that she killed herself--because"--mascha murmurs this softly to the folds of nita's dress--"because she had done something wrong?" "but, maschenka, how do you come by such thoughts?" nita says it quite reproachfully. maschenka is silent, and nita continues to stroke her hair gently, like a tender mother who lulls her sick child to sleep. after a while maschenka begins anew. "nita," whispers she, and her voice sounds so weary and choked that nita only with difficulty understands her, "could you ever love any one if you knew that he had done something wrong?" "what do you mean?" asks nita, and feels that the young being leaning against her trembles as with a violent chill. "can you understand that one can do something really wrong, something wholly wrong, without being bad himself?" for an instant nita hesitates, then she says: "yes, i believe so. yes--but what wrong can you have done?" "i--oh, nothing; naturally, it is no question of me," assures mascha, hastily. "only when one lives so alone, and has no one to whom one can speak, all sorts of thoughts come to one. it is foolish----" "no!" cries out nita, hastily. "it is not foolish, it is sad. how could one leave you with those uncongenial people this long, long time?" mascha only silently shrugs her shoulders. "but now it is over. you will be happy. you will again be healthy and happy." "yes," murmurs mascha, scarcely audibly--"happy--healthy!" "if i only knew you far away from this dusty sultriness," says nita, "somewhere where it is shady, cool, where fresh roses bloom each day, where the air is almost as fresh in the evening as it is in the morning. you long to be away?" "yes," murmured mascha, "i long to be away--away from the houses, from people, from the heat, far away, anywhere where it is cool, very cool!" "poor heart, my poor little darling!" after a while mascha whispers: "do you remember how, the first time i came here, i was afraid of the skull? you were so dear and good to me. i loved you from that moment." "and i you, my angel. you must not forget me. you must write to me sometimes. promise me?" but mascha says nothing, only kisses repeatedly the young austrian's slender hands. suddenly she springs up. "now the time is past. adieu!" she cries. "adieu!" she embraces her friend violently, and then pushes her quickly from her. quite before nita perceives it, she has slipped out of the studio and into the cab. from the window she kisses her hand to her. will nita ever forget the staring look which the child gave her? it has grown quite dark. it is pouring. further painting is not to be thought of. nita would really like to go home, but her art dealer has appointed four o'clock to call. he will not come in this storm--there! is not that a carriage rolling into the yard? there is a ring at her door, she opens. who is that? she has to hold to a chair not to sink down. lensky! in spite of the gloom she sees him plainly--the large frame, with its now slightly stooping broad shoulders, the face surrounded by long, half-curled hair. she stands with her back to the light. he sees nothing but the dark outline, but this outline pleases him; her carriage, the shape of her little, proudly carried head, has something sympathetic, and the perfume of iris and violets which is about her is pleasant to him. colia seems to have shown good taste. if only the ice were broken. it is hard to find the first word! slowly, and moving backward, she has reached the middle of the room. she speaks no word of welcome, offers him no chair, does not once ask him what brings him. "an unbidden guest," he begins constrainedly, but with a smile of heart-winning graciousness. "i do not know if you know me--by sight, i mean?" she shudders without answering. "well, yes, you know me. i am so-and-so, but to you i am now only the father of a poor young man whom you have greatly pained." he pauses as if he expects that she will say something, but she is silent, only retreats a step. it is as if he should speak to a picture or statue. what is the matter with her? well, he has promised the boy to speak with her. now she turns her head a little, he perceives her profile; she is charming, it cannot be denied, and what pride and defiance! it will be hard to win her, but it is worth the trouble to try it. "you evidently find me very impertinent," he begins anew, half-laughingly, "but it cannot be helped; you will not succeed in shaking me off until i have made you speak. i was initiated in colia's affair, and was rejoiced at the happiness on which i had already begun to count for him, when yesterday he confessed to me his despair, and looked so miserable, and yet bore up so bravely, that i promised him to more accurately fathom your obstinate heart. i really cannot understand that a warm-hearted, fine-feeling being such as you must be, from nikolai's description, should refuse my son. but what is the matter? why do you not answer a word? you are evidently defiant, of strong character, will not betray the friend for whom you sacrificed yourself. have i guessed it, my child? i should like to see your face once." he stretches his head forward and looks at her attentively. "and you are very, very charming; it is worth the pains to conquer you, and i will conquer you." he wishes to take her hand, but she draws it away hastily. it has grown somewhat lighter. with an angry gesture nita has turned her face fully to the old artist. her eyes are full of a repellent pride, which is mixed with horror. he looks at her closely. a horrible misgiving takes possession of him. "have i not already seen you?" his and her eyes meet. "great god!" he stamps his foot. a moment he stands as if petrified with horror. "forgive!" he murmurs, scarce audibly; then, holding his hand over his eyes, he leaves the room. xxiv. "well?" nikolai cries out to his father. for an hour he has been sitting in the virtuoso's parlor, impatiently awaiting his return; sits there with a newspaper in his hand, with a high-beating heart, which he tries to persuade that hope is a frivolous deceiver on which one should not rely. one glance at lensky's face suffices to convince the formerly so obstinate heart. "it is nothing," murmured lensky, quite confusedly; "nothing. it cannot be; you must submit; it is never otherwise!" and, as if to cut off all further explanation, he asks: "was no one here in my absence? no visitor?" "no one came up here," replies nikolai. "i thought it would be in vain," stammered he, with difficulty preserving his composure. "but you were so convinced. so, then, nothing--no reason?" and, with a pitiable smile, he adds: "it must be borne! a very good article in the _times_, on hector berlioz; you should read it. how stupid i am, i have torn the sheet. pardon!" he still rests his eyes supplicatingly on his father, as if he hoped he would tell him more explicitly how it had all been. but the virtuoso is silent. he only murmurs something to himself, then sits down, with his back to nikolai, near the chimney, and stares into the dull fire-place. "did--did she displease you?" asks nikolai. lensky does not reply. meanwhile, there is a loud knock at the door. every one comes to see lensky without being announced; that is an acknowledged custom. "come in!" calls he, harshly. a tall, slender man, dressed in the latest fashion, enters. valerian kyrillowitch kasin, sonia's father. "what joy to meet you here in paris!" he says to the virtuoso. "we two have enjoyed life together here in our time, you and i!" "yes, very much," murmurs lensky. "what an atmosphere!" raves kasin. "it goes to one's head like champagne. i am intoxicated, fairly intoxicated. guess whom i found again in paris--our senta, from vienna." "i have no idea whom you mean," says lensky, with poorly concealed uneasiness. "the charming girl whose acquaintance we made at the njikitjin's in vienna. we named her senta, because she fell in love with your picture, boris, quite like the wagnerian enthusiast with the picture of the flying dutchman. i scarcely knew that she had another name." "it is unbearably close here," murmurs lensky, and pulls at his collar. "please open the window, nikolai." nikolai does so, and remains standing near the window. "i do not remember," says lensky. "really, you do not remember? but, _à propos_, if it does not inconvenience you, could you lend me one or two thousand francs? i have already telegraphed to st. petersburg." "i beg you, nikolai, take two thousand-franc notes from the desk in my bed room. here is the key." nikolai takes the key and goes in the adjoining room, the door of which, as his father notices not without vexation, he leaves open. "so you no longer remember her!" goes on kasin. "that is incomprehensible to me; you were quite wild about her, enthusiastic. i had never seen you thus before about a girl. i met her one evening at njikitjin's, only one evening, but i remember her very well. she had, indeed, no incense for me; she saw and heard at that time nothing but lensky. you must remember her. they called her senta in the njikitjin set." "have you found the money, colia?" calls lensky, irritably, to his son. "at once, father. the lock is rusty. i--i made a mistake in the key." "now her name is fräulein von sankjéwitch, and she is the most intimate friend of my daughter," explains kasin. "the strangest of all is that she has never said a word about you to sonia. young girls usually tell each other everything. and, as she fainted last winter at one of your concerts, she has evidently not forgotten you. and you, ungrateful one, is it really worth while to please you--to please you thus? all the music-mad ladies were beside themselves with jealousy. besides--who knows?--if you see her again she will turn your head once more. she is more charming than ever, greatly changed, but grown prettier." then nikolai enters and brings the money. soon after, kasin leaves. nikolai politely accompanies him to the door, which he locks behind him. in what he now has to discuss with his father he does not wish to be disturbed. "so that was it--that," he says, slowly, as he goes up to lensky. "i do not understand what you mean," stammers lensky, uneasily, but his eyes fall before the accusing glance of his son. for a short moment deep silence rules. the blood has rushed to the virtuoso's face. he breathes heavily; wishes to say something, but does not bring it out. "you have guessed!" cries out nikolai. "but it was only a trifle! it was six years ago--she was a child at that time, a child intoxicated with music, irresponsible from enthusiasm. one must not be too severe! ah!" with a hoarse groan. "still, it is all the same, and you were right, and i was a fool!" he hurries out. then a heavy hand seizes him by the shoulder. "colia, stay!" cries lensky. "father!" "it is not as you think," says lensky, slowly, raising his bowed head. he is now deathly pale. "so it was only mere gossip on kasin's part?" says nikolai. "you have never seen her, or, at least, she never pleased you?" lensky shakes his massive head. "yes, she pleased me," said he, hoarsely, "very much; in that kasin spoke the truth. she pleased me indescribably. there was something unusual about her, something warmer, more natural than the others, and such a peculiar way of looking at one, as you know. i thought--but i was mistaken." he pauses. "well, father?" nikolai urges. "one evening i found her alone," murmurs lensky, scarce audibly. "njikitjin had arranged it so. oh! the lowness, the commonness of such a woman, who will flatter one at any price! i lost my head. she did not at first understand me--i thought it was affectation. must you know all?" "yes!" "well"--lensky gasps the words more than speaks them--"i was like a wild animal. she cried for help. i heard some one come, fortunately for her. and i was as frightened as a thief, and left. now, have you heard enough?" he fairly screams, and stamps on the floor. lensky is silent. nikolai's face is ashy, as that of a man whose heart has ceased beating with horror. "now i know why she shrank from me," says he, dully, without looking at his father. then he leaves him. xxv. at the same hour maschenka stands before the clock in her room and counts the strokes--"one, two, three, four, five. it must be now," says she to herself. "it must be now." it must be. slowly but surely and overpoweringly has the conviction mastered her. at first it was only an uneasy anxiety, but then an iron command. she has fought against it with all the wild, rebellious horror which a very young person feels at the thought of death. she will not--she will not! but at length despair and a daily increasing weariness have strengthened the decision. "yes, it must be." how shall she accomplish it? poison? no; she will go out of the world some way so that no one shall ever find her who knew her. and in the short spring nights she matures a plan, slyly carried out as only such a romantic little brain could think of. all is ready. she has granted herself the respite until her father's return, and for this reason she is frightened instead of pleased to see him again. it seemed to her that the executioner appeared to her and said: "come, it is time!" how good he was to her! what a beautiful future he planned for her! a black wall towers before her--there is no future. one, two, three, four, five, six! the hour is here. she undresses; not any garment which can be recognized as hers will she keep on, but changes everything for articles which she has gradually purchased. if she is washed ashore, no one shall suspect that the girl in the plain working-clothes might be the petted daughter of boris lensky. then she takes her mother's pearls, which she has not worn for a long time, from her jewel box, and kisses them. she kneels down before her holy picture, and prays. now she rises; a last time she slowly looks round her pretty room. her heart beats to bursting. "eliza, tell aunt that she need not expect me to dinner to-day," she calls to the maid through the closed door of the adjoining room. "i shall dine with papa." "_très bien_, mademoiselle!" and mascha goes. on the stairs she suddenly feels a burning thirst. she goes into the dining-room, takes a _carafe_ of water from the side-board, and drinks with a kind of eagerness. a red pyramid of fine, fresh raspberries, mascha's favorite fruit, is piled up on a glass dish. she reaches for the inviting fruit, takes two, three. suddenly something chokes her, a kind of spasm overcomes her; she hurries out. she has already reached the house-door, she hesitates. it must be! but must it be now? to live one more week, a fortnight; to enjoy the sunshine; to be indulged by her father; to forget all; to be happy! fourteen happy days are long! a clock in the house strikes the quarter past six. in a few minutes her aunt will return. she goes. now she is on the street. the avenue wagram lies behind her. she is in the champs elysées. she beckons to an empty cab. "to the nearest landing of the _swallow_," she says. the _swallow_, the pleasure steamer which daily runs between paris and st. cloud, is about to start when mascha reaches the landing. she will wait for the next boat. "_mais non, ma bonne fille_," says a coal-blackened fireman. "_montez toujours_," and he helps her on board. klip, klap, plash the waves on the ship's wooden sides. maschenka watches everything very calmly. at times she forgets why she is here, but for not a moment is she free from a hateful cold weight on her mind. occasionally she involuntarily makes plans for the morrow; then she shudders. to-morrow at this time--where will she be? on glides the ship. "meudon--meudon!" a little gray city nestling against a green hill. every time that the steamer stops, she says: "it must be now." each time she will land, seek some place between the green, drooping willows, in order undisturbed to carry out what she has undertaken--once more kneel down in the tender spring grass, between the dear young blossoms, confide her weak, child-soul to her dead mother, and then-- yes; at each station she wishes to land, and yet cannot, and remains sitting as if paralyzed with boundless anxiety of the fearful deed to which she would force herself, and against which every fibre of her warm young life rebels. "sèpres!" all the beauty in this laughing, sunny world passes through her mind. in vain does she try to fix her mind on a glorified eternity, and with all her tormenting thoughts mingles a cowardly fear, not only of death, but of the physical torment which precedes death, of the horrible gasping for breath in the water. "st. cloud!" it is the last station. some one of the ship officials asks her if she wishes to land. she rises. it grows black before her eyes. a cold sweat is on her forehead, dizzily she sinks back on the seat. slowly the boat works up the stream to paris. around its plump wooden body the waves plash sweetly and soothingly; between the whisper of the trees on the banks one hears the jubilant twittering of the birds who rejoice in the last sunbeams. weary, as after a severe illness, mascha sits there. she no longer comprehends the situation. why should she kill herself? her father will pardon, his love is inexhaustible, that she knows; and the others--with something of her old childish defiance, she shrugs her shoulders. ah! what does she care about the others? then, quite suddenly, a sharp wind springs up. the people leave the deck, flee to the cabin. only some young men who, smoking and talking, do not care about the storm, have remained above. mascha observes that they notice her. one of them makes a jest, the others laugh. heaven knows what they are laughing at! mascha imagines they have guessed---- like a leaping flame she feels permeated from head to foot with newly awakened, consuming, despairing shame. she springs up, bursts open the door of the little gate in the ship's railing. she holds both hands to her eyes. "mother!" she cries in her death agony. it is done. xxvi. the evening was already far advanced. lensky sat alone in his sitting-room, a prey to all sorts of feelings. a kind of rage chokes him. "why did i tell him all that?" he asked himself. yes, why? because he has a hatred for all falseness, which amounts to exaggeration; because it seemed to him as if he expiated some of the disgracefulness of his behavior to nita by the exposure of his own shame. when he had so suddenly looked into nita's pure eyes, it had seemed to him as if it had all at once grown unbearably light around him. he saw his whole life so plainly as he had never before seen it, and it was repulsive to him. a short time ago he had sent the waiter to announce to nikolai that dinner was served. nikolai had excused himself. then lensky had not even taken his place at the table. as if he were capable of forcing down anything! the waiter had asked if he should light the lamps, but lensky had only impatiently motioned him away. what need had he of more light? he saw plainly enough. a great uneasiness overcame him. if nikolai should really leave, there was not much more time to delay. he heard nikolai's trunk carried downstairs. "he will not even come to take leave of me! but i cannot let him go thus," he cried out, "not thus!" he went up to nikolai's room. nikolai stood before the fire-place and busied himself with tearing and burning some letters. a new, harsh, stiff expression hardens his features. when he perceives his father, his face expresses uneasiness and astonishment, so that lensky's heart grows cold. for one moment they stand silently opposite each other. "colia!" lensky at length manages to say in an unrecognizable, half-suffocated voice: "you--surely would not leave without having said farewell to me!" "no; naturally not," replies colia, mechanically, while he continues to tear up letters. "colia!" the artist's voice trembles, he lays his hand on his son's sleeve, he notices that he shrinks at his touch. then he clutches his temples and stamps on the ground. "that is not to be borne," cries he. "have you, then, no penetration? do you not understand how all this torments me--me, who would have brought down the stars from heaven for you? and now that i should be the obstacle to your happiness! what, obstacle! be sensible, there is no obstacle at all. nothing has happened. you need not give her up. and if she is at all afraid of meeting me again, i swear to you that she shall never meet me, that i will never burden you with my presence. i will bear everything, only not the thought of having disturbed your existence. colia--do you not hear me, then?--colia!" he shakes his son's shoulder; nikolai turns toward him. his father is frightened at the dull, uninterested glance which falls on him from the eyes formerly so brilliant with enthusiasm of his child. the waiter enters to announce that the carriage has arrived. nikolai takes his hat, lensky holds him back, and at the same time motions to the waiter to leave the room. "you will write when you have arrived there?" he says. "as soon as i am settled," replies nikolai, with the same weary, dull voice. "why was not the boy angry, rough even to rudeness, repellent to him?" lensky asked himself. a violent feeling would have yielded to time, but for what he saw before him there was no more cure. he understood that something in this young man was dead forever; the elasticity of his nature was gone, the sacred fire was extinguished. "farewell, colia!" murmured lensky, hoarsely. he took his son in his arms, held him convulsively to his breast, kissed him three times in accordance with the russian custom. he might as well have embraced a corpse, so perfectly irresponsive did colia remain to his tenderness. only once before had his lips touched anything so cold, stiff, and that was--when he kissed natalie in her coffin. then nikolai went down-stairs. lensky slunk after him to the house door, looked after the carriage which rolled away with him until it was lost in the crowd, whereupon he turned, and with heavy steps returned to his sitting-room. perhaps an hour had passed since nikolai's departure, when there was a knock at lensky's door. at first he did not hear it; the knocks grew louder, more urgent. angrily he raised his head; he had left word down-stairs that he wished to receive no one. "what is it?" he called out, angrily. "a messenger from madame jeliagin." "come in! what is it?" "he left this note for monsieur," said the waiter. lensky tore it open. "a carriage!" he called out to the waiter, who had waited for an answer. "but quickly!" the waiter left the room; lensky once more glanced at the note. "come at once. barbara." nothing further. what could have happened? he took his hat, followed quite on the waiter's heels, and sprang in the carriage. "avenue wagram, no. ----," he called to the driver, "as fast as you can." the cab stops, lensky plunges out, the house door was open. an unpleasant smell of mire met him. from the entrance, along the hall, he saw great drops of mud. he noticed it without thinking particularly of it. a feeling of painful discomfort grows in him with every step which he takes, and yet he could not have said what he feared. he found no one to announce him, to tell him where his sister-in-law, where any one could be found. the whole household is in commotion. uncertainly he stands still for a moment. then he notices that these same large, black mud-drops which he has seen in the vestibule had soiled the linen stair-covering. and suddenly he remembers how he had already seen such a train of muddy spots--in moscow, on a hot summer night, when they carried a drowned person through the streets. he followed the drops, went up the stairs, still following them to one door; he knew in which room the door opened. for one moment he hesitates, as if he could not face the horror which awaited him. then he bursts open the door. the room is dimly lighted. a single candle flickers near the bed, from which the white curtains are remorselessly pushed back, and there on the bed lies something--he cannot exactly decide it. trembling in her whole frame, madame jeliagin stands before it. great, wet, black drops are on her dress, as if she had handled a mud-covered body. "mascha!" he groans, beside himself, seizing his sister-in-law by her thin arm and pushing her away from the bed. yes, there lies mascha, waxy pale, with closed eyes and wet hair clinging to her cheeks. "she is dead!" he gasps. "no, no; she lives," assures madame jeliagin, but there is no joy in her voice, but uneasiness and discomfort. mascha opens her eyes, turns them away from her father, and shudders. lensky has seated himself on the edge of the bed near her. one of her little hands lies on the counterpane; he takes it in his, kisses and strokes it. "how did it happen?" he asks, bent over the child. "when i came home she was not here," declares madame jeliagin, hastily. there is something flattering, dog-like, whining in her tone, as if she feared being blamed. "she had left word with the maid that she would not return to dinner, as she was to dine with you and nikolai. i sat calmly down to dinner--alone, anna dines with friends--about half-past ten. i had just sent the servant for anna; a carriage stopped before the door. i heard a heavy stamping in the vestibule; voices speaking together. the maid said they desired madame. i rush out; then i see two men who carry in the child. they told me--from a steamer--somewhere near passy--a girl had been seen to fall into the water--mascha--only at the right time they plunged after her--saved her. fortunately, there was some one among the passengers who knew her, a servant who sometimes assists here, who brought her here, or else they would have taken her to the police station. it is fearful--an accident, a terrible accident, an imprudence--the gate of the steamer was badly secured she leaned against it--and----" with deeply bent head lensky has listened to the simple report. he still rubs and strokes his daughter's little hand. "what, accident!" murmured he. "how did she come on the ship? she wished to kill herself from grief. poor little dove! what grief can one have at seventeen? oh, my petulant, gay darling, my tender, defiant little curly head, who has grieved you so?" then, again turning to his sister-in-law: "have you, at least, sent for a physician?" he says, imperiously. "i did not know," murmurs she, confusedly. mascha trembles from head to foot, and drawing her hand away from her father, she hides her face in the pillows and groans: "no--no--no doctor!" lensky looks at her more attentively; he has understood! it is no human sound; it is the cry of a wild animal which now escapes his breast; then he rushes upon his daughter, seizes her by the throat, strikes her in the face. "shameless one!" he screams. "_pas de violence_, for god's sake!" stammers madame jeliagin, anxiously. but he does not listen to her. "who was it?" he gasps. "who was it?" he thunders at his sister-in-law. "i do not know--i had no suspicion--i never noticed the slightest," stammers she. "so! you never noticed anything," he repeats after her. "noticed nothing! so! did you, perhaps, pick up a lover on the streets?" he sneers at mascha. then she opens her eyes, rests them on him with a touchingly sad, supplicating, humble, reproachful glance. it seems to him that something has snapped within him. the anger is gone; only a great pity yet lives in him, and he bends over the child and takes her in his arms, clasps her to his breast, sobs and covers her pale little face with kisses and tears. meanwhile he notices that madame jeliagin still stands near him, that she watches him. he stands up. "what have you to do here now, you--you who did not know how to guard my child? go!" and imperiously he points to the door. still murmuring, explaining, excusing herself, she vanishes. the door has closed behind her. "mascha, how was it possible?" he asks, softly. she is silent. "mascha, for god's sake, say it, or else i shall go mad," he implores. "there must be something which excuses you. how did it happen? who was it?" "i will not say; it is no use. you will harm him; i do not wish that any harm should happen to him." in vain does he urge her further; she gives him no answer. her little face turned to the wall, she lies there motionless and silent, like a corpse. and at length he is weary of questioning her, and sits by her, weary, relaxed, with the confused expression of a man who has been struck on the head. his thoughts wander to indifferent things. he asks himself if he has taken the key out of his trunk; whether the waiter will post the letter which lies on his desk. then he hears the house-door open, hears the rustle of a silk dress. anna has returned. cold shivers run down his back. now she will hear it, the arrogant creature who has always looked down upon his darling. he would like to go out and close old jeliagin's mouth, forbid her to speak. can he, indeed, close the mouth of all paris? to-morrow the gossips will tell it to each other before the house-doors in the half light--it will be in all the newspapers. and he sits there as if petrified, and does not move; listens--listens as if he could hear up-stairs what they say to each other. sweat is on his brow, the blood burns in his cheeks, and now he really hears something, anna's thin, icy voice, which cries out: "_quelle honte, quelle horreur!_" mascha holds her hands over her ears. lensky springs up, hurries to the door which madame jeliagin has neglected to close tight behind her. he closes it carefully, draws the portière over it, only that mascha may not hear anything else offensive. then he goes up to her bed again, and notices that she is glowing with fever. he passes his hand over her cheeks; she clutches his hand, presses it first to her mouth, and then holds it before her eyes. "shall i put out the light?" he asks, gently. she nods. then he sits by her in the dark. ever stronger he has the feeling as if the despotic yoke of a misfortune to which he must bow because he is powerless against it, were weighing down upon him. in all his nerves trembles the fearful shock. it seems to him that he has seen something fall together before him--all that he clung to, the future of his child! he thinks of his ambitious dreams; of the money he has saved for her--he, who formerly squandered everything. a boundless shame torments him; it is all over--all. the whole night long, restless, without peace, he seeks only a hand-breadth of blue sky for his child, seeks no great, brilliant happiness such as he has dreamed of for mascha; no, the most moderate, only a tolerable life--seeks a salvation--in vain--nothing--nothing! his mind is like a captive bird which wounds itself at every beat of its wings against the bars of a too small cage. and yet he is not weary of seeking, of tormenting himself. the longest night has an end, and the nights in early june are not long. morning dawns. in ruthlessly plain outlines, all the objects in mascha's room meet lensky's eyes. all looks soiled, everywhere the dark spots of mud; there the shawl in which the men had wrapped the suicide after they drew her from the water, there a heap of soiled, wet clothes. it goes to his heart. on that morning when he took leave of his darling, on the same spot lay a dress also, but as white, as pure, as fresh as spring blossoms. the picture of the light, fragrant room, the dear picture which he had continually carried about in his heart during his last journey, rises in his mind. it is indeed the same room, the same girl. she sleeps as also at that time--no, not as at that time. her cheeks are flushed with fever, her limbs twitch incessantly. softly he draws the covers up over her uncovered shoulders. she murmurs something in her sleep; he listens; always the same word: "mother--mother!" xxvii. in the fire-place of nita's pretty little drawing-room crackles a gay wood fire. everything in the room is attractive and pretty, as usual. in the midst of these cosey surroundings sits sonia, shivering, with bent head. nita enters the room, goes up to her, and lays a hand on her shoulder. sonia looks up; her eyes meet those of her friend almost anxiously. "ah! you know it already?" murmurs she. nita nods. for a moment they are both silent. "it is horrible!" says sonia, dully, and shuddering. "yes," says nita, shortly. she sits down opposite sonia. "do they know who it was?" she asks after a while. "no," replied sonia. "she will not tell. my father has spoken to barbara. nothing can be gotten out of her. when they first asked her, she replied: 'it is no use, and they would harm him.' she does not wish that any harm should happen to him. now she says nothing at all. she lies the whole time with her face to the wall, silent. really, there is something generous in her silence." "how does he bear it?" asks nita, suddenly, quite startlingly. "barbara told papa that he--you mean lensky?--was completely broken. at first, he could have almost killed mascha from rage; since then, he sits near her, strokes her hands, her hair, and calls her little pet names. but she listens to nothing--lies there silently with set teeth." nita lowers her head; then she, absent-mindedly, throws a piece of wood on the fire. "and we imagined that the child had a fancy for bärenburg!" says sonia. "thus we explained her striking depression; but no, bärenburg was betrothed. we were evidently on a false track. it must have been one of our exiles--a nihilist with revolutionary moral and political ideas." "no, no!" nita shakes her head, and looks thoughtfully before her. "it was karl!" she cries out. "do you remember how, that time, at the jeliagins' reception, when mrs. joyce brought the news of karl's betrothal, mascha let a cup fall, and tottered out half swooning? it must be karl!" "it is not possible!" says sonia. "he was betrothed. do you then believe that a half-way respectable man would be capable of such an action? ah, it is horrible, horrible! poor nikolai!" nita does not hear her. "my father insists that i shall go to vienna with him to-morrow," begins sophie, whom nothing can long rob of her inward equipoise. "will you let your maid help me pack?" nita does not hear. after a while sophie leaves the room, nita glows with burning heat. she cannot bear the warm room, and goes out on the terrace. a sharp breeze sobs in the trees of the park, and has a refreshing effect upon her. why can she not forget? she has emerged blameless from the trial. how can the affair further concern her? another would have simply shaken off the remembrance of this unpleasant experience. but she was not like others. from childhood she had occupied one of those strange positions which cause in all young people left to themselves a tendency to strongly exaggerated feelings. her father died young. her mother never ceased to mourn him, and after his death completely withdrew from the world. except a few summer months which she regularly passed with her eldest brother, karl bärenburg's father, she lived year in and year out in a picturesque villa an hour's journey from vienna. nita grew up solitary, under the influence of such a mother and the instruction of miss wilmot. the great passion of her youth was music. she secretly cherished the wish to become an artiste and astonish the world with her performances. sunk in an enthusiastic study of the art, and reading all that is poetic and unworldly, she grew up without girl friends, without all childish amusements. the great wealth of her stormy young heart remained untouched. the legendary fame of the devil's violinist penetrated even to her. she saw a picture of him--the strange face that was not handsome, and which one could never forget if one had once seen it, made a deep impression on her young mind. from that time she worshipped the strange musician, whom she had never heard and never seen; thought of him, dreamed of him, wrote enthusiastic childish letters to him--which she never sent--and sang his songs. her mother, who was still more given to exaggeration than her daughter, and just as little worldly wise, smiled at this enthusiasm and gave nita lensky's picture for a birthday gift. nita placed it on her writing-table and daily garlanded it with fresh flowers as long as she could find one out-doors. she knew that he was married, and was proud for him that his wife was a princess, and a great beauty, and that she loved him idolatrously. then she heard other things about him: that his distinguished wife had left him; that he wandered about the world, without rest or peace, bitter and desperate. a warm, deep compassion mingled with her enthusiasm. her whole family called her senta, and did not ascribe the slightest importance to the matter. then it was announced that lensky would give three concerts in vienna, which he had avoided for some years. a true fever of excitement took possession of nita. the baroness sankjéwitch did her utmost to fulfil her daughter's wish, to take her to one of the concerts. to go to vienna and return by railroad was out of the question, as the concert took place late in the evening. she decided, therefore, to pass the night with nita at a hotel. at last came the concert. he appeared. he had never been handsome, and was no longer young. his hair was gray, and his fifty years were written plainly enough in deep furrows on his face. but he looked different from other men. there was something powerful and attractive in his personality, and a mysterious magnetism which could not be described or explained. was nita disappointed? no. she was more interested in him than ever. only intensely musical natures could sympathize with the rapture amounting to pain with which she listened to the magic tones of his violin. the next morning they were to return home. but on the same evening, after the concert, in the reading-room of the hotel, they made madame njikitjin's acquaintance. she was a still handsome elderly lady, with correct bearing and very charming manners. she won the baroness' heart at once, and a few acquaintances gave her the best reports of the family of the stranger. she laughed at nita's enthusiasm, flattered the young girl, flattered the mother, and finally promised to take nita with her to lensky's two other concerts, for which no places were to be bad. the baroness was boundlessly inexperienced. the day after the concert she left vienna, leaving nita under the njikitjin's protection, who had promised to personally escort the young girl back to her mother. the same day, nita learned to know her great man at madame njikitjin's, who laughingly described to him the young girl's enthusiasm, and called her nothing but senta. and nita only looked at him with her clear, childish eyes, and could not say a word. he must have been of stone not to be touched by this pure and deep enthusiasm. he was not of stone. she pleased him--pleased him unusually. no one could be so charming as he if he wished. with other great men, we have a stiff neck from looking up to their unapproachable loftiness. but nothing of the kind with him. the timidity which had at first oppressed her wholly vanished before the winning heartiness of his manner. how pleasantly he listened to her gay little anecdotes! sometimes he leaned a little forward in the course of conversation, gazed into her eyes, then suddenly kissed her hand and laughed--laughed without her having the slightest suspicion of what had been so droll in her story. at coming and going he kissed her on the forehead; when he talked with her, he sometimes took her hand in his and stroked it kindly, paternally. she was proud of every little distinction. and while she felt a kind of reverence for him, lensky's surrounders began to mock and laugh at her enthusiasm. she did not notice it at that time, but later, every significant look came back to her memory, and for a year sent the blood to her face. when the day of farewell came, she was unspeakably sad and did not conceal it. instead of calming her with a pleasant word, he smiled uneasily, constrainedly, at her emotion. he promised to see her that evening at njikitjin's, in the hotel. when he came, the russian was not at home. it did not occur to nita to ask herself if she should receive him under the circumstances. he was different from usual. he fell into brooding silence; now suddenly seized her hand, then freed it. he sprang up and walked uneasily about the room. suddenly he sat down near her and took both her hands in his. something in his face startled her and she drew them away. he seized them and kissed them. then--then he said something which admitted of but one interpretation. he--to her! beside herself, she sprang up to leave the room. but before she had reached the door, he came up to her. was that really he--the man with the red face and shining eyes? even to-day the desperate cry of fear which she gave rings in her ears. steps approached from without; he let her go. yes, that was the end of all the touching kindness, of all the heaven-aspiring enthusiasm. the next day the njikitjin was to have taken her back to her mother. she did not wait for that. by the earliest train, she secretly hurried from vienna. a few hours later she lay in bed with a violent fever. when, six weeks later, still very weak, and holding to the furniture for support, she entered her little boudoir, dust lay everywhere thick and gray, even on his picture, so that it was quite unrecognizable. she took the picture and wished to burn it. she could not. as she held it over the coals, it seemed to her as if she would throw something living into the fire--and she only hid it and did nothing further. for a full year after her recovery she could bear no music. she had liked to draw from childhood, without thinking much of this talent with her passion for music, but in her great depression it served to distract her thoughts. at her urgent request, her mother left austria and settled in paris with her daughter, who now devoted herself to painting. when her mother died, the despair which nita felt at this loss for the first time completely pushed the old recollection in the background. she had scarcely thought of it until the day when for love of sonia she had let herself be persuaded to attend lensky's concert. when she heard him play, when at those wonderful tones the old intoxication overpowered her, then also awoke a horror of the fascination which this man had for her, and with this horror the great hatred which she had felt for years, a boundless loathing. she wished him ill with all her heart; she, who formerly would not have hurt a hair of any one's head, could not think of anything that would be painful enough to sufficiently wound him. she is revenged; the blow has fallen! but what is that? she looks back, the recollection of the fearful scene makes no impression on her, shrinks together, grows dim--it is gone. she seeks her hatred in her heart, and cannot find it. xxviii. the jeliagins' trunks have already gone with the maid to the railway station. the carriage which is to take the two ladies already stands waiting. in vain has barbara represented to her daughter how this precipitate flight will make mascha's position much worse, how it will be almost impossible to conceal the misfortune. not an hour longer than was necessary to arrange her affairs would anna consent to remain, and, as always, the mother had obeyed her daughter's command. but at the last moment, when she and anna stood in the vestibule, she, so to speak, broke loose from the chain. "i--i have forgotten something--i must get something." with these words she rushes up the stairs, stumbling, treading on her dress at every step, and knocks at mascha's door. "what do you want?" calls out lensky, harshly, while he comes out to her. "i would like to see mascha. i--i would like to give her a kiss before i go," murmured the old woman, and tears are on her wrinkled cheeks. "she was a good child--always very good to me. please--please let me in to her." he steps back, lets her in. she bends over the bed, over the girl glowing and trembling with fever. "maschenka, good-by, my little soul. i love you. i will always love you," murmured she, and stroked the child and wished to kiss her; but maschenka hid her face in the pillows, and half mad with shame, repulsed her aunt with an impatient shrug of her shoulders, and suppressed weeping. "god keep you, maschenka!" murmured the old woman. "what shall he keep?" cried out lensky, pointing to the bed, with horrible bitterness. then, seizing her roughly by her thin arm, he pushed her out of the room. now she has gone; the house has been empty for an hour. he sits near mascha's bed as he has sat there since yesterday, and she lies there silently, with her face to the wall. it is eight o'clock. the front door bell rings--rings again. it is so long before the door is opened. who may it be? the kitchen maid knocks at the door. "what is it?" "a lady desires to speak with monsieur." "no one can see me." "i told her that, but she would not be denied; she desires to see monsieur. it is about something very important, she said." "did she, at least, give her name?" "no, she would not; but she is certainly a distinguished lady." "so! and she would not be denied." he draws down his mouth, scornfully. "where is she waiting?" "in the drawing-room." "well, stay here until i come back. do not leave the room an instant! do you hear? i will be back immediately." with that he goes down-stairs. with an angry, repellent word on his lips, he enters the drawing-room, where the chairs are disarranged and the dust lies untouched on the furniture. a tall, slender figure comes to meet him, quickly, and at the same time hesitatingly, evidently urged forward by hearty compassion, and yet held back by that oppressing timidity and reverence with which noble natures approach a great pain. now he sees her more distinctly, starts. "you here?" he cries out. "what do you wish?" "to help you," says she, simply. "you?" he looks at her, astonished. at first he would like to deny the affair, to bring forward the fable of contagious illness which kasin has promised to spread as the cause of the jeliagins' flight. but nita's face teaches him that here no deception can avail. "you know?" he murmurs, scarcely audibly, without looking at her. "yes." "and you wish to help me--you?" the blood rushes to her cheeks. the situation is unbearable for a girl of delicate feelings; but who would be influenced by foolish prudery when it is a question of caring for a sick one whom no one else will care for? "has mascha confessed to you?" she asks, softly. "no." "is she perfectly conscious?" "i do not know. she has not spoken a word since yesterday; she lies there with her face to the wall. she has a strong fever, but the doctor says it is of no importance; she will recover in two or three days. _and i have not the courage to give her an opiate_." he says all this in an unnatural, choked voice. "you wish to help me? how will you help me?" he groans defiantly and bitterly. "let me speak with her," begs nita. "we have always loved each other, she and i." "yes, you were very good to her, i know; she has spoken to me of you; but you will only needlessly torment her--she will not speak. and of what use is it? nothing can be done--nothing." he stamps his foot. "let me go to her--i have a suspicion, a clew. it sounds trite and foolish to say so, but if any one can help you, it is i." for a moment he hesitates; then turning to go, he cries out: "well, come then." she follows him across the hall, up the mud-covered stairs, to mascha's room. "leave me alone with her," she begs. and he leaves her alone; meanwhile walks up and down the corridor. sometimes he stops and listens. at first he hears nothing but a soft, coaxing, persuasive voice; then a sharp, involuntary cry--another---- "she will not speak, why torture her so?" he says to himself. he turns the knob of the door. then he hears violent weeping, opens the door, sees nita sitting on the low bed and holding the head of the sobbing child in her lap. she motions to him to withdraw; he does it. he stands before the door and listens as one listens for the heart-beats of a person to convince one's self whether he still lives. he can hear nothing plainly, but still he listens. at first he hears nothing but the same pitiful sobs, hears a calm, caressing voice, soft, sad, compassionate. now she is silent; he hears hoarse, unrecognizable sounds. is that mascha's voice? how long she speaks--at first in short, broken sentences, then fluently; if he could only understand a word of what she says! he still listens--nothing more. now it is nita again who speaks, then follows a long pause, a hearty kiss, and nita comes out in the corridor to him, very tearful, very pale. "well, did she confess to you?" asks lensky, anxiously. "yes, but i must swear to her not to betray anything to you. do not ask, do not torment the child. to-day is wednesday; next monday you shall hear from me. until then she has promised me to make no new attempt to take her life. she will keep her word." herewith nita turns to go. suddenly she hesitates, turns once more to him: "i will only tell you it was a misfortune, it was very little her fault. i am astonished at the magnanimity which is betrayed in every word of her confession." "it is very noble of you to think of telling me that," murmured he. "i know it was not her fault, it is only i who am to blame. that does not make the affair better." "i hope for a good result," murmured nita embarrassedly. "i do not," said he, harshly; then detaining her, he adds: "but it was good in you to come. the others have run away, all, as if the pest had broken out in the house; and you, you have come--you! i thank you!" xxix. mascha's confession had more deeply shocked nita than she thought. so much touching, childish simplicity spoke from every sad word. another would have excused herself, would have ascribed her sin to circumstances, to her seducer. this poor little sinner took all upon herself. it had happened, she did not know how; she had lost her head from anxiety and remorse on his account. especially the conclusion of the confession had gone to nita's heart. "do you see," maschenka had whispered still more softly than before, "formerly i knew nothing of all this; i had no suspicion; i was quite--quite stupid. but since then i have listened when the 'big people'"--she is still so childish that she speaks of adults as big people---"spoke, and i have read the newspapers and all sorts of books in the endless nights in which i could not sleep. and now i know that i am what people call--an abandoned woman." and as nita, with consoling caresses, assured her: "he will do his duty to you--he will--he must!" mascha had only sobbed more violently, and murmured: "what duty has one to a girl who runs after one, who throws herself at his head? he was so kind to me--i thought it was love, and i thought love was something so grand, beautiful. it was no love with him; it was only pity at first, and then it was scorn. why was i so foolish? it is past. let me put my life out of the world, and everything go on in its usual course. it was fearfully hard for me to jump into the water that time; how long ago is it? yesterday--really yesterday! i was so afraid of death, and life seemed so beautiful to me in spite of everything. now that is over too; i no longer understand life." nita must promise her not to betray bärenburg's name to her father. "of what use? he saved colia's life. colia is weaponless against him; but father--he--he would kill him. i do not wish him to be harmed; why should i? ah, nita, you dear, good angel! if i had only found you at home that time!" thus closed the little confession. nita has long forgotten that at first mascha's case had caused her disgust. she no longer thinks of lensky's horrible behavior; her whole heart is filled with pity and the strong, urgent desire to help. she must go to london, speak with karl, that is certain. but how to do it? it needs some pondering, but before she retires that evening her plan is ready. she knows that if mascha's good name is to be restored at all as she plans, the work must proceed as quietly as possible, and no one must suspect the levers which set it in motion. she must travel alone, without her maid. the thought disturbs her not a little. strange! she is ready to go through fire for mascha, to enter into the most painful explanation with her cousin; but to pass a night in a london hotel without sufficient protection, she is not ready. at last she finds a way. she begs miss wilmot to telegraph her arrival to the former's sister-in-law in london, and to claim shelter in her house for her. she knows that she can count on mrs. wilmot's hospitality, all the more as nita had entertained her for a fortnight the past autumn. the telegram will arrive three or four hours before her; that is sufficient. then she makes her little travelling preparations, goes to bed, and sleeps as soundly as we sleep when we are wearied by a great moral shock. about six in the morning she rises, fresh and courageous, with a hopeful heart. sonia, somewhat pale and tearful, but calm and obliging as usual, gives her her tea, and with great care packs sandwiches in her travelling bag. "shall you come back to me when you have had enough of vichy--you and your father?" nita asks her friend in the course of conversation. "in any case i will visit you, to take leave of you, dear; but our dear comrade-life i must, alas! give up," replies sonia. "papa is tired of his bachelor-life, and wishes to have a home. i must naturally do as he wishes. it is hard, but what can i do?" she sighs, and at the same time carefully ties up her package of sandwiches. "and your art?" asks nita, smiling. "ah, my art," repeats sophie. "that is the most indifferent part of the matter for me. i have not worked by your side for a year in vain, my heart. less time would have sufficed to teach me how great is the difference between my mediocre skill and your truly great talent. that is over, nita; i will miss my art a little, but the being with you very painfully." "i shall also miss you very much, faithless one, but your room shall be ready for you at any time. another shall never take your place, that i promise you; and when you wish to pass a few weeks in paris, you know who will receive you with open arms." "oh, you dear love! how often i shall remember you. the time i have spent with you will always be the most beautiful part of my life!" sighs sonia. "so! do you think so? we will hope not; i foresee very much happiness for you." and stroking sophie's hand, nita adds in a softer tone: "it will all turn out as you wish and as you deserve, you brave little thing, you!" meanwhile the carriage was announced. "i may, at least, accompany you to the station?" begs sophie. on the steps of the coupé, with the last embrace, she murmurs to her friend, who has concealed the true reason of her sudden departure under a trivial pretext: "i know why you are going to england; i have guessed. god bless you and your undertaking. farewell!" * * * * * as soon as nita has arrived in london, and going to the light, roomy, comfortable chamber prepared for her, has removed some of the dust of travel, she writes the following note to bärenburg: "dear karl:--i beg you to have the kindness to call upon me in the course of the morning at oakley lodge, no. holland lane. i have something important to speak to you about. if you cannot come in the morning, be so good as to fix an hour at which i can expect you with certainty. "your old cousin, "nita." xxx. twenty-four hours have passed since her arrival in london. a sleepless night in which she has with difficulty prepared what she will say to her cousin, and never could find the right words, lies behind her. breakfast is over--lunch. afternoon begins to lose itself in evening. bärenburg has not appeared. that he might stay away, might not notice her letter, had never occurred to her. she had always stood on the best footing with her cousin. from youth he had had a weakness for his charming, talented, only, alas! so "deplorably eccentric, cousin." never had he refused her any favor she had asked him, and if she had sent for him, he had always come sooner than she expected him. no, never for an instant had she doubted that he would come. if she had felt excited and anxious the whole morning, it was only from dislike of the unpleasant explanation with him. now she knew very well what she would say to him. she need only describe mascha's grief to him, her touching fear of exposing him, her eagerness for death. hour by hour passes; he does not appear. then there is a knock at her door. "a letter for you, m'm," says the maid, and hands her a little note. she recognizes bärenburg's writing; hastily she unfolds it and reads: "dear nita:--i am very sorry that i could not come today. i will do my utmost to visit you to-morrow. i cannot, alas! say positively, as i leave london to-morrow afternoon, and before then have a fearful amount of business. "with the truest regret, "your faithful cousin, "karl." the note falls from her hands. he has guessed what it is--he evades her. that is plain from every stiff, awkward line of this forced note. how he could guess it she does not know, but she knows that it has all been lost by her hesitating, prudish delay. she should have appeared before him unexpectedly, before he had had time to steel himself against her. his fear of meeting her already betrays his irresoluteness. she knows that he is idle, pleasure-loving, and selfish, but yet kind-hearted, easily moved to pity, almost morbidly sensitive. she knows that as long as he can he will avoid an unpleasant situation, but she also knows that he is as--yes, more susceptible to good influences than bad. but all will fail from her pitiful smallness. half mad with rage at herself, she would now be ready to defy all prejudices to attain her aim. but one thought holds her back from going to his hotel. at this hour she probably will not find him home, and if she does, as he is evidently suspicious, he will deny himself. she seats herself at her writing-table. the words which she had in vain sought yesterday crowd upon her now--burning, impressive words with which she describes mascha's position, the inexcusable conduct of the jeliagins, who, instead of allaying gossip and concealing the affair, cost what it might, rather confirm the worst rumors by their flight; touching words in which she speaks of mascha's generosity, her fear lest he should be harmed. "this fear of the poor child is the reason that i have turned to you," she concludes. "that the part i take is unpleasant, you have certainly guessed. at first it was not only unpleasant but tormenting. but i will carry it out, and i will attain my aim. i have not only the unfortunate girl's grief, i have your conscience on my side. i know that you are in a hard position. i pity you with all my heart; but together with mascha's life, all the inward peace of your future existence is at stake. is it possible that you have no heart for this poor, weak, touching being? i can never forget how, her charming little face hidden in the folds of my dress, she sobbed out her painful confession to me. her weak, weary, tormented, childish voice will not leave my ears!" after she had addressed the letter, from fear that the post might not deliver it quickly enough, she gave it to a messenger with the order to deliver it immediately. the following night she did not close her eyes. she was dressed at six o'clock. she still hoped that he would come, but it struck eleven--twelve. he did not come. then suddenly an idea occurred to her. lady banbury! if any one could help her it was she. she might be back in london, although her last letter was dated from mortimar castle. nita dons hat and gloves and hurries out on the street, while she takes the first hansom she sees. "manchester square, no. , and make haste!" she cries. she knows lady banbury's strong character, knows she can count on her in case she is in london. the hansom stops; with beating heart nita asks the servant who opens the door: "lady banbury at home?" the servant answers he does not know, he will see. nita scratches a few words on her card, and he vanishes. a few moments she waits, and then he returns and conducts her up-stairs into a large, comfortable room. here sits lady banbury. at nita's entrance she rises and goes to meet the girl with open arms. "my dear child, what a surprise! how glad i am! what brings you to london--yes, what is it? you are deathly pale. you are struggling against tears." "ah, dear lady banbury," says nita, "i come to you in a desperate emergency in which your assistance alone can avail. please--do not refuse me!" "tell me--but first come to yourself, dear child!" nita sits down. a load has fallen from her heart. there in the rembrandt half-light of the old lady's pretty boudoir she unburdens her overflowing heart to lady banbury. at first hesitatingly, then more fluently and impressively, she tells the old lady mascha's story, does what she can to win her for the poor little girl, forgets none of the many little features which are proofs of mascha's incomparable goodness of heart, and of the blind innocence which led her to her misfortune. then, as she suddenly, in her enthusiasm, looks up at lady banbury, and perceives that her face has grown stiff and stern, in her great despair she throws herself down on the carpet before her, and clasping her knees, she cries: "oh, i beg you, do not look so severe. i know that it is all horrible. i am no more lenient than you; but one must be sorry for mascha. i have not found the right words to describe it to you, or else----" "you misunderstand me," says lady banbury, very earnestly. "my severity is not for the child. i am older than you. i know how easily, with such neglect as the poor daughter of my friend natalie experienced, the like can occur. one has such a crowd of theories--that innocence is the best protection, etc. one lets girls of the best families run about the streets alone, and at the same time they are not permitted to read a modern novel. my hair stands on end when i hear of such insensateness. i am heartily sorry for the poor child. i saw her last winter; she was a charming little thing. lensky is inexcusable--he and his sister-in-law." "yes, certainly," says, shyly, nita, who has slowly risen. "but that does not alter maschenka's unhappiness. do you think that it is still possible to save her?" lady banbury shrugs her shoulders. "is there no hope?" sobs nita. "i will do what i can to arrange it," says lady banbury, "but it is a very unfortunate affair. men are curious beings; they pardon most hardly the sins which one has committed for their sake." xxxi. in the jeliagins' little sandy garden behind the house sits lensky with his daughter. it is sunday afternoon. upon his gentle, loving persuasion, she has left her bed for the first time. as the maid had left the house with the jeliagins, the kitchen maid, with her red, swollen, awkward, but kind hands, has dressed her, slowly, as one dresses an invalid who will not or cannot help herself. when she was ready, they could not at first induce her to leave the room. with little steps, trembling and tottering, she dragged herself to the door, leaning on her father's arm; but then she suddenly turned round, and clinging with a wild gesture to the bed-posts, she declared with rigid obstinacy: "no--no--no!" until she at length, half exhausted by opposition, half calmed by her father's tender assurances that she would certainly see no one, with her head hidden on his shoulder, let him carry her down-stairs. the sight of every object which reminded her of her past life, of the outer world, is indescribably painful to her. now they sit together on a hard green bench in the warm summer afternoon. the little garden is quite filled with transparent gray shadows. it is very quiet--sunday quiet. lensky's eyes fasten on his child. he uneasily seeks something which he may tell her without humiliating her, without paining her. "maschenka!" "papa!" "listen! do you hear how prettily that bird sings? i would not have thought that a city bird could have such a sweet voice." she looks up. "yes, papa," murmurs she, and bows her head anew. compassionately his eyes follow every movement of the poor child. they have put a white morning dress on her. she is sallow, her cheeks are sunken. still her little face is unspeakably, touchingly attractive. "as soon as you are better, we will play a great deal together," he begins, after awhile. mascha does not answer. he repeats his words. then she looks up, confused, distracted. "what did you say? i--i did not hear," murmured she. "of what are you thinking, then, mascha?" "of what? i--i only thought how all will be now," stammered she, and stares at the ground. yes, how will it be? he also thinks of that. he does not believe in the success of nita's undertaking; he would not have let himself be forced to marry in such a case. and what then? suppose he marries mascha to some philosopher who surrenders himself for her few groschen? the present would at least be covered thus, but what of the future? humiliation--ill treatment! no, he will not give his child to that--no, no! he alone will care for her, be all in all to her, recompense her for everything with his love. his pride will not permit him to return to his fatherland with his dishonored child, but he will make a home for her in the most beautiful place in the world, in sorrento, or somewhere in southern france. he will keep her like a princess, distract her by his art, read with her, teach her, surround her with lovely flowers, with all beautiful objects before which she need not lower her eyes. with fearful bitterness, he suddenly breaks off this air-castle building. that is all nonsense--sentimental dotage. a moment will yet come when longing for companions will overcome her. those with whom his daughter should associate will not have anything to do with her; but others, women who are lenient from eccentricity, and others again who have their reasons for it, an hysterically mad, or amusing, dissolute crowd, without every moral restraint, will assemble round the child. and then--mascha has his blood in her veins; without any healthy amusement, without good examples in her associates, without any urgent reason longer to restrain herself, she will give the reins to her temperament. he will see her sink--she, his darling, his white lamb--sink, sink! all at once she shudders, springs up. "what is it, mascha?" he asks, lovingly, holding her back by the hand. "i heard a window open--there in the house in the rear; people see me from there. i--i want to go back to the house. i cannot bear it, father," whimpers she. she wishes to free herself from him by force. then there is a ring of the door-bell. mascha stands still. who is it? is not that nita who asks for her? yes! the door leading into the garden opens; nita enters, pale, weary, but with beaming eyes. she catches the child in her arms. "maschenka," whispers she, "all is well. i have only come before to prepare you; in a few minutes he is here and begs you for forgiveness." maschenka's eyes grow staring. she clutches her temples with both hands. "do not faint, my darling; there is no time now for that," whispers nita, anxiously. "no--no." mascha looks shamefacedly at her white wrapper. nita unties a black lace fichu from her neck, and binds it round the child's neck; then she smooths her hair. the house-door opens; a cry, the old, soft bird-cry which lensky loved so, only stronger than formerly, full of piercing, painful sweetness, with wide, outstretched arms, mascha rushes past nita, past her father, into the house. nita wishes to go. lensky holds her back. "you have done that--you--for me," said he, "and you will not even give me time to thank you?" "i do not deserve any thanks--it all arranged itself!" murmurs she. "so!" he smiled bitterly. "i know how it would have arranged itself without you." his voice is warmer, but she steps back from him. "i understand you," he murmurs. "go!" she goes a few steps toward the door; then she suddenly turns, goes up to him, and reaches him her hand. he looks her full in the eyes. "may i?" he asks. as she nods affirmatively, he presses her hand, but not to his lips, but lets it sink. he kneels down before the young girl, and kisses the hem of her dress. a wonderfully relieved feeling has come over him. it seems to him that he is freed from a burden--a burden of oppressive scorn of mankind, which, with a breath of relief, he has laid down at the feet of this young, pure, warm-hearted being. "you are a saint," he murmured. "god pay you my debt!" thus they part. the rescue is accomplished; mascha is saved. for a while lensky remains alone in the garden, then he goes in the house. fear of disturbing his daughter in her happiness, longing to rejoice in the sight of this happiness, alike agitate him. from the drawing-room sound voices--very softly, interrupted with long pauses. the drawing-room door is not tightly closed; lensky looks through the crack. happiness? where is the happiness? they sit near each other, hand in hand; he embarrassed; she humiliated, shy. "that cannot remain thus; it is not possible that it should remain thus," lensky's warm, wild heart cries out. "take her in your arms," he would like to call to the young man; "bury her shame in your tenderness, raise her broken self-respect by your love!" it must still happen thus, he must clasp her to his breast, kiss and console her. lensky waits, waits breathlessly, fairly spying for a change of affairs; but nothing changes. and suppressing a deep sigh, he turns away. "that is a rehabilitation, but no happiness!" xxxii. a november day--a november day in venice, and what weather! the plaster wet, the wall smoking with dampness, the water in the canals cloudy, the atmosphere gray and cold, filled with gray mist, and nowhere a sunbeam. in a large, desolate room, with picturesque bow-windows, sets mascha at a writing-table. she is reckoning, evidently racking her brains over the great problem how to make ten francs pay for a hundred francs' worth. sometimes she pauses thoughtfully. then she pushes the account-book from her, and begins to write a letter. the letter will not come to an end. she lays aside the pen, and with a quick, angry gesture crumples the sheet. "no, i cannot--i cannot inflict that upon you, father!" she murmurs to herself. she leans her head on her hand; the pen lies unused beside-her. more than four years have passed since mascha's marriage to karl bärenburg. when at that time the news had first circulated in austria of the distinguished marriage which the daughter of the russian violinist was to make, many envious, malicious words fell from the lips of ambitious maidens. but in initiated circles it was known that the existence of the young countess bärenburg offered little that was enviable. her husband's parents denied their daughter-in-law, and cut off all subsidies from their son. mascha's very large dowry from lensky made the whole material basis of the young household. shortly after his marriage, bärenburg had had himself transferred to japan; from there to rio. now, for almost two years, he had been without a post; led with his family--now in pau, now in nice, at length in venice--the unsteady, incessantly striving for something better, wandering existence of a man who is no longer at ease in his social relations. mascha has cares enough. three or four photographs of her father, all those which natalie had formerly loved to have about her, stand on mascha's writing-desk. she picks up one and looks at it lovingly. how long it is since she has seen him--not since her wedding-day--and how she longs for him! and then she is worried about him; she knows too little of him. he was never a minute letter-writer. now he writes more seldom than ever. the few lines which he sends her at long intervals are very kind and loving, but he writes nothing of himself. what little she knows of him, she knows through strangers. she knows that for four years he has wholly retired from the world, that he has resumed anew his creative activity, written very much, but published nothing; that of late a fanatic russian national enthusiasm has developed in him, a passion for hunting up all sort of sclavonian musical chimeras. she knows also that he who was accounted the most atheistic of the men of his time has become more and more wrapped up in that insane and pessimistic mysticism into which the greatest russians fall on the threshhold of old age, while they, instead of calmly accepting the incomprehensibility of creation, drive themselves mad in explaining the inexplicable. she knows all that; but how he is, whether he is well, happy, she does not know. she would like to have him near her, care for him, pet him, alleviate the feebleness and thousand bitternesses of his age by tender arts; would like to warm herself on his strong heart; find healing for her wounded, weary soul in his tenderness. how plainly she sees him before her! "why does he not come?" she has so often begged him. ah, why does he not come? through the plashing of the waves which sob at the feet of the old palace is heard the creaking of an approaching gondola. mascha listens. in her solitary life a visit is an event and seldom a pleasant one. the gondola stops. a rough, deep voice speaks a few words below. mascha starts up. is it possible? surely not; it is a foolish fancy which deceives her. a heavy, awkward step approaches the door. "father!" cries mascha, and throws herself on his breast. "father, how do you come here?--but no, do not answer; what does it matter why you are here, when only i have you! ah, what happiness!" and she laughs and cries and kisses his deeply furrowed cheeks again and again, and strokes his rough hair. "really, really, still the old joy, my soul, my little dove! how dear you are! do not be so foolish, my angel!" he says. "it is not suitable for a young wife to rejoice so in her old father." he wipes the tears from her cheeks with his handkerchief, and pushing her a little from him, he looks at her with a long, tender, scrutinizing glance. "so!" says he. "now i can more easily imagine how you look in your normal condition, without eyes red from weeping. you have changed greatly, my angel; you have grown and are stouter, and the old round-cheeked, childish face is no more--you have become a beautiful woman, very beautiful." his glance wanders proudly over her tall, superb figure. "your husband may be satisfied with you." "he is always very good to me," assures mascha, blushing slightly. "good to you!" repeats lensky, bending forward, while his glance becomes more piercing, more attentive. "yes, yes; you have always praised him greatly in your letters, and you often write me of your happiness. still, i wished to convince myself of it----" "i must be the most unthankful woman in the world if i complained," mascha quickly assured him; "and i think you have long owed us your visit," she adds. "i--that is, both of us, karl and i--had often begged you to come. you cannot have longed to see us much." "so, do you think so, little dove?" says lensky, smiling, and strokes her hair. "shall i tell you the truth, child? well, your husband embarrasses me. i am not suited to him. how should such a russian bear be to such a polished western european dandy? but do not fear, maschenka; i will put up with him on your account----" "you will still stay with us, father?" she urges, without further noticing his remark. "no; i have my quarters in the europa," replies he. "i will not cause you any inconvenience." "inconvenience! how can you speak so?" says mascha, angrily. "no, you shall not deprive me of the pleasure. we have room enough, that is the cheapest thing in venice. ah! what would it be if you lived in a hotel, and would come to me as guest in an especially well-brushed coat, in the afternoons? i must have you the whole day, from the moment you open your eyes. i must bring the children in their night-dresses to your bed. they are so cunning when they rub the sleep out of their eyes. i must show you natascha in her bath. i must pour you your tea at breakfast, and butter your bread--that is--" the young wife suddenly grows confused. "how foolish i am! perhaps you do not wish all that? you are much more independent in a hotel. it might be a burden----" "you foolish mascha," he interrupts her, touched. "if it really causes you no disturbance, have my luggage fetched immediately from the europa, and i will spend the few days with you. but now show me my grandchildren; the little pictures of them which you sent me were very nice." "harry has gone with the servant to hear the music on the st. mark's place, and the little one is asleep. come and see her." she took him by the hand and led him through one or two bare and immense rooms to a very neat little chamber, in which stood a cradle, and an italian nurse in a red dress busied herself with sewing. "there!" whispered mascha, pushing back the white tulle curtains of the cradle. "is she not charming?" a child of perhaps nine months lay among the pillows. it was no longer asleep, but its blue eyes were wide open. when it perceived its mother, it gave a short, clear cry of joy; mascha raised it from the pillows. it looked very charming in its white night-dress, with its delicate blond head where one could yet see the skin under the golden-brown curls. "give grandpa a kiss, natascha--that is, if you are not afraid of a wet little mouth, papa," said mascha. "she is very large for her age," said lensky, after he had taken the child, who did not show the slightest fear of him, in his arms. "i believe you," replies mascha, proudly. "but give her to the nurse. she will bore you, and, besides, she must be dressed." when the child saw her mother leave the room, she began to cry loudly. mascha started a little, but meanwhile closed the door behind her. "she does that every time that i leave her," says mascha, "and i am so foolish that it always goes to my heart. you do not know how hard it is not to turn back, but i must not spoil her too much." in the drawing-room bärenburg came to meet them, his little son beside him. lensky's face immediately grew gloomy, and even mascha's looks betokened uneasiness. "a great surprise," she cried out to her husband. "oh, no, marie; i have already heard of it," he replies with the friendly courtesy which was peculiar to him. "heartily welcome to us, papa." and with that he stretched out his hand to the virtuoso. lensky gave him his silently. in vain did he try to force a polite word from his lips. he did not succeed. bärenburg kissed his young wife, straightened her hair somewhat, raised his little son on his knee, made a few superficial remarks; lensky answered in monosyllables. with increasing discomfort, mascha watched the two--her husband, whose condescension was unmistakable; her father, who could not succeed in concealing his hatred. lensky was right when he asserted that he was ill suited to his son-in-law. two men could not be worse suited to each other than the old, retired artist and the young, unengaged diplomat. bärenburg had not improved in the last years. he had lost the good-for-nothing charm of former days with the frivolity which was the foundation of this charm. his manner betrayed the uneasiness of the _déclassé_; he spoke more rapidly than formerly, while he coughed incessantly, repeated phrases, and incessantly reached out his hands for some near-by object. still he always had a distinguished look and was particular to dandyism about his dress. and lensky? in mascha's eyes her father had grown wonderfully handsome, now, when the intellectual expression so powerfully predominated in his magnificent old face, and was at the same time united with a trace of sad kindness. what did it matter to her that his hair was still longer and more luxuriant, his clothes shabbier and more slovenly than formerly? the sensual expression which had then disfigured his mouth had wholly disappeared; his lips were thinner, the mouth sunken; in the near-sighted eyes, which only with difficulty perceived the nearest objects, was a look which seemed to gaze into a distance unattainable to us other ordinary mortals. for mascha he was something far above the ordinary, almost a god. for bärenburg he was a badly combed, badly, brushed, badly cared for barbarian, an old violinist whom the world began to forget, a shabby celebrity. he nevertheless tried evidently to be agreeable to his father-in-law. he commanded his little son, of whose uncommon and aristocratic beauty he was evidently proud, and whom he openly spoiled, to kiss his hand to grandpapa, and when the capricious little fellow refused--yes, even staring distrustfully at the old artist, murmured: "gipsy!"--he gave him a slap, and sent him to kneel in the corner; a punishment to which the droll little mite immediately submitted with a humorous shrug of the shoulders. mascha frowned. "you will dine with us?" she turned to bärenburg. "i am, alas! already engaged," replied he. "i promised pistasch kamenz----" "i know," said mascha; "but still, as we for the first time have the pleasure of entertaining papa in our house----" "naturally, i will immediately send a regret to kamenz. after dinner i must certainly go to the hotel britannia to take leave of him. but at least i will stay at home to dinner." his glance turned to the virtuoso, while it involuntarily remained fixed on his not sufficiently clean hands. lensky noticed it, and with a mixture of embarrassment and anger, he hid his hand. "for heaven's sake, do not force yourself to anything on my account!" cried he, sharply. the situation had become painful, and would certainly have led to rough words, if harry, who had meanwhile begun to weary of his corner, had not suddenly sprung up, in order to now voluntarily offer to his grandfather the caresses which, with the same capriciousness, he had formerly refused him. with such nimbleness did he hop up on the old man's knee, embraced him so tenderly, offered him with such triumphant roguery his fresh lips for a kiss, that lensky could not but forget his vexation, and yield to the advances of the petted little prince. xxxiii. it was not an especially good dinner that mascha set before her father, and still she had evidently taken pains with it. but the cooking was of that extemporaneous, not well-organized kind which betrays the household where cooking is done for the wife and children only, in consequence of which no especial care is taken, and every culinary luxury forms an exception. the wines, on the contrary, were excellent; the service strikingly correct. bärenburg appeared in a dress coat, and mascha also wore evening dress. in every particular was betrayed the unhomelike one-sidedness of a household in which everything revolves round a spoiled, discontented man who mostly seeks his amusements out of the house. bärenburg tried to show his best side. he had all sorts of attentions as host, for his father-in-law, and called mascha jesting pet names. but still he treated her with the uncertain, tentative tenderness of a man who feels himself in the wrong to his wife, which did not escape lensky. about an hour after dinner bärenburg excused himself after he had offered his father-in-law an especially good cigar, and had kissed his wife's hand and forehead. mascha invited her father to play bezique with her. he consented. but they were both so absentminded, played so foolishly, marked so confusedly, that they very soon, teasing each other with their mutual faults, lay down the cards. now lensky absently builds card-houses on the table; mascha crochets diligently on a child's dress. "h-m! your husband goes out often in the evening?" he asks, after a long, thoughtful silence. "yes," mascha answers, calmly. "and you? do you go out much?" "i? i am occupied with the baby." "the child claims much of your time?" "yes," whispers mascha, and a particularly tender expression creeps over her mouth. "but she is charming--or does she only seem so to me?" "to me also," assures lensky. "just as you looked at her age." "i hope that she will fare better than i." the young wife lowers her head, blushing deeply, still more over her work, and draws the little dress destined for natascha to her lips. lensky overthrows all his card-houses with an impatient gesture. "you prefer her to harry?" he asks. "yes--i think--she is so loving, so tender, and looks so entirely like our family. i certainly love the boy also, but i cling to the little one, as to colia and the remembrance of my dead mother." lensky drums in silence on the table for a while, then he begins: "yes, yes, that is all very beautiful; but you are becoming one-sided, mascha. the consequence is that your husband is too emancipated from you. you will rue that later." mascha does not answer a word. ever more diligently her active fingers busy themselves with the white wool. "you trouble yourself too little about him," says he, and looks at her sharply. she crochets and is silent. "or"--with a burst of his old, untamable violence, lensky strikes the table--"or he troubles himself too little about you." there must have been some mistake in mascha's work. she unravels a great piece of it. her father draws the crochet work from her hand. "leave that stupid stuff," cries he, angrily. "you cannot deceive me with your awkward, helpless comedy. i will see clearly into this affair. what position do you really occupy with your husband?" mascha passes her hand wearily over forehead and temples. lensky is frightened at the unspeakable sadness which he reads on her pale face, now, when the brilliance of joy at seeing him again is gone from the large eyes. "what position?" murmured she. "the position of a woman who must be thankful for her life long to her husband, for that he has saved her with the protection of his personality from a horrible shame." "he ill-treats you?" "no, no! all roughness is foreign to his nature. i have never had to complain of a harsh word from him since we were married; yes, he is even very tender to me." she pauses. "i am not disagreeable to him--" then she continues, slowly, with more evident bitterness at every word: "but--but he is ashamed of me." she rises, and pulls at the lamp-shade. her father confusedly strokes her hand, then suddenly springing up, he cries out: "you poor child!" and clasps her to his breast. she bursts into fierce, not to be quieted sobs, and yet is happy as she had not been for years. what a feeling of warm security in these strong arms! what happiness to thus lean on a man whose caresses are not embittered for us by their compassionate graciousness, who loves us without criticism, blindly. "mascha, it is not to be borne that you torment yourself so," says he. "i will not consent. leave him, and come to me." but then she slips out of his arms, and says, firmly: "no, father; i will stay at my post." she smooths her hair mechanically. after a short pause, she continues: "i often felt urged to tell you what makes my life so sad. ah! how i longed for your compassion! and i wrote long letters to you, in which i confessed all, and then tore them up again, because, in the last moment, fear of saddening you conquered everything. but now, as you have guessed it, i will once--once--complain of my grief. what i have suffered in my married life, i cannot describe to you. i thought at first it would be better if i had a child. when harry came i was glad that my husband was proud of him, but i felt that i was not necessary to the child. sometimes i told myself that i was in my husband's way, that my death would bring about a reconciliation between him and his parents. and once i was so restless and inconsolable that i was within a hair's breadth of running away from him. i would even have left him the boy. but--it was not the moment to run away, and when baby came i knew that i must bear it, that no one could guard my treasure as i. no one can replace a mother to her daughter, and even if karl left her to me, a separated wife is still only a discredited mother--a mother without authority. and what is the position of the daughter of a separated wife?--and a separated wife in my circumstances? i would rather bear all the bitterness in the world than risk the future of my child." for a moment he is silent; then he takes her hand and draws it to his lips. "you are right, mascha!" said he. "bear your cross patiently. nothing weighs more heavily upon one than the consciousness to have forfeited the happiness of those whom one loves. all else is only a trifle--all!" * * * * * now he was in his room, the room which mascha had prepared for him with such loving care. for the first time in years he was in a home. everything about him was simple but home-like; a few flowers, a few tasteful ornaments, several photographs in pretty little frames. every article of furniture had a physiognomy which bade him welcome. a feeling of home-like warmth and satisfaction overcame him. he looked about him with emotion. she had taken such pains, poor mascha! there stood a picture of colia as a four-year-old boy; there she was herself, as a baby, with bare little arms; and there, everywhere, pictures of natalie. she had collected everything that could please him. he could have felt so happy if--if--ah! he held his hand before his eyes. how beautiful it might have been, and how horrible it all was! his son he had not seen since that fearful farewell evening in the hôtel westminster; all tenderness had vanished from their relations. at regular intervals he received stiff, formal letters from nikolai, in which the young diplomat related the most important events of his life--that was all. lensky knew that nikolai advanced rapidly and brilliantly in his career; he guessed that his son, in spite of all, felt dissatisfied, and his heart remained closed to his father. mascha? that was quite different; she had never found anything to criticise in him, her love had ever remained the same. but she was unhappy, miserably unhappy--she, his darling, his idol. and whose fault was it, then? with the manner of a being weighed down by a burden, he sinks into an arm-chair. what had he done? how was it, really? he had loved them all so boundlessly--natalie and the children--and still, what had really driven him into this desolate, restless existence which resolved itself into disgust and misery? it had always been the same, even in these last years it had sometimes come over him; but now it was over, his nature had entered upon a new phase, the wild thirst for pleasure was quenched; he was weary--weary unto death. he sought something supernatural to support him. a mysterious longing tormented him. from without sounded the plashing of the waves, monotonous, sad, hopeless, like the sobs of a rejected human being driven out into the cold. had no one knocked on the window? he sprang up, flung open the window. he trembled in every limb, cold sweat stood on his brow. the lamp threw long, trembling, wavering rays of light on the rippling water. as if built of shadows, like the ghosts of a city long dead, rose the palaces in the moonlight, dimmed by drifting clouds. the sirocco brooded over the lagunes. a soft breeze, the gentle warmth of a passing caress, blew over his cheek. he heard the tender sound of a sympathetic human voice close to his ear; it was natalie's voice, but she spoke a strange language. he did not understand her. his heart stopped beating in breathless listening; he stretched out his arms--it was over, all vanished, all was vacancy! he closed his lips tightly and groped for a chair. for years, at times, the same alluring, incomprehensible fancy pervaded him. the first time, he had fought against it with the whole strength of his intellect, had ascribed it all to an overexcitement of his nerves; now he firmly believed in a supernatural apparition. she came ever nearer, but he could never reach her. he tried to think of other things. he sought a book, a newspaper, which he might read to distract his mind, but found none. he remembered that he had left a new romance by daudet, which he had glanced over before dinner, when mascha had left him to dress, in the drawing-room. with a light in his hand, he went to get the book. he fancied that mascha had long since retired. to his great astonishment, he heard voices in the drawing-room. he opened the door. there sat the young couple. bärenburg was very pale. his head was bowed. an expression of deep shame lay on his finely cut face. one saw plainly that this was no bad man, but only a weak one, who, torn from his natural condition of life, could not thrive in strange ground. a thick necklace of pearls lay on the table. at lensky's entrance, mascha, as well as her husband, turned her head. she had evidently been crying, but still tried to take on a pleasant, indifferent expression. it went to lensky's heart to see how she restrained herself to spare him a pang. "do not force yourself to smile," said he, going straight up to her. "it is of no use." he seized the pearl necklace and looked at it with peculiar emotion. "i have understood!" for a moment there was utter silence, then bärenburg began, constrainedly: "you must not take the situation so desperately--it is only an inconvenient moment--naturally very painful to me, very----" lensky interrupted him. "it is better that we do not speak of it," cried he, crimson with restrained rage, and with hoarse, quite gasping voice; "if i once begin, i would say things to you which a nobleman could not pardon me, and i do not wish to quarrel with you--not on account of my child--but--but--" he grasped his throat with both hands. "no, i shall suffocate; it must out!" "father, hush, for god's sake!" cried mascha. "you do him an injustice. think how hard it was for him--another in his position--" she leaned against her father, pleadingly, tearfully. "she is right," he murmured. "who knows, another would have perhaps been still worse, still worse! but now leave me alone with my child; it would be better." bärenburg left the room. "he gambles!" said lensky, looking mascha straight in the eyes. mascha lowered her eyes. "only since our marriage," murmured she. "the miserable fellow!" burst out lensky. "do not be too severe with him," said mascha. "he is indeed almost as much to be pitied as i. ah, father, father!" she wrung her hands, then suddenly, with a gesture of unspeakable despair, pushing back the hair from her temples, she cried: "if i only had the courage to hold my natascha close to my heart and kiss her for a last time, and spring down into the water with her--there--" she points to a window; she has evidently already busied herself with the thought. "but how can i have the courage when she smiles at me, and twitches her little limbs so gayly, and so rejoices in life!" lensky laid his arm round the young wife and leaned the head of the unhappy woman on his shoulder. "it will be better; he will change in time. you only must not yield too much to him; you must take the reins in your hand, must have head and character for two. forget the old story, demand your right of him; then all will go well, believe me. as for your pecuniary affairs, i will take counsel. only this--" he took the pearl necklace which had remained on the table and let it slide caressingly through his fingers. "do not give this away; that you must not inflict upon me--only not that. i will take counsel, do not worry yourself." xxxiv. yes, he would take counsel. it was harder than he thought. by the necessary inquiry into his affairs, it turned out that nothing more of his fortune was left to him. where had it gone? he had lived so simply these last years, quite like a beggar. where was the money? the great sympathy which he had always felt for every living being, for everything that feels pain, had latterly become morbid and exaggerated in character. he gave and gave to every one who turned to him; gave without reckoning, without thinking, assisted every need, every weakness, every burden, in order to alleviate a grief, were it only for an hour. he gave until he had nothing more to give. the only thing that was left him to procure relief for his unhappy child was to again appear before the public. so he took up anew the wanderer's staff. this time also he allowed his former manager, herr braun, to plan his foreign tour. he gave his first concert beyond the frontier in königsberg. he did not feel anxious about the audience. with the thundering applause which had everywhere fallen to his share at his last concert tour still ringing in his ears, he quite did not comprehend the possibility of a fiasco. another kind of discomfort tormented him. in the recently flown years, which he had earnestly and solitarily passed in the effort to listen once more to the inner voices, which had been silenced in the mad whirl of his virtuoso life, but which anew, at first hesitatingly, but then ever more powerfully, more enthusiastically, vibrated through his mind--in these four years of exclusively creative activity, virtuosity had lost its nimbus for him. this kind of triumph seemed to him small, quite degrading. he was really ashamed to appear before the public with his old arts. but--he did it for his child. but not the slightest doubt that he would be received with rejoicings occurred to him. he was mistaken. when early in february he gave his first concert in königsberg, the hall was half empty, the audience remained cold. how was that possible? he thought that the critics would revenge him for the pitiable indifference of the throng, that his colleagues would bring him ovations, would rebuild for him his old pedestal of subjection and flattery. but no. the critics were lukewarm, and the artist world showed itself quite adverse. how was it, then, that he, by his boundless generosity could win no enduring gratitude, by his astonishing genius could not win respect which should secure him, at his age, from the severity of an objective judgment? how was it that he, a few years after his disappearance from the arena, already was accounted with those to be judged? he had never believed in friendship, and now, as it appeared, he really had no friends. in his time he had been raved over, adored, flattered, and secretly envied; he had not been loved, and people were not inclined to spare him. he had always been too rough, too ruthless, too arrogant. always ready to give to every one, he would never accept anything, even thanks. in spite of his outward benevolence, his winning kindness in superficial intercourse, he was at heart very reserved and inaccessible. except to his wife and children, he had never been intimate with a single being, however much painful compassion he might feel for every misery. this repellent arrogance of feeling, which always showed upon nearer acquaintance, had something paining and humiliating. people were ashamed to be dependent upon a man who made so little of it. a number of new, clever virtuosos, who formerly could have won no recognition, had appeared in the foreground, and the public had grown accustomed to them. indeed none of these new artists equalled lensky in the might of his talent, but the magnificent splendor which had characterized his art in its zenith was no longer remembered. the faults, on the contrary, which disfigured his performance still more significantly at his last appearances, were remembered only too well. people asked themselves how they could have been so pleased by such arbitrariness, and every form of musical failing. they were happy to have escaped this fame carrying all before it, and near which no other genius could expand. his reappearance on the musical horizon had the same effect as the sudden apparition among the living of one for years believed dead. the chasm which his retirement had made was closed; there was no longer a place for him. instead of defending him, his colleagues triumphantly gave reasons for the repellent bearing of the public. he felt as if annihilated. it was not possible that his old power had really left him, he told himself. if he had, a short time ago, thought poorly of his virtuoso success, he now longed for it. a consuming, morbid ambition overcame him, a thirst for triumph. he who had formerly hated all exaggerated figures of speech, all flowery phrases, now hungered for great, enthusiastic demonstrations. he rejoiced at every flattery, however tasteless it might be. that fatal giddiness which overcomes great men when they must descend, overcame him. he clung to everything to win a support. he who had once so roughly held aloof from all advertising, only tolerating about him those journalists who might afford him a passing diversion, or who suited his humor, now stooped for the favor of the most subordinate reporters. he crowded concert-halls, which else would have remained half empty, with free tickets, in order to secure himself a receptive audience. it was all in vain. a wild defiance overcame him. he everywhere suspected cabals, grew quite foolish and childish in his fancies. they were unfavorable to russians in germany. the indifference of the public was a political demonstration. before the public he purposely exhibited a haughty, rough manner, but when he knew himself unobserved, then he hid his head in his hands and wept like a little child. the old pact with the devil was broken. he sought something else which he could not find--a musical expression for the new, elevating charm which had recently enthralled him and for which he forgot his old art. xxxv. "dear father:--i have a great joy to confide to you. my husband's parents have become reconciled with me. they are here in venice, where they will pass several weeks. they live in a hotel, but i see them every day, and have already learned to love my mother-in-law dearly. she reminds me a little of lady banbury, only she is not quite so magnificent and wise, but she is a very kind and distinguished old lady, and friendly beyond expectation to me. she is indescribably charming with the children. "you should only see her sitting on the floor building the st. mark's church with blocks for harry. harry is naturally the favorite; he has the bärenburg family look. "but still he has something of my dear, wild father; he prefers to build the campanile than the st. mark's church, because 'it falls together with such a nice noise when it is finished,' he said to me yesterday, and then his eyes sparkled so, and he danced about so that i embraced him for it. "naturally my position has changed for the better. my mother-in-law is one of those who do nothing by halves. she has introduced me to many ladies, and already taken me several times 'into society'--the venetian society as preliminary. ah, if you knew how hard it was for me to go among people the first time! i could scarcely stand. now i have almost accustomed myself to it. i still indeed prefer to remain at home, but my mother-in-law may be right when she forces me to 'show myself,' when she tells me that it is an injustice to my family to yield to my selfish preference for solitude. yes, certainly she is right. the proof of it is the total change which has taken place in my husband since i have won my little place in society, and--i may say it to you without vanity--since i have been made something of, for they are really very good to me. my music comes to my help. karl is as pleased as a child at my social success, and is not weary of repeating to me the compliments which they pay him about me. "he suddenly sees me with quite different eyes, and pays court to me like a lover. he asks my advice in everything, and is never weary of saying how pleasant it is to have a clever wife who can think for one. "and i, at first--i tell this to you only, papa--at first this change filled me with bitterness. i was no worse at that time when others would know nothing of me. but i restrain myself. do i not fare better, much better, than i ever dared expect? whatever i can do to make his life pleasant i will do. "can you guess who has done all this for me? my old friend, nita. soon after you left here she came to venice to see me, because my letters had made her sad. and she did not rest until, with the powerful help of lady banbury, who is, as you know, the sister of my mother-in-law, she had brought about the reconciliation between karl and his parents. what trouble she took, how many letters she wrote, how she travelled here and there--it is not to be described. "ah, what a lovely girl! you should learn to know her more intimately. she is prettier than ever, although she is nearly thirty. her fame grows daily, and if you perhaps believe that she poses as a muse, and boasts exaggeratedly like any other female celebrity--far from it! there is something so purely womanly, tender, in her manner, and such a charming smile when she raises a child on her knees. "and now of what lies nearest my heart. "my husband resumes his career. we leave for washington in the latter part of april. "the thought of again putting such a large portion of the globe between me and you makes me sad. when you were with me this autumn i felt so truly how wholly i am knit together with you. i would so love to take you with me into our new home. oh, how charming a nest i would build for you, how i would pet you, wait on you, amuse you! but you would not consent, even for love of me, and besides there is no continuing place for a great man like you in our little household. "but still i must see you again before i go. name some place where it would be agreeable to you to meet us. it is all one to me, from madrid to nijey novogorod. colia is coming also; he has promised me. and there we will all be together for a few days, only live in each other, and be happy as one can be when tears of parting are already in his eyes, and rejoice in each other as people who know that their time is short can. so, only fix a place--will you not?--and soon. "i hear a twittering outside the door. it is natascha who has wakened. now annunziata brings her in. i wish you could see her. such a tousled little golden, curly head, such eyes, and the dear little dimples round her mouth. she is my sunshine! and how she stretches out her arms to me! "i had to interrupt my letter to take her on my lap. the rogue would not have it otherwise. you would be pleased with her. she is fully five months prettier than when you saw her. she has three new teeth, which look like little pearls. she walks quite nicely already, and also begins to understand much. if i ask her how much she loves grandpa, and show her your picture, she spreads out her little arms as wide as she can and closes her eyes. "adieu, papa. _auf baldiges wiedersehen!_ "one thing more; i wished to write it at the beginning and could not, but now it must leave the pen. it is fearful to me that you torment yourself for my sake; i really do not need it. with the income which i derive yearly from what is left of my fortune, and with what my husband now receives from his parents, we can live perfectly, perfectly well. therefore, i beg you, if you give concerts for your own distraction, so be it; but only not for my sake. all greetings from my husband, from me. well, i kiss you a thousand times, and remain, counting on a speedy meeting, "your thankful daughter, "m." it was in vienna that lensky received his daughter's letter, at breakfast in a hotel, the day after a concert when he had at length received an ovation. he felt electrified, newly animated, ten years younger. he read the letter twice; but if the first reading had truly pleased him, the second attentive perusal only moderately satisfied him. "h-m! h-m!" he murmured to himself. "yes, it is quite good, it is better than i dared expect. poor woman! he loves her from convenience; she rules him since she no longer deludes herself about him. but still it is fearful for her to be bound for her whole life to this shallow man. she has a fine character, she will do her duty, will fight out her life-conflict honorably from pride, so as not to be reproached by her children, and not to give the malicious world the pleasure of slandering her. she will be a splendid mother. how maternity sanctifies a woman! and nita--poor colia!" suddenly he felt strangely; remembrance had allured him to a dark spot of which he felt a horror. how would the meeting with colia be? for years he had longed to be reconciled with his son, and still he could not overcome a certain anxiety in this case. he tried to think of something else. what city should he appoint as the place of the family meeting? he did not wish to cause mascha any great expense. venice would have been the most convenient, but the old bärenburgs vexed him. well, it would occur to him. meanwhile he picked up the newspaper. a correspondence from rome was among the contents. the name perfection immediately met his eye, the name of the young pianist who had formerly accompanied him on his concert tours. he had never had any special personal liking for perfection, but yet he looked upon him as his musical apprentice and was interested in his progress. he looked over the article more closely. the blood rushed to his head. what was it he read there? his name--yes--near perfection's. "two greater contrasts would be hard to name in the musical world than albert perfection and boris lensky. this is the more striking as they, travelling together for years, formed a musical whole. but while the art of the pianist developed more splendidly with each year, the virtuosity of the violinist crumbled away bit by bit. the public did not suspect at lensky's last concert tour what is now apparent to the most short-sighted; namely, that the applause which was accorded to lensky was really only for perfection's accompanying. since then perfection has emancipated himself from the despotism of his musical tyrant--for whom he has, nevertheless, preserved the most touching affection--and now stands alone in his artistic greatness, one of the noblest phenomenal artists of all times. especially striking is the circumstance that he has been quite uninfluenced by lensky in his artistic development. "it is not uninteresting to bring more plainly to view the particulars of the glaring contrast between these two musical individualities. the principal difference is that albert perfection is a civilized genius, while lensky, even at the height of his achievements, was nothing but a genial barbarian. "perfection is just as free as lensky of old-fashioned virtuoso-pedantry, but he is also free of that distorted tartar romanticism of which lensky never knew how to make an end. without, in so far as his thankless instrument permits, standing behind, in warmth and tenderness, the violinist's performances, his playing is still distinguished by a quite architectural perfection of style which no other virtuoso has attained. he never sins against good taste, against what we might call the higher moral principles of art. a roman lady remarked recently that perfection was for her a too well-bred pianist. he lacks the bewitching sinfulness, the demoniac fire which distinguished lensky in his good days. that may be, but how sadly these bewitching peculiarities of youth degenerate in an old artist we have already unfortunately had occasion to observe in lensky's last concert tour. and how greatly the symptoms of decay have increased in him since then, every musical report which comes to us from germany proves. the bewitching sinfulness has become a caricature, and of the demoniac fire nothing more seems to be left than a berserker rage expressed with the bow over the unvanquishable coldness of the public. "one remembers in rome no such success of a virtuoso as that which albert perfection attained last month in the palazzo caffarelli. he is the lion of the day. when he drives through the streets, the students nudge each other and say: '_ah, è perfezione!_' and hats are removed as before a crowned head." this article was signed arnold spatzig. and if, instead of the name, had stood three stars, it would have been the same for lensky; he would still have known whom he had to thank for this essay. for more than twenty years arnold spatzig had made a practice of insulting and vexing him; what wonder that he had become a master in this art? but until now he had confined himself to insulting lensky the composer; the virtuoso had been too popular for him to venture to attack him before; and now--lensky looked at the article again. "nonsense--moral principle in art--lecture on musical morals--caricature--old scoundrel--nonsense! he has only injured perfection by his partiality. the article is indeed well written, that is the foolishness. distorted tartar romanticism--that will please many--very many--" he struck his fist on the table, his throat contracted. that critics frequently please themselves with thrusts at an old great man in order to pay homage to new ones, he knew. that the time might have already come for him, already now--that had never occurred to him. "what lensky was--" he repeated. "the donkey treats me like a corpse whom one has forgotten to bury. i will show him that i still live, and that an old eagle is always more than a young sparrow!" hereupon the impressario, herr braun, entered. "a brilliant success yesterday," said he. "affairs are coming round; we have great victories before us." he spread out a number of musical criticisms before the virtuoso, and then continued: "we must now consider where we will turn. perhaps to paris, and from thence to london. or shall we first take brussels?" "cut short all preparations in paris," cried lensky. "what do you prefer?" "rome." a momentary confusion takes possession of the agent. "h-m! the moment is not exactly favorable; perfection has just--in rome----" the old violinist started up, he clapped the impressario on the chest; he was beside himself, his face was distorted with rage. "and shall i fear this street-boy?" he gasped. "i tell you, it is to be rome!" xxxvi. rome! rome! the word had always had a particular ring for him. the most beautiful happiness of his life he had found in rome--he had buried it in rome. if his great, weary soul, dreading the future, had, after the fashion of weary souls, sought in the past a place of rest, it always stopped at the point where natalie had entered his life. his thoughts did not willingly wander further back. his childhood and early youth had been a time of harsh renunciation, amidst rough, immoral surroundings. the impression of immodest jokes, impure habits, petty distrust, ambiguous sneers, hard work, unæsthetic education, was inseparable from this period of his life. he was so much the more horrified thereat as he knew that the influence of these repulsive details had secretly penetrated through his every pore, that the soil in which he had grown up had forever soiled the roots of his being. he detested the slightest remembrance of his early youth. all that was beautiful and noble and good in his life had begun with natalie, in rome. a strange, urgent longing drove him there. he was convinced that he would there experience something extraordinary, a last brilliant point in his existence, an immense victory and--the ghostly alluring which had formerly only pursued him at long intervals of time now vibrated about him ever oftener, no longer tormenting as formerly, but sweet, mysteriously promising, quite calming. it was now quite near. rome! rome! he said the word often to himself, softly, slowly, as one utters the name of a beloved one. ever more foolish became the expectations which he centred upon his stay in rome. he would grow young again--the dead would arise for him in rome. his heart beat loudly when the train stopped and the conductor cried out in the clear april air, "roma--roma!" it was in the afternoon, and the sun shone brightly. they had both come to the station, mascha and nikolai--mascha full of happy, tender expectation; nikolai not without a certain embarrassment. even now, after nearly five years, it had cost him a certain effort to resolve upon meeting his father. but scarcely had his glance fallen upon lensky when he forgot all that had separated him from him. when he noticed the slow anxiety with which the old man came up to him, without venturing to stretch out the arms, with which he made frequent twitching, helpless motions, to him, his heart bled for him, and not troubling himself about the tourists and loungers on the platform, he hurried up to his father and embraced him. lensky laughed convulsively, somewhat childishly, as old men laugh in order not to weep; then he walked through the station between his two children. walking heavily, with the forcedly erect carriage of a man who tries to conceal his increasing infirmity, he strode through the crowd. as formerly when he casually showed himself in a public place, he stared straight before him to avoid the curious looks which used to follow him. but to-day no one looked after him. only a street-boy pointed out his long hair to another, and laughed at it. a brilliant blue april sky arched itself over the city. at first lensky merely exchanged a few remarks with his children and inquired heartily of their affairs. gradually he grew more silent, ever more silent. mascha alone maintained the conversation. but lensky did not hear what she said. his nearsighted eyes wandered uneasily over everything they passed. at times he bent far forward, and then suddenly, as if disappointed, turned away his head. "what are you seeking, father?" asked nikolai. "rome--i find it no more," murmured lensky. "yes, it has changed very much since eight years ago, since mamma's death." "i did not see it eight years ago," replied lensky, roughly. "the rome that i seek dates much further back." "the rome in which you were betrothed to our little mother," whispered mascha, softly. he nodded shortly, repellently. all at once his sad face cleared. "there i still see old acquaintances," he cried, and pointed to two antique columns which, strangely enough, were built into a small house, one of whose tiny windows looked out over their time-blackened magnificence. "that is just as at that time," cried the old man, animatedly, "even to the particulars of white curtains and red flowers. i remember how your mother once could not laugh enough at the contrast between these freshly washed curtains and the gloomy roman splendor. heavens, how she laughed! you can none of you laugh as she. i must show you the house in the via giulia, where she lived at that time." "that has long disappeared," said colia. "even eight years ago it no longer existed." "how do you know that?" burst out lensky, quite harshly. "because she--because mamma sought it then and did not find it." "ah! she also sought it," murmured lensky, and fell into a brooding silence. after a while he raised his head. "why did they tear it down?" cried he, angrily. "they had no right to tear it down. it was no trivial, ordinary house, but an old palace, a wonderful old palace, a bit of history. do not these clowns know that there are relics on which one dare not lay a hand? it brings misfortune to desecrate sanctuaries." once more his eyes wander over his surroundings. "no; there is nothing more left of my rome," said he, after a pause. then slowly raising his eyes, he adds: "nothing but the eternal blue heavens above us." xxxvii. all was prepared for a cordial, festive reception in the hôtel de l'europe, the same hotel in which lensky had lived thirty years before, and in which everything had changed, as all rome. natascha had on an embroidered white dress in honor of his arrival. mascha declared that she recognized him; at any rate, she displayed the utmost friendliness. when he took her in his arms she passed her tiny hands caressingly over his rough, wrinkled cheeks, and the old man rejoiced in the fresh young bud, and could not kiss her enough. but the family reunion was not so happy and cheerful as mascha had dreamed. a weight lay on all. lensky, who formerly had never felt the slightest fatigue from travelling, was to-day so weary that his hands trembled. he left the choicest morsels untouched on his plate, and drank more wine than formerly. he scarcely spoke, often for long moments brooded absent-mindedly, while his deathly pale face took on an intense listening and longing expression which was as weird as mysterious to his children. when he roused himself, he turned his attention almost exclusively to his son. incessantly his eyes sought nikolai's. the young man showed the elder every possible attention, but he could not talk with him. meanwhile mascha did not cease to try to enliven the oppressive mood, whose cause she did not suspect, by all kinds of communications. she told of her cousin anna, who had finally married--an american parvenu, whom she treated very badly, and who was very proud of her. he had built her a house in the champs elysées, after her personal liking. the house was very large and very handsome. it had room for everything, only not for anna's mother. old madame jeliagin, who as long as her daughter was unmarried would have spent her last cent to live according to their rank, now begged from one relative to another. "she was with us in venice for six weeks this winter," said mascha, "and you will scarcely believe me, i know you are prejudiced against aunt, but i was very happy with her. she is so simple now, and so pitifully modest. she no longer paints, and she ties her cap-strings under her chin. she always jumps up if one wants anything, and waited on my husband as on a sultan. he was always very good to her, and she admired him immensely. with me and the children she was of such an old-fashioned, clinging tenderness that it warmed my heart. she has still a very strong family feeling, and told me much of my dear mother. strange, with so many people their good peculiarities only come to light when they are too old to embitter life with vanity." mascha smiled. it did lensky good to see, for the first time in so many years, this healthy, happy expression on her face. meanwhile she continued: "still, i have news of some one who will perhaps interest you more than aunt barbe. whom did i meet to-day on the corso? sonia, with her father. you perhaps know that he has recently been made inspector--i do not know the title exactly, protector perhaps--of the choreographic institute in st. petersburg. he is still the same, fire and flame for culture and beautiful women. sonia may have much to endure. she bears it all patiently, as she bears everything. do you know that she has grown much prettier in these five years, nikolai?" nikolai only murmured distractedly: "so, really?" and crumbled his bread. "yes, less stout, her face more expressive. she has more manner, and dresses with much taste." "i always thought her pretty, and one of the best and most sympathetic girls whom i had ever met," said nikolai, with the emphasis with which men praise girls with whom they feel themselves in the wrong. "i asked her to visit us to-day. she said she could not come to-day, she expected a friend--nita sankjéwitch." nikolai bit his lips. in this moment that vein of loathing for his father rose again in him. suddenly he felt something peculiar. he raised his eyes and met his father's. a shudder ran over him. so much anxious, supplicating sadness was in this glance. [illustration] they were at dessert when a waiter entered and presented a visiting-card to lensky. lensky changed color and trembled when he took the card from the salver and read the name. "what does he want here?" he burst out violently, without restraining himself before the waiter. "who is it?" asked mascha, in russian. "perfection!" lensky drummed confusedly on the table. "but, papa, you cannot expect anything else," whispered mascha, softly. "he has only shown you a politeness which is your due." lensky frowned. then nikolai laid his hand on his arm. "shall i receive perfection in your place?" asked he. "i will tell him that you are tired from the journey; he might come later." at his son's touch lensky started. his gloomy face lightened. "no, no, my boy; best of thanks, colia, i am going myself. it only vexed me at first to be torn away from our cosy circle. we will make it short--farewell." with that he went. mascha and nikolai still remained at table. they looked at each other piercingly. each wished to read the thoughts of the other from the face. "how do you find him?" asked mascha at length. "very changed." "is he not?" mascha fought back tears. "it is terrible to look on. he is not to be recognized; five months ago he was quite different. if one only could prevent him from playing. i am convinced he will experience something annoying." "yes, if one could only prevent him," murmured nikolai. meanwhile lensky had entered the drawing-room. a correctly dressed, well-bred looking blond man came to meet him, with the exclamation: "welcome, heartily welcome to rome!" and stretched out both hands to him. lensky negligently took one. perfection's air of hearty comradeship vexed him. what did this little pianist permit himself? formerly his accompanist had waited until he gave him his hand. perfection noticed the old man's vexation. he was ready to pacify him. the news that lensky would give a concert in rome had at first caused him some excitement. now, when he saw him before him, his excitement changed to compassion--the noble garment in which the triumphant ambition of young, aspiring mediocrity prefers to clothe itself to a vanquished great one. the broken old man with the round shoulders and trembling hands could no longer injure him. he suddenly felt the most tender reverence for him, and pressed his hand to his lips like that of a priest. how repulsive such demonstrations would formerly have been to lensky! he would have roughly and imperiously rebuffed them. now this token of submission flattered him. "it was very nice in you to hurry a little to visit me," said he. "h-m--sit down." more he could not say. "you have no idea what enthusiasm it caused among your adorers when one learned that one might at last greet you again here," began the talkative perfection. "ah! have you really left me anything?" said lensky, striking his former accompanist familiarly on the knee. "do not humiliate me, master," replied perfection. again lensky struck him on the knee, and laughed loudly and somewhat constrainedly, although nothing laughable had been said. "i am very glad--really very glad to see you again," he assured the pianist. the latter smiled comprehendingly. "it reminds you of old times, _mon maître_." lensky's face clouded. "not wholly--h-m!--i must still congratulate you upon your success. i am proud of you--regard you a little as my musical apprentice. do you give another concert here?" "no, not at present. i only remained in rome on your account, master. you do not know how i long for the sound of your violin. how are you pleased with your pianist?" lensky passed his hand over his forehead. "as much as one can be with a pianist with whom one has been associated for six weeks only. he has not yet learned to think with me. for the rest, he is quite a clever man." "i begin to be jealous!" cried perfection. "it is not necessary. with you it went better--finally. at first i tormented myself enough with you. but--one may say what one will--the piano accompaniment remains always a leaden weight for a violinist. with the orchestra it fares better, but that is too ceremonious. if i envy the pianist one thing, it is his independence. the accompanists are none of them worth anything--none of them." "you discourage me, _mon maître_," cried perfection. "when i heard of the trouble you had recently with pianists, i wished to place myself at your disposal, at least for your concert here." perhaps the offer was really well meant. in any case it was the quintessence of artistic politeness. instead of thinking of this, lensky burst out as if perfection had wished to insult him with his offer, and cried: "so that it might be said the audience at lensky's performances applauded the accompanist merely, eh?" an unpleasant silence followed. at last perfection began with suffocated voice: "as i see, you have read spatzig's article about me." "yes; i even did not grudge you the article from my heart," assured lensky, cuttingly. "i am glad for you that you stand so well with the critics." perfection looked the furious old man full in the face. offended innocence and insulted dignity spoke from his face. "you do me bitter injustice by this allusion," said he, quietly, and with emphasis. "i could not help it that that article was written. i had not read it before it appeared. if i had known of it i would never have given my consent to its publication. i found it tasteless and rough, and did not feel at all flattered by it, but ashamed. it has made me many enemies in germany. in rome, on the contrary, where it has been translated into french and italian and printed in different journals, it has been of use to me, of great use, and you, lensky"--for the first time perfection called his former patron briefly by his name, which did not escape the latter--"you, spatzig's _feuilleton_ has here--understand me correctly, here in rome, where you have not been heard for thirty years; here, where they rely on spatzig's judgment--immeasurably injured. i tell you truly, in the superficial musical world which here forms the decisive part of the audience, a great prejudice against you prevails. the hearty enthusiasm which everywhere else meets you is here limited to one or two hundred of your old admirers in the strangers' colony. so! there you have the situation." perfection is silent. lensky's lips have drawn themselves ever more deeply down at the corners; his nostrils quiver, he passes his hand uneasily over the table between himself and perfection. "that is all very instructive and very interesting that you tell me," said he, uneasily; "but how does it further concern me?" "it is in your power to change the situation, and i would like to persuade you to do your part. h-m! it is so hard to speak of it to you, lensky, you have such passionate prejudices; but, really, it will lead to nothing to further excite spatzig. if you soothe his vanity, wounded by you, he will immediately write an article about you which will paralyze the effect of the one about me. he will make converts for you, will extol you just as zealously as he has formerly depreciated you." "and what shall i do to cause this important reverse of affairs?" asks lensky, with caustic scorn. perfection hesitated a moment, then he replied: "call upon frau spatzig." "so, then, spatzig has a wife?" asked lensky. "you surely must know; he has been married for more than six years." "i had no suspicion, never troubled myself about herr spatzig's private affairs," replied lensky, arrogantly. "a former singer, signora zingarelli. she spoke with great interest of you; told me that, long years ago, on your first tour in america, she had the pleasure of learning to know you personally, and assured me that she would be very happy to see you again. she laid great stress on it." "what is the lovely creature's name? zinga--zinga----" "zingarelli." "so, zingarelli!" lensky laughed to himself. "that is indeed delightful, that is charming, really. the zingarelli! i remember her distinctly. a belgian with a pretty white complexion and red hair. i compliment herr spatzig. h-m! and i should call upon this lady?" "it would be to your interest," said perfection. "if it, nevertheless, would be disagreeable to you, i make you another proposition. i play to-morrow at a soirée at the spatzigs. come for my sake, to do me the honor, without having left a card before." "h-m! to a soirée at madame zingarelli spatzig's! pardon me, does any one go to her house?" "all rome, especially the distinguished foreigners. she entertains a great deal. she brought spatzig a considerable fortune." "yes, yes; she sang third _rôles_ in morelli's troupe in russia. it is very tolerable to sing third _rôles_ in a travelling italian opera troupe!" lensky laughed significantly. perfection was silent. "but do not be so sanctimonious," now cried lensky. "it certainly cannot be unknown to you that zingarelli was a quite common courtesan." "i know nothing of that," replied perfection, coldly, with the suitable dignity with which a man of the world corrects a forward person who dares bring to light his facts of the past, which the man of the world has buried for his convenience. at the same time the pianist had risen from his chair. he took his hat. "well, will you forget the old grudge, lensky? may i tell frau spatzig that you are coming?" "you are here in her commission?" cried lensky, to whom a new reason for perfection's manner had occurred. perfection, who had not found it hard to answer before, remained silent. "i understand," said lensky. "she needs me to show me. one knows by what arts such women charm society to their drawing-rooms. it would please her to lead about the old lion by a chain. there may even be a little advantage for him to permit it"--with a sharp glance at perfection--"but--" he now stood before perfection, drawn up to his full height, and gloomy. with a gesture which was peculiar to him when greatly excited, he raised his arms and clenched his fists. "you can tell her," cried he, slowly letting his arms sink--"you can tell her that i would rather stand in the pillory and be stared at by the passers-by than set foot over the threshold of the spatzig couple. it would seem less degrading to me than to sue for the favor of this pack of idiots." a minute later lensky was alone in the room. perfection has withdrawn with a deep bow. lensky had the feeling that a misfortune had occurred--a misfortune which was his fault. he did not know what, and could not measure the consequences of what had happened. suddenly his heart beat loudly and heavily. the sweat of anxiety stood on his brow. why had he not better governed himself? but what wonder? he had never been able to govern himself; how should he learn it as an old man? xxxviii. except that from principle he never touched his bow on the days of his concerts before he presented himself to the audience, lensky spent this day just like any other; one perceived no outward excitement about him. this time it was otherwise. early in the morning he visited his wife's grave in the pretty churchyard by the cestius pyramid, at the foot of the aventine. when he returned his face bore the signs of severe weeping, and he shut himself into his room for many hours. mascha heard him practise. he incessantly tried passages on his violin as if he would strengthen his memory. at lunch he sat down with his children, but could eat nothing. he complained of weariness in his left arm. twice the fork fell from his hand. in the afternoon mascha proposed a drive, having noticed that he was restless and uneasy. he consented. on the corso they met frau spatzig in her carriage. lensky was about to remove his hat, then he was ashamed of his cowardice, and turned away his head. they drove far out in the campagna. the fairy charm of spring spread the fragrance of its renewed life over the graves and ruins. dreamily lensky's eyes wandered over the wide plain. he recognized everything. how often he had driven along this street with natalie! he felt young again, a feeling of elevating enthusiasm took possession of him. and suddenly a vibrating and singing began in his soul. he listened breathlessly. what wonderful songs were those? he could have written them down now, immediately. but did that really all ring through his soul? it seemed to him that he heard the music vibrating down to him from above. he bent forward---- ever lower, the song sank down to earth, with its consoling, calming compassion, the divine compassion of an angel who understands the pain of a tormented human heart. lower, ever lower, softer, fuller--hark! the song had ceased, a rough breeze had blown it away. lensky looked up. near the street stood a white church-yard wall, and tall, dark cypresses rose around it. at the gate stood white-robed monks around a coffin; the black smoke of their red, flickering torches darkened the bright spring air; from their lips sounded a dirge. the carriage rolled on; the gloomy picture vanished; around ruled the spring. the breath of new life rose from the earth covered with fresh green, and in the hedges the flowers kissed each other. xxxix. "really, without evasion, what do you think of lensky?" it is the countess löwenskiold, one of the former lensky enthusiasts, who asks this question of albert perfection. she sits in one of the first rows of the salla dante, between perfection and madame spatzig, with whom she is quite intimate, and awaits lensky's appearance on the stage. "i have such an insurmountable feeling of reverence and gratitude for lensky that my judgment may not be impartial," replied perfection, correctly. "perfection, _pas de bêtises_, give your true opinion," commands frau spatzig in her rough, guttural voice. "well, my true opinion is: i regret that with lensky the summits are so near the abysses," says perfection. "you must not misunderstand me, honored countess----" the countess laughs and strikes him with her fan. "i understand you very well," cries she. "the epigram is wonderfully descriptive." "alas! it is not original with me; it comes from de sterny--but how unpunctual lensky is to-day." perfection looks at his watch. "half-past nine." "and yet he will play all that for us?" says madame spatzig, and points to an unusually long programme. "it is indeed a somewhat tasteless and overladen musical _menu_," murmurs spatzig, who sits behind the löwenskiold. "shall you remain until the end, countess?" "impossible, my friend." "still, he should begin," says madame spatzig. "he has surely not become ill?" meanwhile, a few seats away, whispers mascha to her brother. "suppose you go and see." then lensky steps on the stage. his face is flushed, he stumbles over a chair, collects himself, and bows. spatzig looks at him attentively. "h-m! he is nervous as a conservatorist," murmurs he. he takes up his violin. his programme begins with beethoven's c minor sonata dedicated to emperor alexander. how wonderfully he played it formerly, with what noble comprehension of the magnificent earnestness of the composition. now---- a mocking smile appears ever more plainly on frau zingarelli spatzig's face. the critic whispers to countess löwenskiold. "one has seldom heard such poor playing in a public concert," he remarks. one scarcely recognizes the sonata. quite without taking breath, he springs from one movement to the next. the _scherzo_--formerly it was a masterpiece of grace and poetry. now--is that really lensky who chases the bow over the strings with this stumbling, musical insolence? mascha's cheeks burn with shame; she looks to the right and left, shyly and anxiously, expecting something terrible. she would like to hold the people's ears, or call to them: "wait, have patience with him, he will surely come to himself." before they know it, he has finished the sonata. a moderate applause accompanies his exit. one shows him the consideration due to a celebrity. mascha breathes freely, as after a danger passed through. all at once the hushed hand-clapping breaks forth afresh, becomes importunate, immoderate, supported by loud cries of "bravo!" the couple of hundred young russians present, students, painters, or archaeologists, pay homage, in their uncomprehending, mistaken national enthusiasm, to their great man. at first the romans put up with it. lensky has appeared upon the stage; he bows solemnly, benevolently. he does not know that he has played badly, and is pleased at the enthusiasm. spatzig still whispers to the countess löwenskiold and holds his sides with laughter. the russians are wild. it is too bad; madame spatzig makes a little attempt--only from petulance--behind her fan, so that no one perceives it; she begins to hiss. then around her through the whole room, louder and louder, resounds the cutting, scornful sound, louder, ever louder. lensky stands as if rooted to the ground; then, mechanically raising his hands, he makes the old, proud gesture with which he used to repel too violent applause. but the hissing increases, loud insults are mingled therewith. the horrid noise with which an italian audience expresses its displeasure and scorn resounds through the sober, cold hall. then perfection springs up. "silenzio!" he thunders to the excited public--and all is hushed. lensky has withdrawn from the stage. a strange feeling prevails. one feels that something terrible has happened. a brilliant fame has been wiped out. a great man has been insulted. several people leave the hall. the entertainment is over, why wait? it is not possible that the concert should proceed. mascha and nikolai rise to go to him; then a murmur goes through the ranks, some one is coming; one expects a manager, any one, who will announce to the audience that lensky is ill. or is the pianist to play his number? no; it is lensky himself who comes on the stage. he holds himself stiffly, looks neither to the right nor the left; no hand moves to greet him. they really do not understand what he wishes, but they remain seated. they look at him with attention, respect, and remorse. how miserable he looks, and how noble and magnificent! his eyes shine with a supernatural light from his face, which is pale and sunken like that of a corpse. already after the first stroke of the bow a touched consideration spreads through the hall. what is he playing? nobody knows, but no one remains unmoved who hears him, and no one will forget these tones--a melody which no one knows, and which carries all away with it, sublime, wonderful, compassionate, and elevating. it is the great word in art which he has sought in vain during his whole life, and which he has found at last, now--no one has yet ever heard the violin played thus. every thought of strings and bow vanishes. it is an angel's voice which sings. a shudder creeps over those who listen, a kind of sacred terror, as if something supernatural, spiritual, drew near. then--all at once he stops. has a string snapped? the hand with the bow has sunk down; he bends his head forward--listens. to what does he listen? his face takes on a glorified, ecstatic expression. he gives a short cry, then stretching out both arms, he falls to the floor. he had grown young again, the dead had arisen for him. he no longer felt the weight of his body, the great soul was set free. he had indeed known that something wonderful must come in rome. * * * * * they brought him to the hotel, the physician came--two physicians. one did what one could. all attempts at reanimation were in vain. the doctors pronounced it heart failure. at two o'clock in the morning the two children of the deceased remained alone with the corpse. xl. on the third day after his death the burial took place, with great pomp and an immense crowd. only when one misses a dead man can one fully recognize his greatness, and to the artist world which assembled round lensky's coffin in rome it grew plain that they had buried a giant. at first the russians would not consent that the body of their great man, who had so unspeakably loved his fatherland, should be confided to strange earth, but his children knew that he had wished to be buried near his wife in the strangers' cemetery at the foot of the aventine, and they respected his last wishes. mascha's inner self was wholly shattered. not only her husband, but also her mother-in-law, had come from venice to be present at the funeral solemnities, to support, to console the broken young woman. she repelled every consolation. in spite of her great physical exhaustion, she would not be prevented from accompanying the corpse to the edge of the grave. they were afraid that she would swoon when the body was lowered into the grave, but she stood up erect. when the mourners returned from the burial to the hotel, the table was laid for them in the drawing-room. sonia, who had been present in these sad times, and like a warm, mild sunbeam had assisted benevolently and unobtrusively, stood near the samovar. with loathing, mascha turned away, and hurried to her room, where she shut herself in. she who had borne so much sadness and trouble without complaining, this time knew no bounds to her grief. bärenburg, nikolai, her mother-in-law--one after the other knocked at her door to say something loving to her, to console her. she admitted no one. stiff and erect, she sat there in the first chair she could find, deathly pale and tearless. "console!" said she to herself, bitterly. "whom will they console?" they, none of whom understand what she has buried with the great, stormy heart that rests at the foot of the aventine. she has lost the only person who fully understood her, whom she could wholly confide in. the man who has petted and indulged her, and cared for her like a little child who has hurt itself--had wrapped her warmly and securely in his protecting tenderness when the rest of the world turned from her. it seemed to her that life has paused around her. all is hard and cold. her husband at last won admittance to her. his flat words of consolation, his attempts to calm her with caresses, excited her almost to madness. she, who had formerly always tolerated him near her with the same even friendliness, repulsed him, no longer mistress of herself, this time with a furious roughness at which a deeper-thinking man would have been frightened. but he explained this violence by overstrained nerves, and withdrew with a last mild, kind word on his lips. when the door had closed behind him, an indescribably painful feeling overpowered her. never before had she felt his triteness so plainly as in this moment when her agony tore down, with its tyrannical ruthlessness, all her carefully piled-up deceptions. for the first time she realized the whole irremediable flatness and dryness in which her future must drag on--her future with this man who was a stranger to all her deeper thoughts and feelings. her last prop had fallen with her father. for love of him she had at least tried to appear happy; but now, for what purpose--why? she could no longer bear her existence. it was impossible to live longer. then she heard the steps of insecure little feet approaching her door; then the soft knocking of two tiny little fists, which wounded themselves on the hard wood; an indistinguishable tender word lisped by soft child's lips. she started up and opened the door. without stood natascha and her nurse. the nurse drew back. the child stared at her mother, whose pale face and long mourning dress seemed strange to her; then she nestled in her dress and began to stroke and caress the black folds violently. the young wife raised the child in her arms. natascha did not cease to embrace and kiss her mother with the touching, helpless tenderness of a little being in whom love has awakened before intellect, who suspects a pain which it does not yet understand, and would fain console before it can yet speak. for the first time mascha's pain dissolved in tears. sobbing, she pressed the little girl to her breast. "bear your cross patiently," she murmured, thinking of the words with which her father in that fearful night in venice had calmed her heart, rebelling against its oppressive lot. "bear your cross!" she kissed the child again and again, and the grief for the dead met in her heart the love for this sweet young life. * * * * * and nikolai? he bore the great loss calmly, so calmly that mascha, who suspected nothing of his feelings and who was without the key to them, ascribed utter indifference to him. really, his father had died to him before. he had lost him on that hot june day in paris. he had only buried him in rome. while he watched by the coffin through the two mild spring nights, he had sought his pain and could not find it. but now, after the restlessness which is always bound up with the last solemnities is over, after the dead one has been carried away, and he can fully measure the great chasm which the death of his father has rent in his existence, a sadness increasing with every hour overwhelms him. weary from watching as he was, he nevertheless did not close his eyes in the night which followed the burial. his thoughts were constantly occupied with the dead as with a great riddle. he saw the strange, great man before him in all his phases. he saw him as a young man, with his proud bearing, his dark, attractive, expressive face, his quick, energetic earnestness full of fire, and that irresistible gentleness and tenderness of very violent men, who are continually afraid of paining their loved ones by a rough word, a thoughtless wildness. he saw the change which slowly took place in the attractive face, and how it grew coarser, and still something of the old charm remained--yes, with advancing years became more evident--a charm which summarized an expression of unspeakably sad kindness. there was something fairly startling about this kindness, this rich, unwearying compassion. it was as if destiny had punished him for all that he had done in his wild violence of life, by condemning him to forever bear about with him this great, warm, restless, sympathetic heart. nikolai would have so willingly grieved for his father from his whole heart, and thought of only the great and noble in him. he could not. the old, hateful story still tormented him, tormented him so much the more as he reproached himself with thinking of it now, and it seemed to him small and repulsive in every respect to remember any fault of his father after his death. early in the morning, before any one else was stirring, he went out, took a carriage, and drove to his father's grave. he had to walk a long distance through the graveyard before he reached it. at last he discovered the grave. a mountain of wreaths covered it. at the foot kneeled a black form, bowed deeply over her hands, praying. was that mascha? could she have come before him? he hurried nearer. no, that was not mascha. slowly she rose; it was nita. her eyes met his. it thrilled him through and through. they were the same wonderfully beautiful eyes, the remembrance of which had followed him across the sea, which he loved so unspeakably, and--which had once so pained him. some change had taken place in them. the shadow which had formerly darkened them had vanished. ah! how loving and kind were those eyes now, somewhat sad indeed, but with the sadness of a great compassion, of a hearty forgiveness. the bitterness of a hateful recollection had no place more in this pure, warmly beating heart. he lowered his head before nita's brilliant glance, quite ashamed. what thoughts could he have of his father if she could forgive! she seemed surprised to see him, but she betrayed no embarrassment at meeting him at the grave of his father. as he silently removed his hat, she came up to him with all her old freedom and gave him her hand. she evidently remembered that she had once caused him pain, and was sorry for it. then she spoke a few words to him in her sweet, soft voice, in an undertone, as one speaks near the dead; smiled at him, crossed herself once more before the grave, and went. he looked after her as she moved away among the dark cypresses as lightly as if borne on clouds, ever further, further between the white tombstones; looked after her, astonished, thoughtfully. then he bent down there, where she had knelt, pushed the flowers a little aside, and kissed the fresh earth. all was calm within him. he had finished one great period of his life. it was not only his father whom he had buried there, under the flower-covered mound; it was the last trace of a foolish hope which had, until then, prevented him from turning his eyes from his beautiful youthful dream and looking reality courageously in the face. he had never ceased to love nita, he knew that he would always love her, but calmly and undesiringly as one loves a saint or the dead. when, a half-hour later, he left the graveyard, he bore his head high, and had the earnest, resolute look of a man who has begun a new life. the perpetual remembrance of his father which he carried with him into this new life was that of the pale, noble face, alienated from all earthly shortcomings of the dead. transcriber's notes: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/forright suttgoog for the right for the right by karl emil franzos given in english by julie sutter with a preface by george macdonald, lld. new york harper & brothers, franklin square preface. not having even been asked to do so, i write this preface from admiration of the book. the translation i have not yet seen, but knowing previous work by the same hand, have confidence in it. how much the story is founded on fact i cannot tell; a substratum of fact there must be. to know that such a man once lived as is represented in it, might well wake a new feeling of both strength and obligation: here is one who, with absolutely no help from what is commonly meant by _education_, lived heroically. but be the tale as much a product of the imagination as the wildest romance, it remains a significant fact that the generation has produced a man capable of such an ideal. for the more evident tendency of art has for some time been to an infinite degeneracy. the cry of "art for art's sake," as a protest against the pursuit of art for the sake of money or fame, one can recognize in its half wisdom, knowing the right cry to be, "art for truth's sake!" but when certain writers tell us that the true aim of the author of fiction is to give the people what they want, namely, a reflection, as in a mirror, of themselves--a mirror not such as will show them to themselves as they are, but as they seem to each other, some of us feel that we stand on the verge of an abyss of falsehood. the people--in whose favour they seem to live and move and have their being--desire, they say, no admixture of further object, nothing to indicate they ought not to be what they are, or show them what they ought to be: they acknowledge no relations with the ideal, only with that which is--themselves, namely, and what they think and do. such writers do not understand that nothing does or can exist except the ideal; nor is their art-philosophy other than "procuress to the lords of hell." whoever has an ideal and is making no struggle toward it, is sinking into the outer darkness. the ideal is the end, and must be the object of life. attained, or but truly conceived, we must think of it as the indispensable. it is, then, a great fact of the age that, such low ends being advocated, and men everywhere insisting on a miserable origin and miserable prospects for humanity, there should yet appear in it a man with artistic conception of a lofty ideal, and such artistic expression of the same as makes it to us not conceivable only, but humanly credible. for an ideal that is impossible is no ideal; it is a fancy, no imagination. our author keeps his narrative entirely consistent with human nature--not, indeed, human nature as degraded, disjointed, and unworthy, neither human nature as ideally perfect, but human nature as reaching after the perfection of doing the duty that is plainly perceived. in none of its details is the story unlikely. we may doubt if such a man as taras ever lived; but alas for him who has no hope that such a man will ever be! the reader must not suppose i would have everything the man did regarded as _right_. on the contrary, the man becomes bitterly aware of his errors--errors of knowledge, however, of judgment and of belief, be it understood--not of conduct as required by that belief, knowledge, and judgment. his head is at a loss rather than in fault; heart and will are pure. a good man may do the most mistaken things with such conviction of their rectitude as to be even bound to do them. how far he might be to blame for not knowing or judging better, god only could tell. if he could not have known better or judged better, he may have to bear some of the consequences of his mistakes, but he will not have to bear any blame; while his doing of what he believed to be right will result in his both being and knowing what is right. the rare thing is not the man who knows what is right, but the man who actually, with all the power in him, with his very being, sets himself to _do_ that right thing, however unpleasant or painful, irksome or heartrending to him. such a man, and such only, is a hero. at the same time, the deepest instruction lies in the very mistakes of the man. the purity of his motive and object confessed, not merely were the means he took to reach his end beyond his administration, but the end itself was imperfect. there are multitudes who imagine they hate injustice when they but hate injury to themselves. they will boil with rage at that, but hear of wrong even to a friend with much equanimity. how many would not rather do a small wrong than endure a great one! do such men love justice? no man is a lover of justice who would not rather endure the greatest wrong than commit the least. here we have a man who, to revenge no wrong done to himself, but out of pure reverence for justice, feeling bound in his very being to do what in him lies for justice, gives up everything, wife even and children, and openly defying the emperor, betakes himself an outlaw to the hills, to serve that justice whose ministers have forsaken her. he will do with what power he has, the thing so many fancy they would do if they had the power they have not--put down injustice with the strong hand. there is a place for this in the order of things; but were the judges of the earth absolutely righteous, the world would never thus be cleansed of injustice. the justest judge will do more for the coming of the kingdom of righteousness by being himself a true man, than by innumerable righteous judgments. the first and longest step a man can take toward redress of all wrong, is _to be righteous_, not in the avenging of wrong, but in the doing of the right thing, in the working of righteousness. he who could have put down evil with the strong hand had he so pleased, was he who less than any cared to do so. he saw that men might be kept from injustice and be not a whit the more just, or the more ready to do justice when the hand was withdrawn. what alone he thought worth his labour was that a man should love justice as he loved it, and be ready to die for it as he himself died. this man in his ignorance set out to do the thing his master had declined to do; his end itself was inadequate. nor was the man himself adequate to the end. the very means he possessed he was unable to control; and wrong followed as terrible as unavoidable. vengeance must be left with the most high; for the administration of punishment, to be just, demands not merely an unselfishness perfect as god's, but an insight and knowledge equal to his. besides all this, to administer justice a man must have power beyond his own, and must, therefore, largely depend on others, while yet he can with no certainty determine who are fit for his purpose and who are not. in brief, the justest man cannot but fail in executing justice. he may be pure, but his work will not. one thing i must beg of the reader--not to come to a conclusion before he has come to the end; not to imagine that now or now he may condemn, but to wait until the drama is played out. it was indeed a bold undertaking when our author chose for his hero a man who could not read or write, who had no special inclination, no personal aptitude for social or public affairs, and would present him attempting the noblest impossibility, from a divine sense of wrong done to others than himself, and duty owed by him to all men and to god--a duty become his because he alone was left to do it. i have seldom, if ever, read a work of fiction that moved me with so much admiration. the failures of some will be found eternities beyond the successes of others. george mac donald. contents. chapter i. to the front. ii. the stuff he was made of. iii. the right wronged. iv. taking up the battle. v. the wrong victorious. vi. appealing unto cæsar. vii. put not your trust in princes. viii. despair. ix. the passion of justice. x. to the mountains. xi. outlawed. xii. flourishing like a bay-tree. xiii. the banner unfurled. xiv. gathering strength. xv. an eye for an eye. xvi. the avenger to the rescue. xvii. signs of failure. xviii. the approaching doom xix. for the right--in the wrong. xx. the banner soiled. xxi. "vengeance is mine". xxii. paying the penalty. for the right. chapter i. to the front. let the reader's imagination carry him eastward. let him suppose he were travelling at railway speed between lemberg and czernowitz, in a south-easterly direction, towards the sedgy shores of the river pruth and the beech forests of the bukowina, and the scenery to his left will appear changeless. his eye for miles will rest on a boundless plain, of which the seasons can influence the colouring only, but never a feature of the landscape. white and dazzling in the winter, it rises to something of a yellow brightness in the summer, wearing a neutral tint both in the autumn and spring. but on his right-hand each turn of the wheel will disclose a new picture to his eyes. he is fast approaching the towering heights of the carpathians. mere phantoms at first, they assume shape and substance like gathering clouds on the horizon, the mountain chain with deepening contours advancing through the violet and purple vapours of distance. and if the traveller now were able to fix his gaze a while on the monotonous plain, with its grey cottages, its poverty-stricken fields, and dreary heathlands, his would be a grand surprise in turning once more to the right. the heights have closed in--giants they, proud and solemn in fir-clad majesty. the wind, sweeping along the mountain-sides, is laden with the odours of pinewood; the air is filled with the roar of cataracts dashing through the gullies and foaming along the rocky channel by the side of the railway cutting; and athwart the narrow bands of azure, which seem the bluer for the deep-rent glens beneath, may be seen wheeling the bloodthirsty kite of the carpathians. the very heart of the mountain chain, silent and beautiful, lies open to view. a moment only, and it will have vanished. the railroad, starting off in a sharp curve to the east, leaves nothing to the beholder but to the right and to the left the self-same monotonous plain. a sudden bend of the lawless pruth had rendered it necessary for the line to cut the landscape at the very point where mountain and plain stand facing each other--abrupt and unblending--like hatred and love in the heart of man. the spot in question--half-way between colomea, the hill-crowned capital of the district, and zablotow, a poor jewish townlet of the plain--is within the parish boundary of zulawce, a village not, however, visible from the railway, its cottages, a couple of miles beyond, covering an eastern slope of the magnificent mountain range. the thatched dwellings are as poor as anywhere in that part of galicia, not even the church or the manor house commanding any attention. but all the more charming is the neighbourhood. approaching the village from the pruth, you reach its first outlying cottages without the effort of climbing, but by the time you have ascended to the farthermost dwellings you have a splendid lowland landscape at your feet--spreading fields of gold, verdant woods and heath-covered tracts, skirted by the pruth as with a broad silver ribbon, the glittering rivulet of the czerniawa winding between. and your eye will carry you farther still, to the natural horizon, northward. but the eastern view is altogether different, and incomparably bewitching, the gloriously wooded hill-country of the bukowina rising gradually, terrace upon terrace, from the deep-sunk valley of the czeremosz. indeed, this prospect, as seen from the village, is wondrously grand, a succession of gigantic steps, as it were, leading from earth toward heaven, the highest mountain-tops melting away in the ethereal blue. to the west and south the view is bounded by the "welyki lys," a gigantic mountain forest which separates galicia from hungary--dark and dreary, and unutterably monotonous. nowhere in the lower carpathians is there a spot to equal zulawce for nature's variety, looking upon the village as a centre. but this is not all for which the place is noteworthy. life there, on the whole, is regulated after the ways of the lowlands; but the people themselves approach the huzul type--a peculiar race, inhabiting the mountains, and which, on account of the common language, is generally classed with the ruthens, but being of a different origin and of different conditions of life is distinct from them, as in appearance so in habit and in character. the huzul is a hybrid, uniting the slavonic blood of the ruthen with the mongolian blood of the uzen, his speech betraying the former while his name testifies to the latter; so also does the defiant dauntlessness of his bearing, hidden beneath an appearance of proud restraint, but apt to burst out suddenly, like a hot spring through the covering snow. the ruthens of the lowlands, on the contrary, are purely slavonic; industrious therefore, enduring and very patient, not easily roused, but once the fire is kindled it will go on burning with a steady glow. these virtues, however, have sad vices for a reverse--a bluntness which is both dull and coarse, and an abject humility, bending the neck of the conquered man even lower than need be. an unfair load of hardships may be pleaded in their excuse. the ruthen for centuries bore the chains of serfdom, and these broken he continued the subject of some polish nobleman, no law protecting his body, still less his goods, no mental culture reaching him whose soul received the barest crumbs of spiritual teaching. in this respect things, to be sure, went as ill with the huzuls, but for the rest theirs was a life of liberty on the mountains, acknowledging no nobleman and no officer of the crown. poorly enough they lived in the forest wilds, their sheep yielding milk and cheese, the barren soil a few oats for scarcely eatable bread, while meat was within reach of him only who would stake his own life in killing a bear. to this day there are glens where no money has ever been seen; for which reason it has never been thought worth while to levy taxes, the great lords remaining in the lowlands where the soil was fruitful and he who tilled it a slave. "within those mountains there are but bears to be found and a wild people called uzels," thus wrote a german explorer in the seventeenth century. he might have written it yesterday, for with the bear only does the huzul share the sovereignty of the mountains, and his very freedom is no better than the liberty of the bear--yet liberty it is! thus the difference between the ruthens of the uplands and the ruthens of the plain is immense, and scarcely to be bridged over--free huntsmen up yonder, yoke-bearing bondmen below. "no falcon can lived caged, no huzul in bondage," says the proverb. the village of zulawce appeared to give the lie to this saying, but only at first sight. the people there tilled the soil; they went to church, paid tithes, and yielded forced labour; but for the rest they were huzuls, and cousins-german to the bear-hunters of the welyki lys. they never forgot that they were _men_; they chose to govern themselves, and did not hesitate to meet injustice with a bullet or a blow of the axe. the lord of the manor, old count henryk borecki, knew this well enough, and though he might groan he never attempted to treat the peasants of zulawce as he would treat the churls on his lowland property. not that he was a gracious lord, but he was prudent; and being a passionate huntsman himself, he loved to spend the season on that borderland of the great forest, which led to many a scuffle, but open rupture there was none while he lived. when he had departed, matters grew worse. his son, count george, never troubled the people with his presence, for he lived in paris. he was a famous cavalier, devoting himself to the rising generation, so far as it was of the feminine gender, and given to dancing at mabille. his far-off estates he only bore in mind when his purse was low; for which reason, indeed, he thought of them as often and as anxiously as any pattern landlord, keeping up a lively correspondence with his stewards in podolia--money they must send him, or dismissed his service they should be. these unfortunate "mandatars" had a hard time of it; but they did their best, fleecing the peasants to the utmost, and keeping their stewardships. now, the mandatar of zulawce also, mr. severin gonta, for all that can be told to the contrary, might have wished to adopt this plan; but having lived for twenty years in the village, and knowing the people and their knock-down propensities, he preferred having recourse to the cutting of my lord's timber instead, sending the proceeds to paris. count george, however, in the pursuit of his noble passions, enlarged his friendships, admitting even usurers to the benefit of his private acquaintance. thus it came about that mr. severin one day received the youthful landlord's ultimatum: "send me another thousand florins a year, or go to the devil." mr. severin was soon resolved. he knew he had cut the timber till never a tree remained, and he preferred his bodily safety to the stewardship he held. so he quitted his post, being succeeded by the young count's private secretary, a certain mr. wenceslas hajek. mr. wenceslas at the time--it was in the year of grace --was a young man of eight-and-twenty, with an experience far beyond his years. a bohemian by birth, he soon rose to the dignity of an imperial detective, and in recognition of his peculiar talents was sent to italy as a spy. he had acquired a knowledge of french, and was known to have committed a daring robbery upon a privy councillor of milan, for which achievement he was not, like an ordinary mortal, sent to prison as a thief, but to paris on a secret mission for prince metternich. he duly reported to his government; but his was a sympathetic temperament, and, pitying the refugees, he failed not to report to them as well. for a while he flourished, receiving pay from both sides; but being found out he was dismissed ignominiously. thereupon he took a distaste for politics, establishing a private agency for nondescript transactions, the least doubtful of which were the arrangements he brought about between spendthrift nobles and their friends who lent upon usury. in this capacity he came to be introduced to count george, who found him simply invaluable, appointing him his private secretary before long. now, mr. wenceslas might thus have lived happily ever after, had his natural disposition not again played him the fool. he loved money, and took of his master's what he could. count george was helpless, since the rascal knew his every secret; it was plain he could not dismiss him, but he promoted him to the stewardship of zulawce. "i don't care how much of a blackguard he is, so long as he forwards my revenues," this distinguished nobleman thought within himself, continuing his pursuits in paris. it was in the month of may, , that wenceslas hajek made his entry at zulawce. he had scarcely an eye for the vernal splendour of the grand scenery which surrounded him; but he certainly felt impressed on seeing the peasantry on horseback ready to receive him into their village. it was with a queer look of surprise that he gazed upon those giant figures with their piercing eagle eyes. they were clothed in their best, wearing brown woollen riding-coats, dark red breeches, black sandals, and high felt hats with waving plumes, sitting their small spirited steeds as though they had grown together with them. among mountaineers the huzuls are the only equestrian people, and none of their slavonic neighbours go armed, as they do, with the gun slung behind them, the pistol in the belt, and the battle-axe to hand. mr. wenceslas knew he trembled when these well-accoutred peasants approached his vehicle. he had intended to treat them to his most gracious smile, and smile he did, but it cost him an effort ending in a grin. only one of the peasants bared his head--an old man, white-haired and of commanding stature, who lifted a proud face to the newcomer. he had pulled up by the carriage door, and his clear, undaunted eyes examined the features of the steward. that was stephen woronka, the village judge. "newly-appointed mandatar," he said, "you are sent by our lord; therefore we greet you. you come from afar, and we are not known to you; therefore, i say, we men of zulawce do our duty by the count, expecting him to do the same by us. neither more nor less! we greet you." mr. hajek understood the import, for a slavonic dialect had been the language of his childhood, and on the long journey through galicia he had had opportunity to pickup some of the country's speech. but, more than the words, it was the spirit which impressed him, and he framed his answer accordingly. "i shall be just," he said; "neither more nor less! i greet you." the old judge waved his hat, and "urrahah!" cried the peasants, the shrill; crisp sound rising from two hundred throats. they discharged their pistols, and once more an exultant "urrahah!" filled the air. it sounded like a war cry; but peacefully they turned their horses' heads, and, together with the travelling carriage, proceeded to the village inn. there, on an open space beneath a mighty linden tree, the rest of the people stood waiting--old folk and lads, women and children--all wearing their sunday best. when the carriage had stopped, and mr. hajek, still smiling, had alighted, he was met by the village priest, or pope, with a bow. the reverend martin sustenkowicz was loyally inclined, and anxious to express his feelings in a proper speech, but somehow his intention often was beyond him; and in the present instance, attempting his salutation with unsteady feet, he bowed lower than he meant to, and speech there was none. hajek took the will for the deed, and turned to an aged woman who offered bread and salt. he affably swallowed a mouthful, and thereupon ordered the innkeeper, avrumko, in a stage whisper, to tap two casks of his schnaps. he fully believed thereby to please the people, and was not a little surprised at the judge's deprecating gesture. "with your leave, new mandatar, we decline it," said the latter. "it may be all very well in the lowlands, but not with us. we men of zulawce do not object to schnaps, but only when we have paid for it ourselves!" there was something akin to scorn in the mandatar's face, though he smiled again, saying: "but my good people, i am here to represent count george, your gracious lord. is not he your little father? and you are the children who may well receive his bounty." the old judge shook his head. "it may be so in the lowlands," he repeated, "but we are no children, with your leave, and the count is nowise our father. we are peasants, and he is lord of the manor; we expect justice, and will do our duty, that is all!" "but my good judge, mr. stephen----" "begging your pardon," interrupted the latter yet again. "this also is of the lowlands, where they 'mister' one another. i am plain stephen[ ] up here. and how should you know that i am good? we would rather not be beholden to you. we will drink the count's health, paying for it ourselves." he beckoned to the innkeeper; great cans full of the beverage were brought speedily, and the people sitting or standing about were nowise loth to fall to. hajek felt posed, but once more he recovered himself, and went about among the villagers, smiling right and left. but the more he smiled, the darker he grew within. he really began to feel afraid of these proud, gaunt creatures, with their undaunted eyes. and he did _not_ like the look of their arms. why, every one of these 'subjects,' as the galician peasant in those days was styled in official language, carried a small arsenal on his body. "why do you go about with pistols?" he inquired of the judge. "we like it, and may require it," was the curt reply. "require it!" said the mandatar, with the smile of innocence. "why, what for?" "you may find that out for yourself some day," said old stephen, and turned away. hajek shivered, but overcame the feeling, passing a benevolent look over the assembly. they were engaged with their schnaps now and heeded him not. one of them only--a tall, lean fellow with shaggy red hair--stared at him with an expression of unmitigated dislike. the mandatar went up to him, inquiring mildly, "who are you, my friend?" "the devil may be your friend," retorted the man grimly. "i am schymko trudak--'red schymko;' but what is that to you?" "well, am i not one of yourselves now?" returned hajek still anxious to conciliate. but he began to see it was no easy matter, and he cast a disconcerted look about him. his eye alighted on a man who carried no arms, and otherwise appeared of a different stamp. tall and powerful like the rest of them, his expression was gentle; he was fair-haired, and his eyes were blue. he wore a white fur coat with gay-coloured broidered facings, a black fur cap, and high boots--the holiday garb of the podolian peasant. hajek went up to him. the man took off his cap and bowed. "what is your name?" "taras barabola." "do you live in this village?" "yes, sir." "not in service, surely?" "no!" and as modestly as though he were but a farm labourer, the young peasant added: "i own the largest farm but one of the place." "but you are from the lowlands?" "yes; i came from ridowa." "then what made you settle here?" "i--i--loved--i mean, i married into the farm," he said with a blush. "do you approve of these people?" the young man reddened again, but replied: "they are different from those we are used to in the plain, but not therefore bad." "i wish they were more like you!" said the mandatar fervently, and passed on. he would, indeed, have liked them to be different; more humble, and not carrying arms for possible requirements--more like this taras in short! and presently, looking from the window of his comfortable room in the manor house, he examined with a queer smile the thickness of its walls. "a stout building," he muttered; "who knows what it may be good for? still, this were but poor comfort if things came to the worst. as for playing the hero, i have never done it; but the son of my mother is no fool! i must act warily, i see; but i'll teach these blockheads what a 'subject' is, and i shall take care of myself!" chapter ii. the stuff he was made of. the ensuing weeks passed quietly. the people gave their turns of work[ ] for the count as they had always done, but the mandatar did not appear to take much notice. for days he would be absent in the district town, or in the villages round about, amusing himself with the officers of the imperial service. the peasants hardly ever saw him, but they spoke of him the more frequently. on the day of his entry they had made up their minds that the new bailiff was a sneak, "but we shall be up to his tricks;" yet, somehow he rose in their estimation. true, there were those--the old judge to begin with--who continued in their distrust, but a more generous spirit prevailed with many as the days wore on. "let us be just," they said; "he has done us no harm so far." and being laughed at by the less confident they would add: "well, taras thinks so too, so we cannot be far wrong!" this appeared to be a vantage ground of defence which the opponents knew not how to assail; old stephen only would retort, angrily, "it is past understanding how this lamb of the lowlands should have got the better of every bear among us up here. but you will be the worse for it one of these days, you will see!" the judge spoke truth; it was a marvellous influence which the young stranger had acquired in the village, and well-nigh incredible considering the people he had to deal with. but if a miracle it was, it had come about by means of the rarest of charms, by the spell emanating from a heart, the wondrous honesty of which was equalled only by its wondrous strength--a heart which had but grown in goodness and true courage because its lot had been cast amid sorrows which would have brought most men to ruin or despair. taras barabola was born at ridowa, a village near barnow, the son of a poor servant girl whose lover had been carried off as a recruit and remained in the army, preferring the gay life of a soldier to hard labour at home. amid the hot tears of affliction the deserted mother brought up her child, and not only trouble, but shame, stood by his cradle. for the podolian peasant does not judge lightly of the erring one, and his sense of wrong can be such that mercy herself would plead with him in vain. it was long before the unhappy girl found shelter for pity's sake, and little taras, from his earliest days, had to suffer for no other reason but that his father was a scoundrel. it appeared to be meritorious with the people of ridowa to scold and buffet the frightened child, as though that were indeed a means of proving their own respectability and combating the growth of sin. none but themselves would have been to blame if, by such treatment of the boy, they had reared a criminal in him, to be the disgrace and scourge of the village. but it was not so with taras, because amid all his trouble a rare good fortune had been given him. the poor servant girl that bore him was possessed of a heroic spirit. and when the little boy followed his mother to church, she standing humbly in the porch, whilst he, childlike, would steal forward till the sexton flung him back as though his very breath defiled the sacred precincts; or when attempting to join other children in their play about the streets he was kicked away like a rabid dog, and nothing seemed left but to take his grief to the one heart beating for him in a cruel world;--that heart would grew strong in the suffering woman, lending her words so generous, so wise, that one could have believed in inspiration were not a mother's love in itself grand enough to be the fount of things noble and true. many a one in her position would have bewailed her child--would have taught him to lay the blame upon others, sowing the seeds of cowardliness and revenge. but she--well, she did cry; no child ever was more bitterly wept over; but this is what she said: "taras, grow up good! do not hate them because of their unkindness, for it is deserved! nay, my child, if you suffer, it is because your father and i have wronged them; they think ill of you for fear you should become what we were! yet you are but a child, knowing neither good nor evil, and all they can say against you is that you are the child of your parents; that is why they ill-treat you! but one day you will show them what you are yourself, and they will then treat you accordingly, after your own deserts! and, therefore, oh, my child, do not repay them with evil: be good and do the right, and they will love you!" thus she wept, thus she entreated him, and, young as he was, her words were engraven on his brain and sunk deep into his soul. it was not in vain that, in order to save her child, she had staked the one thing left to her in life--the love of that child. her own great love for him was her safeguard that his hatred for others, which she strove against, should not fall back upon her, who owned herself guilty, and for whom she said he suffered. taras continued to love his mother; and when he inquired what it could have been whereby she had wronged all the righteous people, and she told him he was too young to understand, he was satisfied. but her words lived in his heart, laying the foundation of a marvellous development of character, teaching him, at an age when other children think but of eating and playing, that he must believe the world to be just, and that his own act must be the umpire of reward or punishment to follow. thus he suffered ill-will without bitterness, but also, knowing he had not himself deserved it, without humiliation; and when, having reached his tenth year, he was chosen to be the gooseherd of the village--not, indeed, with the goodwill of all, but simply because no other serviceable lad had offered--he burned with a desire to gain for himself commendation and approval. and he did gain it, because he worked for it bravely, but also because of a fearful experience which happened to him about a twelvemonth later, shaking his young soul to its inmost depth. it was an autumnal morning; he had driven forth his geese with the grey dawn as usual. they fed on a lonely common; a cross stood there by the side of a pond, but not a cottage within hail, and the foot-path which traversed it was rarely used. the boy had his favourite seat on a stone by the water, at the foot of the cross; he was sitting there now contentedly eating some of the bread which his mother had given him, and whistling between whiles on a reed-pipe he had made for himself. he was startled by a heavy footfall, and, turning, grew pale, for he that approached him was a spiteful, wicked old man, waleri kostarenko by name, one of the worst of those who delighted in bullying him. "you are but a cur!" he would call out when the lad passed his farm, and more than once he had set his dogs at him. and one day, finding him at play with his own grandchildren, he beat him so mercilessly that the little fellow could scarcely limp home for bruises. nor was it any regard for morality he could plead in wretched excuse. taras's mother had been a servant on his farm, and had been proof against his wiles, so he was the first to cry shame when trouble overtook her, and like a fiend he delighted in ill-using her child. taras got out of his way whenever he could, and on the present occasion took to his sturdy little legs, as though pursued by the caitiff's dogs. it was not merely the loneliness of the place which made it advisable to seek refuge in flight, but the fact that the old man, as the boy had seen in spite of his terror, was in a worse condition than usual. there had been a merry-making the day before in a neighbouring village, and his unsteady feet showed plainly that the power of drink was upon him. "is it you, little toad?" he roared, "i'll catch you!" but the boy was too fleet for him, and he knew pursuit was vain. "lord's sake," he cried, suddenly, "i have sprained my foot! taras, for pity's sake, help me to yon stone!" the boy turned and looked; the old man had sunk to his knee, a picture of suffering, and the boy did pity him, coming back accordingly. "what is it?" he said, "what can i do for you?" at which waleri, bursting upon him, caught him exultingly. "have i got you?" he shrieked, clutching his hair and treating him mercilessly. "for heaven's sake," cried taras, "spare me!" but pity there was none with the old wretch; beside himself with hatred, he held the boy with one arm, ill-using him with the other wherever his fist could fall. taras struggled vainly for awhile, but with a wrench of despair he got free at last. he escaped. waleri ran after him for a step or two. the geese were wild with terror, and one of the creatures had got between the man's feet; he fell heavily, knocking his head against the stone by the cross. the boy heard a piercing cry; he saw that his enemy was on the ground, but not till he had reached the further end of the common did he turn once more to look back. the old man lay motionless by the stone, the geese pressed about him, stretching their necks with a noisy cackle. he felt tolerably safe now from his enemy, for even if it were but another trick of his meanness he could scarcely overtake him at that distance; but as he stood and gazed a wild fear fell upon the boy, his heart beating violently. "he is dead!" the thought flashed through him as a shock of lightning, and he felt dragged back to the scene helplessly. he retraced his steps towards the cross, and stood still within ten yards or so. a cry burst from him of pure horror--he saw the blood trickling over the upturned face. he pressed together his lips, and went close--slowly, tremblingly--quite close. the man was evidently unconscious, his face corpse-like and fearful to look at; there was a deep cut on the forehead, and the purple blood flowed copiously over the distorted face, trickling to the ground. the boy stood still with labouring breath, as though spellbound. horror and disgust, joy, scorn, revenge, and yet again compassion, went through him, the good rising uppermost in the great conflict that shook his soul. he thought of his mother, and bending down to the water he bathed the forehead of the unconscious man. the blood kept flowing. he tore off the sleeve of his shirt, and, making a bandage, pressed it upon the wound. walen groaned, but did not open his eyes. "he is dying!" thought taras, but strove as best he could to stop the bleeding, crying for help at the same time with all his might. a young peasant, the son-in-law of the village judge, riding by at some distance, heard his calling--the wind lengthening out the sound. he came dashing up, and what he saw might well fill him with surprise. "and you, taras--you trying to save him!" he cried, when the boy had told his story simply and truthfully. it was more than he could understand. but he turned to the sufferer, sending taras to the village for assistance. the boy returned with the judge himself, together with waleri's son and some of his servants. they took up the wounded man and carried him to his home, the judge looking at the boy repeatedly with unfeigned wonder. "taras," he said at last, "i think if he whom they call the christ were alive, he would just be proud of you, i do indeed! that is to say, we are told he _is_ alive, and i daresay he will repay you for this!" at which the boy blushed crimson, remembering what a struggle it had cost him; he did not deserve any praise, he thought. but from this hour the people thought well of him in the village; all were anxious to show their approval, and those that had spoken kindly of him before were quite proud of their discriminating wisdom. waleri recovered, continuing to hate him; but this utter ingratitude made others the more anxious to befriend him. the judge especially, henceforth, stood by the lad, giving him a place as under-servant on his own farm; and, he being looked upon as the chief authority of the village, his example told naturally. but of far more consequence than these things was the influence of that occurrence upon the inner growth of the boy. so far, he had simply believed his mother, that one must deserve kindness by being good; now he knew it by his own experience. "yes," he said to himself, "justice is the foundation of things;" and more than ever he tried to fulfil his every duty to the utmost. but the golden opinions he gathered were his gain in a double sense; for there is no greater help toward well-doing than the knowledge that one is believed in, and all the clearer grew that fair creed within him which his mother had taught him concerning the world and its retribution. what at first had been only a sort of childish self-interest, grew to be the very backbone of his character: he could not but try and be good, just, and helpful. it could be said of him, without a shade of flattery, that no servant-lad ever had been so well behaved as he; and when his mother died, the fifteen-year-old youth had as many comforters and friends as there were people in the village. the stain on his birth even grew to be cause of praise. "why, look you," the judge would say, "this boy is really no proper child at all; anyhow he is quite unfathered, and could be as rascally as he pleased, for there's none to cast it up to him. i might give him a box on the ear at times, but that could not make up for a father's thrashing. and, in the face of all this, this taras is just the best boy in the village. he will be a great man one of these days, i tell you! my prophecies always come true--you will find out what stuff he is made of before you have done with him, and then please remember i said so." and the time came when the young man gave evidence of the stuff within him, but that which brought it out was a sore trial to the brave-hearted youth. he was barely eighteen, and had come to be a ploughman on the judge's farm, when one day the imperial constables brought an old soldier into the village, hritzko stankiewicz by name, a wretched creature with a worn-out body and a rotten soul. begging and stealing, he had found his way from italy to galicia, where the police had picked him up, and now he was being delivered over to his own parish of ridowa. it wad taras's father. the judge, in well-meant pity, was for concealing this from the young man, but the latter had heard the name often enough from his mother, and he went at once to the gaol where the vagabond had been located. the wretched man quaked when his son stood before him, and fearing he had come to take vengeance for his mother, the miserable coward took refuge in denial, insulting the woman he had ruined in her grave. pale as death, and trembling, taras went out from him, and for several days he went about the village mute and like one demented. the following sunday after church the men of the parish gathered beneath the linden tree in front of the village inn, after the usage of times immemorial, the day's question being what had best be done with the returned vagabond. "it seems plain," said the judge, "that we cannot keep the thieving beggar in our midst. let us send him to lemberg, paying for his maintenance. he won't like it; but it is a great deal more than he has deserved. it is the best device, i warrant." the men agreed. "it is," they cried, lifting their right hand in token of assent. at this moment taras stepped forth. his face was ghastly, as though he had risen from a sickbed. "ye men," he cried, with choked voice, folding his hands, "pity me; listen to me!" but tears drowned what further he had to say, and he sank to his knees. "don't, don't!" they all cried, full of compassion, "you need not mind, we all know what a good fellow you are." but taras shook his head, and with a great effort stood upright among them. "i have to mind," he cried, "and in my mother's behalf i am here, speaking because she no longer can speak! he is my father though he denies it! only him she trusted, because he was her affianced lover, and never another! if i were silent in this matter, it might be thought of her that after all she was a bad woman, and her son does not know his own father. therefore, i say, listen to me: i do know! and as my mother's son i take it upon me to provide for my father. do not put him into the workhouse, he cannot work. and if i take care of him, he will not be a burden to the village. for god's sake, then, have pity on me--and leave him here!" there was a long pause of silence, and then the judge said, addressing the men: "we should be worse than hard-hearted if we refused him. but we will not be gainers thereby; the parish shall pay for hritzko what it would cost us did we send him to lemberg. it shall be as this good son desires; and god's blessing be upon him!" for eight years after, the miserable wretch lived in the village. it was a time of continued suffering for taras. every joy of youth he renounced, striving day and night to meet the old man's exactions; and all the reward he ever had was hatred and scorn: but he never tired of his voluntary work of love. "my mother has borne more than that for me," he would say, when others praised him. "one could not have believed how good a fellow can be!" said the people of ridowa, some adding in coarse, if real pity, "'twere a kindness if some one killed the old beggar!" but the suggested "kindness" came about by his own doing--he drank himself to death. at the age of six-and-twenty taras was free. "now you must get yourself into a snug farm by marriage," advised the judge. "you understand your business, you are a well-favoured fellow, and, concerning your character, my lord golochowski himself might say to you: 'here is my daughter, taras, and if you take her it will be an honour to the family!' there is that buxom marinia, for instance, the sexton's girl; or that pretty creature, kasia----" but taras shook his head, and his blue eyes looked gloomy. "life here has gone too hard with me," he said, "for me to seek happiness in this place! a thousand thanks for all your kindness; but go i must!" and they could not get him to change his mind; he looked about for a situation elsewhere. two places offered--the one with the peasant, iwan woronka, at zulawce, the brother of judge stephen; the other with a parish priest on the frontier. pay and work in both places was the same. he would be head-servant in both, and pretty independent; the latter for the same sad reason--that both the peasant and the priest were given to drink. nor could he come to any decision in the matter by a personal inspection of the farms, for really there was no preference either way. so he resolved to submit his fate to that most innocent kind of guidance which, with those people, decides many a step in life. he would take the priest's offer if it rained on the following sunday, and he would go to iwan if it were fine. but the day of his fate poured such floods of sunshine about him that doubt there could be none, and he went to zulawce. it was no easy beginning for the stranger. the people laughed at him freely, his garb and his ways differing so entirely from their own; they even called him a coward because he carried no arms and spoke respectfully of count borecki as the lord of the manor. the fact was that taras just continued to be the man he had always been, taking their sneers quietly, and the management of the farm entrusted to him was his only care. iwan woronka was old and enfeebled, his tottering steps carrying him a little way only, to the village inn, his constant resort. it was natural, therefore, that the farm had been doing badly. his only son had died, and anusia, his daughter, had striven vainly to save the property from ruin. she blessed the day when the new head-servant took matters in hand, if no one else did; for not many weeks passed before the traces of his honest diligence grew apparent everywhere. "he understands his business," even iwan must own, though over his tipple he kept muttering that the sneaking stranger was too much for him. but that taras was neither a coward nor a sneak all the village soon had proof of, when on a bear hunt, with not a little danger to himself, he saved the old judge's life, killing a maddened brute by a splendid shot in close encounter. this and his evident ability in the fulfilment of his duties gained him most hearts before long. "you are a good fellow, podolian," the people would say; and not a year had passed before they swore behind his back that there was no mistake about his being a real acquisition to the village. anusia said nothing. she was a handsome girl of the true huzul type, tall, shapely, lissom, with dark, fiery eyes. high-spirited and passionate in all things, her partiality for the silent stranger made her shy and diffident. she went out of his way, addressing him only when business required. he saw it, could not understand, and felt sad. now, strange to say--at least it took him by surprise--by reason of this very sadness he discovered that anusia was pleasant to behold. it quite startled him, and it made him shy in his turn when he had to speak to her. but one day, riding about the farm, he without any palpable reason caught himself whispering her name. that was more startling still, and he felt inclined to box his own ears, calling himself a fool for his pains. "you idiot!" he said, "your master's daughter, and she hating you moreover!" and having mused awhile, he added philosophically--"love is only a sort of feeling for folk that have nothing to do. some drink by way of a pastime, and some fall in love." he really believed it; his life had been so sunless hitherto, that no flower for him could grow. well, love may be a sort of feeling, but taras found that he could do nothing but just give in. then it happened, one bright spring morning, that he was walking on a narrow footpath over the sprouting cornfields, anusia coming along from the other end. "how shall i turn aside?" they both thought; et neither quite liked to strike off through the budding grain. "'twere a pity to trample upon the growing blades," murmured he, and proceeded slowly. "it is father's cornfield," whispered she, and her feet carried her toward him. presently they came to a standstill, face to face. "why don't you move out of my way?" she said, angrily. he felt taken aback, and was silent. "i have been looking over the fields--the wheat by the river might be better," continued the damsel. "it might," owned he, "but it is not my fault." "is it mine?" cried she. "no, the field was flooded." "that is your excuse!" retorted the maiden. "i think the seed was bad. you are growing careless!" "oh!" said he, standing erect, "i can look for another place, if that is all." he quite trembled. "i believe i hate her," he said to himself. "yes, go! go!" she cried, her bosom heaving, and the hot tears starting to her eyes. another moment, and they had caught one another, heart to heart and lip to lip. how it could happen so quickly they never knew. but the occurrence is not supposed to be unprecedented in the history of this planet. it was a happy hour amid the sun-flooded fields. they both believed they had to make up for no end of past unkindness. but, being sensible, they soon took a matter-of-fact view. "you will just have to marry me, now," said anusia; "it is the one thing to be done. i will at once tell my father." and so she did; but iwan woronka unfortunately did not consider her marrying his head-servant the one thing to be done. she was his only child and his heiress to boot, and he had long decided she should marry his nephew harasim, judge stephen's son--a young man who might have been well enough but for his repellent countenance and his love for drink. but iwan argued, "good looks are no merit, and drinking no harm;" and therewith he turned taras off his farm. the poor fellow went his way without venturing to say good-bye to anusia, or letting her know where he could be heard of. it cost him a hard battle with himself; but he knew the girl's passionate temper, and he wanted to act honestly by his master. but the victory was not thus easily got. it was some two months later, a splendid summer night. the moon was weaving her mellow charm about the heathlands, lighting up the old tin-plated tower of the castle at hankowce with a mysterious light, till it sparkled and shone like a silver column. it was the abode of baron alfred zborowski, and taras had found service there as coachman and groom. he did not sleep in the stables at this time of the year, but on the open heath, where the remains of a watchfire glowed like a heap of gold amid the silvery sheen. a number of horses were at large about him. the night was pleasantly cool, but the poor fellow had a terrible burning at the heart as he lay wakeful by the glowing embers, thinking of her who was far away. there was a sound of hoofs suddenly breaking upon the night, and a figure on horseback appeared with long hair streaming on the wind. "good heavens!" cried the young man trembling; "is it you, anusia?" "taras!" was the answer, and no more. she glided from her horse, and his arms were about her. "here i am, and here i shall stay," she said at last. "i have scarcely left the saddle since yesterday. it was jacek, the fiddler, that told me where i should find you. i shall not return to my father--not without you. and if you will not go back with me you must just keep me here. i cannot live without you, and i will not--do you hear? i will not! i want to be happy!" she talked madly--laughing, crying on his neck. and then she slid to the ground, clasping his knees. but he stood trembling. he felt as though he were surrounded by a flood of waters, the ground being taken from under his feet. his fingers closed convulsively, till the nails entered the quick--he shut his eyes and set his teeth. thus he stood silent, but breathing heavily, and then a shiver went through him; he opened his eyes and lifted up the girl at his feet. "anusia," he said, gently but firmly, "i love you more than i love myself! and therefore i say i shall take you back to-morrow as far as the pruth, where we can see your father's house, and then i shall leave you. but till then"--he drew a deep breath, and continued with sinking voice, "till then you must stay with an old widow i know in this village. i will show you the way now; she will see to your wants." the girl gazed at him helplessly, passing her hand across her forehead once, twice; and then she groaned, "it is beyond me--do you despise me?--turn me from you?" "no!" he cried; "but i will not drag you down to misery and disgrace. if you stayed here, anusia, you could only be a servant-girl in the village where i work. we should suffer--but that is nothing! marry one another we cannot; not while your father lives, for the church requires his consent. you could only be my--my----. anusia, i dare not!" whereupon she drew herself tip proudly, looking him full in the face. "i am a girl of unblemished name," she said. "if i am satisfied to be near you----" "you! you!" he gasped, "what do you know about it? you are an honest girl! but i--good god, my mother----. go! go!" and there was a cry of despair; then he recovered himself "god help me, anusia, it must be. the woman that will take care of you now lives next door to the church, the old sexton's widow, anna paulicz--this way!" the girl probably but half understood him. as in a dream she moved toward her horse, seized the bridle, and turned back to taras mechanically. she stood before him. her face was white as death; she opened her colourless lips once, twice, as though to speak, but sound there was none. at last, with an effort, a hoarse whisper broke from her, "i hate you!" "anusia!" he cried, staggering. but answer there was none--the thundering footfall of a horse only dying away in the night. harvest had come and the harvest-home. the jewish fiddlers played their merry tunes in the courtyard of the castle at hankowce, and far into the evening continued the dancing and jumping and huzzaing of the reapers. the baron and his coachman were perhaps the only two of all the village who took no pleasure in the revelry--the one because he had to provide the schnaps and mead that were being consumed, the other because his heart was nowise attuned to it. dreary weeks had passed since that impassioned meeting on the heath, but the girl's parting words kept ringing in poor taras's ear. "it is all at an end," he said, "and no use in worrying." but he kept worrying, and that she should hate him was an undying grief to his heart. it was little comfort that he could say to himself, "you have done well, taras; it is better to be unhappy than to be a villain." comfort? nay, there was none! for what self-conscious approval could lessen the wild longings, the deep grief of his love? and so he went his way sadly, doing his duty and feeling more lonely than ever. he did not grudge others their merry-heartedness, but the noisy expression of it hurt him. for this reason he kept aloof on that day, busying himself about his horses, plaiting their manes with coloured ribands, but anxious to take no personal part in the feast. but the shouts of delight would reach him, clashing sorely with his sorrowing heart. then the poor fellow shut the stables, and, going up to his favourite horse, a fine chestnut, he pressed his forehead against the creature's neck, sobbing like a forsaken child. he was yet standing in this position when a well-known voice reached his ear--a man's voice, but it sent the blood to his face. could he be dreaming? but no, there it was again, and a ponderous knocking against the door, which he had locked. he made haste to open--it was stephen woronka, the judge. taras was unable to speak, and the old man on his part could only nod. he looked mournful. "come!" he said, after a brief pause that seemed filled with pain. "where to?" faltered taras. the judge appeared to consider explanation needless. "i have already spoken with your master; he allows you to go on the spot. your things can come after you. my horses are ready to start." "i cannot," murmured taras, turning a step aside. old stephen nodded, as though this were just the answer he expected. "but you must," he said, "we cannot let the girl die, iwan and me. it is no light thing for us, to let her marry you, for you have just nothing--a poor stranger--and," he added, with a sigh, "my harasim might be saved by a good wife. however, we have no choice now and neither have you!" "then she is ill?" shrieked taras. "yes--very; come at once." and such was stephen's hurry that he barely allowed taras to take his leave of the baron. the judge drove, and so little he spared his horses, that the vehicle shot along the moon-lit roads like a thing demented. "let me take the reins," said taras, after a while. "no!" returned the judge sharply, adding more gently, as though in excuse: "anxiety would kill me if i were at leisure." "then she is dying!" groaned the young man in despair. "the lord knows!" replied old stephen huskily. "we can but do our duty in fetching you. though she will not see you, she says, raving continually that she will kill you or kill herself if ever you come near her.... what is it that took place between you?" he cried, raising his voice suddenly and turning a menacing countenance upon taras. "that i must not tell," returned the latter firmly. the judge gazed at him angrily, but nodded again, "i am a fool to ask you," he murmured. "you have either been a great villain to her, or--or--just very good.... whatever it was, it is between you two, and you must settle it with her." nothing more was spoken that night. in the early morning, when the horses where having a most needful rest, they only exchanged some indifferent remarks. and starting once more, they hastened towards the purple hills, as fast as the panting creatures could carry them. but it was evening before they crossed the pruth and approached the village. the air was sultry; clouds hung low in the heavens, hiding the moon. the judge pulled up before they reached iwan's farm. taras dismounted. "i thank you!" he cried, seeking to grasp the old man's hand. but stephen withdrew it, shaking his head. "i cannot be wroth with you," he said, "but there are things that go hard with a man.... you don't owe me any thanks, however. i have now repaid you for that shot of yours which saved my life. we are quits." "but i shall thank you while i live," cried taras, walking away quickly in the direction of iwan's farm. he stood by the door with bated breath; it was opened for him before he could put his hand on the latch, by iwan woronka. "she--she is alive?" faltered taras. "yes, but only that. step in softly, she knows nothing of your coming." he did step in softly, but his heart laboured wildly. the room was lit with a subdued light, and he could barely distinguish the figure of the stricken girl. "who is coming?" she cried, with trembling accents. "who is it?" once more, with awe-burdened voice. but answer she needed none. a terrible cry burst from her, and darting like a wraith from her couch she flew past him, vanishing in the night. he followed her; but the hiding darkness without was such that he could scarcely keep in sight the white glimmer of her figure, although she was but a few yards ahead of him, on her way to the river. his hair stood on end when he knew the direction she took, and his every limb felt paralysed. it was but a few seconds, but she gained on him, and he saw he could not reach her in time. "for god's sake, stop!" he cried, with the voice of horror; "you shall never see me again." but it was too late. he saw the white figure sink, and rise again mid-stream. he was in after her, and reaching her, caught her by a tress of her floating hair. she struggled violently to free herself from his hand, and it could only have been the maddest despair that gave her the power. but he kept fast his hold--it was all he could do; and thus they were carried awhile, side by side, on the bosom of the icy mountain stream. taras felt his grasp grow weaker in his two-fold struggle against the river and against the girl. a fearful picture flashed through his brain; he saw himself and his loved one two corpses washed ashore, old stephen bending over them in sorrow. the pangs of death seemed upon him, but he held fast the tress of hair, and with his arm strove to keep himself and her afloat. she yielded at last, her body floating as he pulled her; the power of life seemed to have left her, and with a mighty effort he brought her to land. they were fearful days that followed. a burning fever ran its course in the girl's body, but the sickness of her soul seemed more devouring still. "i am dying--dying for shame!" she kept crying. "i love him--i hate him!" but as the fever spent itself, the struggle of her heart grew weaker. and at last she lay still, weary unto death, but saved, and her mind was clear. she wept blessed tears, and suffered him to touch her. she suffered it, but did not return his caresses. "taras!" she sobbed, "do you despise me?" "despise you? good god!" he cried, covering her hand with kisses. "ah, yes--but you might--you ought!" she wept. "no only, because----," a burning blush overspread her pallor. "but do you know why i struggled so desperately when your hand was upon me in the river? i knew you would hold fast, and i wanted to drag you down with me in death. can you forgive it?" "yes!" he cried, and his face shone. "as sure as you wish your mother to be at peace in her grave?" "yes, anusia!" he cried again. "then i may kiss you," she said, twining her arms about him. that was their troth plight; and soon after they were married. thus the stranger had become the owner of the largest farm but one in the village. yet no one grudged him his good fortune; even harasim appeared to have submitted to his fate. and but rarely was there an attempt at making fun of his garb; he had acquired their mode of address, saying "thou" to young and old, but he could not be prevailed upon to adopt the huzul's dress. but no one disliked him for it, the people had ample proof apart from this how faithfully he had adopted the interests of his new home, and even if they did not openly confess as much to themselves it was very evident he was benefiting them largely. without in the least thrusting himself upon them, or pushing his views, this blue-eyed, quiet stranger in the course of a few years had become the most influential man, even a reformer of the parish; in the first place because of his ever helpful goodness, in the second place because of the rare wisdom governing his every act. but it was not without a struggle with himself that he came to feel at home in his adopted village; everything here seemed strange at first, and some things unheard of--their dress, their speech, their mode of life, their food, the way they reared the cattle and tilled their fields; nay, every domestic arrangement. a farmer should be able to move his limbs freely; but these men did their ploughing and threshing in tight-fitting breeches, in doublets that were the veriest straight-waistcoats; and the breeches, moreover, were scarlet--perhaps to delight the bulls they ploughed with. they wore their hair flowing, and their beards were long; and no man of them was ever seen without his array of arms. it quite frightened him to see them go tending the cattle with the gun on their backs, or discourse with a next-door neighbour axe in hand. "what on earth is this dangerous nonsense for, with a passionate, easily-roused people?" taras would ask himself. and that such was their temper was shown by their very speech. in the lowlands people, as a rule, speak measuredly, in well-ordered sentences; but these men flung their notions at each other as though every statement must leave a bump or cut upon the other's head. nor was this all: their ways in some things appeared to him past conception. they seemed like grown children for carelessness, sending their sheep or cattle into the mountains miles away, with only a lad or two to mind them--was it in consideration of the prowling wolf and bear? these visitors, indeed, were not slow in carrying off what pleased them, whilst others of the scared cattle strayed into hopeless wilds or came to grief in some rocky solitude. less startling than this manner of cattle-keeping was their agriculture; yet even this raised taras's wonder. their ploughs were peculiar, and their seasons of sowing, harvesting, threshing, all differed from his every experience. a man of poorer quality would simply have shrugged his shoulders, saying it was no concern of his. but taras began to consider and to compare, and it was quite a relief to his mind--nay, a joy to his heart--to discover that, though much with them was peculiar, his new neighbours must not just be looked down upon as fools. he understood that the people of zulawce had a good reason for setting about their various field labours at other times than did the farmers of the plain. it was because their seasons differed. and he perceived that the podolian plough, broad and shovel-like, was fit for the rich, soft earth of the lowlands, but not for the stony, upland soil of zulawce. the people there, then, were right in substituting a strong, digging wedge of a ploughshare, being unreasonable only in this--that they would use this same plough for their low-lying fields by the pruth, where the earth was rich and yielding. it was much the same with their manner of feeding. the podolians have rye and beef; the huzuls up in their mountain haunts must be satisfied with oats and sheep. now the people of zulawce just followed the huzuls' example, although they reared cattle, and could grow both wheat and rye. and, again, their clothing was ill-adapted to their needs, and their carrying arms uncalled-for and foolish, but it was neither more nor less with them than simply preserving the habit of their upland neighbours. the huzul must carry his gun, for his life is a constant warfare with bears or bandits. now, at zulawce things went more peaceably, but the belligerent habit remained. this mixture of the reasonable and unreasonable was most apparent in their ways with the cattle. it was natural that they should keep their live stock on the hills, utilising the land round about their village to its utmost agricultural possibilities; but it was stupidly careless to provide neither fold nor capable herdsmen. the huzuls had no choice but to leave their flocks at large for want of hands, an excuse which could not be pleaded at zulawce. now taras was fully aware that these things could, and must, be mended, but he also knew it would be hopeless to attempt convincing his new neighbours of anything by the power of speech. on the contrary, advice, however excellent, which cast a slur on their habits would be the surest means of rousing both their anger and their opposition. so he strove to teach them by the force of example, letting his fields be a sort of model farm in their midst. and his strongest ally in this silent labour of love was their own self-interest waking a desire of emulating his gain. they watched him in the spring, they came to borrow his plough in the autumn, and by the next season they had provided themselves with a ploughshare like his. it was the same with other things. they began to perceive it might be an advantage to see to the safety of their grazing cattle, without much inquiring into their own reasons for adopting a plan they had neglected or despised so far. and taras was the very last to remind them that they owed him any thanks, it being to this man the fairest of rewards that his silent endeavour should bear fruit. but the recompense he coveted was not his in all things; he would find himself baffled, yet he renewed his quiet conflict unwearyingly, seeking to overcome that savage spirit of contention, that love of avenging themselves, prevailing with the men of zulawce. if two had cause of quarrel it was a rare proof of moderation to allow the village judge a voice in the matter. and whatever the object of contest might be, a strip of land or a fowl, the stronger took possession. if the other succeeded in ousting him, or if the judge managed to arbitrate, it was well; if not, the stronger just kept his booty, and that, too, was considered well. as for appealing to law, it appeared out of the question; the far-off emperor was welcome to his crown, but that any appointed authority in his name should dispense justice at colomea they simply ignored. they would, indeed, have thought it an insult to have to do with any magistrate--their very thieves were too good for that; they would thrash the rascals and let them go. and as for their relations with their count, it was a natural state of warfare, if not with him personally, then with his steward or mandatar, old gonta; and shouts, of victory filled the air whenever they succeeded in wresting from him the smallest tittle of his claims. that any mandatar ever should attempt to worst them they had little fear, for did they not carry axe and gun? but this state of things seemed utterly horrible to taras, whose course of life had taught him to look upon justice as the lode-star and centre of all things. he could not understand these men, till he perceived that concerning their personal character also he must seek explanation in the fact that they clung to the peculiarities of the mountain tribe, be it in virtue or in vice. the more he grew acquainted with the upland forest, and the more he saw of the huzuls, the better he learned to judge of his neighbours in the village. neither wealth, nor extreme poverty are known in those pine-covered haunts; envy, therefore, in these solitudes has no power to separate the hearts of men. life goes hard with each and all alike--privation, the inclemency of the weather, the wild beast, being the common foes of all. the individual man makes a mark only in so far as he has power to overcome these foes; hence a feeling of equality and oneness, based upon the similarity of all. and whereas the people of the lowlands once a week only, on sundays and in their churches, are taught to look upon men as equals in the sight of god, these highlanders know of no other church but their own wide forest, in which they bow the knee to no man, if ever they bow it to him of whom they vaguely believe that he dwelleth above. it is natural, therefore, that they know of no difference of rank in men, using the simple "thou" to each and all alike. now the men of zulawce were not so circumstanced; some of them were masters, and some of them were serving-men; some knew poverty and some knew wealth; but the spirit of the tribe continued with them. a little envy, a little respect for riches, had found a footing with them; but, nevertheless, a strong feeling of equality survived, and they were too proud to cringe before any man; the rich peasant was addressed as familiarly as the beggar. their speech was rough; but the feeling whence such roughness sprang was not in itself despicable. and it was the one point in which taras yielded his habit to theirs, adopting their ways in this, at least, that he also said "thou" to everybody, and was satisfied that from the judge to the meanest of his own farm labourers all should say "thou" to him. but it was not merely the pride of freedom, it was that inveterate habit of avenging themselves in matters of right and wrong which had come to them from the parent tribe. the huzul is bound to fight for himself. a man who any moment may meet some desperate outlaw in the mountain wilds must be prepared to defend himself or perish. and not merely in such cases the huzul must be his own protector. supposing two men far up in the mountains, a hundred or more miles away from the nearest magistrate, fall a-quarrelling over a strip of pasture-ground, shall he who is wronged appeal to law? granted he were willing to undertake the tedious journey, it might be a year or more before some law officer could put in an appearance up there for taking evidence on the spot. justice from her appointed centres cannot easily reach such outlying regions. but supposing even a magistrate's verdict had been obtained, what power on earth can force the loser to abide by it? the emperor's authority?--he barely knows his name, and the far-off majesty is little enough to him--or coercion? but who is to take a body of armed constables on impossible roads to the very heart of the mountain-range, merely to make sure that a slip of pasture-ground for the feeding of a score of sheep shall belong to sfasko and not to wasko! why, even if it could be done what were the gain? sfasko, indeed, might rejoice if the servants of the law had got there, for wasko would have the keeping of them, and wasko must give up the contested land. but no sooner than their backs were turned, wasko, by right of the stronger, would pay him out for it, turning sfasko's victory to defeat. under such circumstances, then, and because no law can be enforced there, it is natural that the children of the forest should manage their own justice, each man for himself. but to taras it appeared a deplorable state of things that the more civilised peasants of zulawce should also require to fight for themselves. so he set about an all but forlorn hope of reforming their minds, striving earnestly, and making little impression save on his own suffering soul. twice he succeeded in persuading the quarrellers to submit their suit to judge stephen's decision, and this only because the men in question had benefited by his generous kindness and did not like to lose it. in most cases he failed entirely; the people still anxious, perhaps, of retaining his goodwill, would listen to him with some show of patience, but took matters into their own hands nevertheless, calling him an innocent lamb of the lowlands for not knowing that a bear had his paws to use them. but for all that, these contentious creatures had found out that the "innocent lamb" was nowise wanting in manliness. they liked to take his advice on general things, and elected him to the civil eldership as years went on, which greatly added to his influence; and with might and main he continued to strive for love of peace in the parish. somehow or other, the men by degrees did not fly to arms quite so readily, perceiving that in most cases they did better to submit to judge stephen, abiding by his decision, or rather by that of taras; for the judge, himself prone to wrath, would pass them over to the younger man in order to save his own temper. "you have introduced this nonsense here," he would say; "it is meet, therefore, you should have the bother of it. 'twere easier to settle if they had come to blows first." but taras was only too glad to be thus "bothered," sparing neither time, nor trouble, nor patience; and at such cost it was given him more and more to convince the contending parties of the justness of his judgments. but so far he had succeeded only in little things. in matters of more importance he was unable to prevent the shedding of blood--as, for instance, when he that went by the name of red schymko fell out with his brother waleri concerning the right of pasturage on a certain field. that was considered a great matter; and not till schymko had been maimed by a blow from waleri's axe, in return for which he lodged a bullet in his brother's thigh, did they permit the judge and elders to have any voice in the matter. judge stephen and his coadjutors were most anxious to pass righteous judgment, examining matters carefully; but as their verdict could not otherwise than be in favour of the said waleri, it resulted in schymko's marching his armed labourers to the contested field by way of maintaining his claim. and the matter ended in waleri's yielding, leaving red schymko in possession after all. it was concerning this business that taras very nearly lost his eldership by reason of a word of sensible advice. it was just before the yearly election, when schymko, with his labourers, had taken possession of the field, that taras said to him, "if you will not abide by the judge's verdict, you can but appeal to the magistrates of the district." "go to law!" roared schymko. "go to law!" echoed the people, as though taras had advised the direst folly ever heard of. but they took it seriously, and when, a few days later, it was a question of readmitting him to the eldership, the general opinion was to the effect that being honest and good was a recommendation certainly, but an elder had need to be no fool! he was chosen, nevertheless; but even his friend simeon, to whose strenuous exertions his re-election was partly due, could only say, "you see, he _is_ a lowlander--how should he know any better?" such experiences made taras more careful, but they could not discourage him. he saw that even at best it would take the work of a lifetime to lay a foundation of better things with these people. they must be taught in the first place that the authority of their own judge should be unquestioned. he took great care never again to hint at the existence of law-courts, but to educate them up to the lesser point. he gained ground, though very slowly. he could work for it patiently, for had not good fortune smiled on him in all things besides, making his own life pleasant at last and happy beyond many! his homestead seemed a cradle of success, and the children his wife had borne him grew like olive branches round about his table. there was not a cloud in his heavens, and every good seed he had sown was like the grain on his own fields, bearing fruit, some thirty, some sixty fold; surely this one thing for which he laboured would yet come to be added to his golden sheaf! returning home in the evening he would rest by the side of his faithful wife, his little boy wassilj upon his knee, and there was no greater joy to him at such times than to glance back to his own early years and to follow with the inward eye the growth of his life's happiness--a struggling thing at first, but a strong tree now with spreading branches, beneath which he and his might safely dwell. "it is no puny seedling," he would say, looking about him with happy pride, "but even like the strong pine that strikes root the deeper for having chanced upon the hard and rocky soil where no man's favour helped to rear it, and the sun of god's justice only yielded the light towards which it grew!" and his prayer in those days was something after this fashion: "thou righteous one in the heavens who hast given me many things, if so be that thou wilt let me keep them, i have just nothing left to ask for but this one thing: that i might teach these people, whom i have come to look upon as my brothers, that thy will is very beautiful because it is just. there is this foolish old priest of ours always telling them of thy grace and never a word of thy justice--how should they understand their duties aright!" ... for himself in those days taras had nothing to ask for. such was taras barabola at the time when mr. wenceslas hajek made his entry at zulawce--one of the happiest and most upright of men. chapter iii. the right wronged. it is often asserted that on meeting any one for the first time a voice within will warn us of the good or evil to be the outcome of such meeting. now taras had no such foreboding. the new mandatar had impressed him rather favourably; but apart from this, his sense of justice would oppose judge stephen's disparagement of the new bailiff. "our count," he would say, "has come into his possessions by inheritance, just as the emperor has got his crown: and it is god who gave them power, for there must be rulers upon earth. it is hard that we should have to yield forced labour, but such is our lot, and it were wrong of us to hate the mandatar because he looks after his master's interest in claiming that portion of our work. he is but doing his duty; let us do ours." the peasants did not gainsay him, especially as hajek on the coming round of the harvest expected neither more nor less of them than his predecessor, gonta, had done. the judge had gone to him misgivingly, fully determined to fight his exactions; but there was no need, and to his own surprise matters were arranged in a moment. not till the autumn, six months after hajek's arrival, did a cause of conflict present itself, when the tribute of the live stock fell due, the arrangement being that on the day of st. mary the virgin each peasant, according to his wealth, had to bring a foal, or a calf, or a goose. now the former steward had never exacted this tax to the day, but was willing to receive it when the cattle had increase. the judge and the elders would go to him and state when each villager might hope to bring his due, and therewith the mandatar was satisfied. in accordance with this, old stephen, with taras, and simeon pomenko, his fellow elder, repaired to the manor house, the judge making his statement. mr. hajek listened quietly and blandly, and then he said, "on st. mary's day the tribute is due; if there were any arrears i should be constrained to levy them forcibly." "mandatar," cried stephen, flushing, "have a care how you interfere with old usage!" "it is an ill-usage." "ill-usage to go by the times of nature?" "you should see that you are prepared." "i see _you_ are prepared to give good advice," retorted the judge with wrathful sarcasm; "perhaps you speak from experience! in your country the cows may calve at a mandatar's pleasure, they don't do so here!" hajek changed colour, but not his mind. "it behoves me to watch over the count's interests," he said, slipping away to the safety of his inner chamber. the men went home in a state of excitement, the ill news spreading rapidly through the village. before long all the community had gathered beneath the linden, angry speeches flying while old stephen delivered his report. "we must stand up for the time-honoured usage," he cried; "and as to any forcible interference, let him try it! we have guns, and bullets too, thank god!" "urrahah!" cried the men, brandishing their weapons. one only remained quiet, one of the elders--taras. he allowed the commotion to subside, and then he begged for the word. "it comes hard upon us i own," he said, "for it finds us unprepared! the old usage was reasonable and fair, no doubt; but whatever of hardship any change may involve, we must consider which way the right inclines--the written right i mean, and i fear in this case it will speak for the count." "and who has settled that right," cried stephen, hotly, "but the emperor's law-makers. what do they understand about cattle!" "little enough, no doubt," owned taras, "but these same law-makers have also made it a matter of writ that serfdom with us is abolished, and that we peasants have rights which the count shall not touch. if we would enjoy the law's benefits, we must put up with its hardships." "but where shall we get foals and calves all of a sudden?" "well, that we must see. i can provide some, and perhaps others of the larger farmers are willing to do the same. or i will lend the money to any respectable man of ours that may need it if he can buy his foal or calf elsewhere. this can be managed. the chief point is the right, and that must be upheld for our own sakes, even where it goes against us." he spoke quietly, firmly, and failed not to make an impression. the men began to weigh the question more soberly, taras's offer of assistance going a long way with the less wealthy. there was none but judge stephen holding out in the end. "you are sheep, all of you," he cried, "following this great lamb, and you will be shorn, i tell you!" but since the majority outvoted him even the judge had to yield. and thus the tribute was delivered on the very day, at a heavy tax to taras's generosity; for while many could not have made it possible without his proffered help, there were others who improved the opportunity gratuitously, since he was so willing to step into the breach. it was simply his doing, then, that by st. mary's day not a man was in arrears. mr. hajek was prepared to own this when taras appeared with a foal on his own behalf. "that was good of you, podolian; i see it is you who brought them to reason," said the mandatar, adding approvingly, "i liked the look of you on our first meeting. i am glad i was not mistaken!" whereupon taras bowed, but his answer was anything but a humble acknowledgment of praise. "the right must be upheld," he said, solemnly. that was in september. about a month later hajek sent for the judge and elders, receiving them with his blandest smile. "after all souls', and throughout the winter, you owe me eight labourers a day for forest work, do you not?" he said. "well, then, make your arrangements and let me have a list of the men i am to expect. on the morning after all souls' i shall look for the first eight to make their appearance." "the forest labour certainly is due," replied the judge, "that is to say, it was; but since all the timber has been cut, the obligation dropped. or are we expected to make new plantations now that winter is upon us?" "certainly not," said hajek, "but if the men are due to me, i may employ them as i think fit. i have sold their labour to the forester of prinkowce." "that is unjust!" exclaimed stephen. "we owe forest labour to our own count, and in his own forests only!" mr. wenceslas pretended not to hear, picking up his papers and preparing to retire. "so i shall look for the men on the morning after all souls'," he said and vanished. "there will be bloodshed if you insist," cried stephen after him, but the mandatar was gone. the men went their way perturbed. "well, judge," said taras, as they walked along, "this is hard. we must try and advise the people justly, but to do so we must first examine the documents in your keeping--i dare say his reverence will help us." "podolian!" cried stephen, angrily, "leave us alone with your suggestions! we want no documents to be looked into. it is a glaring wrong, and if proof be needed"--he snatched at his pistol--"here it is!" taras mused sadly. "will you take any bloodshed upon your conscience?" he asked quietly. "will your conscience answer for the wrong?" retorted the judge. "certainly not!" exclaimed taras. "but in the first place there is but one just means of redress if we suffer--the authority of the appointed magistrates; and in the second place we must make sure which way the right lies--we shall find out by examining the papers." stephen resisted to his utmost, but as simeon also agreed with taras he was obliged to yield; he fetched the deeds, and the men called upon their parish priest. now father martin was an amiable man, glad to leave things alone in life--his favourite schnaps always excepted, with which he meddled freely. and he was always ready to express his views, but his opinion was apt to be that of his latest interlocutor. for both these reasons he could after all throw no great light upon the matter, which was the more to be regretted as the question left room for doubt, the information contained in the documents amounting to this only: "the men of zulawce owe forest labour to their count." "there you see!" cried stephen, triumphantly, "to their count. what could be plainer--and not to the forester of prinkowce!" "of course not," assented his reverence, "how could the mandatar think of selling your labour?--ridiculous!" "owe forest labour to their count," said taras, meditatively. "if there is no clause to limit the place, the count _may_ be within the law if he says: 'having no forest at zulawce of my own now, i sell the labour which is due to me.'" "of course," cried the pope, "he has lost his forest, poor man, shall he lose his profit besides?--ridiculous!" "if he has no forest, he cannot expect us to work in it," objected stephen, doggedly. "naturally not," affirmed his reverence; "even a child can see that! where is the forest you are to work in?--ridiculous!" "there is no lack of forest at prinkowce," said taras. "no, no, plenty of it," declared the pope; "why, the place is covered with woods, partly beech, partly pine. and, after all, i suppose it may be pretty equal to you whether you do the work here or----" "all honour to your reverence," broke in the judge, angrily; "but this is just nonsense; your judgment, i fear, is awry with your schnaps." and the amiable man adopted even this opinion, owning humbly "it was avrumko, that miserable jew, with his tempting supply ..." but the men went their way none the wiser for their shepherd's willingness to solve their difficulty. simeon upon this attempted to reason with the judge, suggesting their applying to the magistrates for decision. it was not without a real struggle with himself that old stephen at last gave in. "to stand up for his right, and knock down the man who wrongs him, this is the true huzul way," he cried, passionately, "but if you will try the law, like a coward, see what you get by it." but here taras held out. "no man can appeal to the law," he said, "but he who is sure of his right. i am not! i cannot tell whether the right in this case is on our side or not. and, therefore--god forgive me if it is wrong, but i cannot otherwise--i shall propose to the people to yield the forest labour at prinkowce." "you shall not, brother!" cried simeon, urgently. "you shall not! remember that you are no longer a man of the lowlands. we men of zulawce love not to bend our necks." taras flushed. "your taunt is not altogether just," he said, gently, yet firmly. "true, we of podolia are more peace-loving, even more humble than you. it is because we have borne the yoke. but the feeling of right and wrong is as strong with us as with most men, perhaps all the stronger for the wrong we have suffered. you determine between right and wrong with your reason only, we feel it with the heart. and the right is very sacred to us." "then why not stand up for it now?" "i would if i saw it. but my understanding is at a loss, and the voice of my heart is silent. therefore i cannot appeal to a decision by law, but must counsel a giving in." and so he did on the following sunday, when the community assembled beneath the linden. the men listened to him in silence, none dissenting nor assenting. after him simeon arose to propound his views; but when the word "magistrate" had fallen from his lips their scornful shouting interrupted him. "no lawsuit for us!" cried the men of zulawce. at this point the judge made up his mind to come forward with his opinion, battling down his resentment at having been defeated before. some applauded, but most shook their heads. "taras," they cried, "tell us yet again _why_ you would have us give in." he repeated his reasons slowly and distinctly. again there was silence. it appeared uncertain what decision the men would arrive at. the judge prepared to put the question to the vote. "men of zulawce," he said, "it is your first duty to reject anything that must be to the disadvantage of the community. whoever of you agrees with taras, let him lift his hand." the majority did so. the judge did not believe his eyes. this result was indeed surprising; not only had these men voted against their own interest, but they denied the very character they bore. the fact was that taras's opinion had come to be gospel truth to the village ever since his stepping so generously into the breach on st. mary's day. the old judge positively shed tears of vexation when he had to pass the resolution arrived at, and at once declared his intention to retire from office. it was the men's united entreaty only that prevailed with him not to do so; but as for that rascally mandatar, he would not cross his threshold again, he swore. for this reason it fell to taras to arrange with mr. wenceslas, and give him a list of the men. hajek made it an opportunity of patting taras on the back, saying approvingly, "once again you have shown yourself a capital subject." but this time taras forbore bowing. he retreated a step, fixing the mandatar with a look, and said, slowly, "we are keeping our conscience clean; i hope you can say as much for yourself, sir." winter wore on, and the forest labour at prinkowce was yielded quietly day after day; but the good understanding between old stephen and taras seemed at an end. their relations had steadily improved in those eight years, since taras had lived in the village as the husband of anusia. the old man by degrees had conquered his offended pride and the disappointment of his dearest wishes. he had even learned to entertain as warm a regard for the stranger as did most of the villagers. but his friendship yielded to a renewed feeling of coldness after that public voting. he never spoke to him now except on matters of business, and then in the most cutting way he could command; it seemed hopeless to attempt a reconciliation. "taras is a good man," he would say, "and i myself am answerable for his being among us. but he is wrong if he expects us, bears as we are, to be as lamb-like as he is--very wrong, for it is against our nature." and the old man stuck to his opinion. taras actually was not invited when, about the middle of december, the men of zulawce, headed by their old judge, went hunting the bear in order to procure their christmas dinners. "either he or i," stephen had said, and taras was excluded. that hunting expedition is a regular high day and festival with the huzuls, in spite of, or rather on account of the danger it involves. it generally spreads over three days, but on the present occasion the men returned on the second day, sad and silent. they brought two giant bears with them, it is true, but also a dying man. judge stephen, with his wonted impetuosity, had pushed ahead too recklessly, his gun had missed fire, and an infuriated brute had grappled with him. the bear was shot, but not till the brave old man had received his death wound in the bear's embrace, and it was a question whether he would reach the village alive. "make haste," he was heard moaning, as they carried him home; "i must hot die on the road; i have yet a duty to perform in the village." they knew not what he meant, but understood when he begged them to stop before the house of taras, who came rushing from his door, and sank to his knees, sobbing. "weep not," whispered the dying man; "but listen to me. you once saved my life, you are the most upright man in the village, you have been the best of husbands to my brother's child, and yet i have been wroth with you. not because you supplanted my hopes, i swear it; but because i have at heart the welfare of this village. in this sacred cause i now would speak to you. you will be made judge when i am gone--i cannot hinder it, or indeed i would! not because i hate you, but for love of the village, and, ay, for your own sake, taras! for it must end ill if the judge, the leader of all, is of another caste than the men he rules. it cannot be helped now. they will choose you, and you will accept. but let me tell you one thing--be sure that among men in this world it is exactly the same as with the beasts of the forest. the stronger will eat up the weaker, the evil one will destroy him that is good, the only question being that of strength. whoever cannot fight for himself is lost.... but you--you _will_ not understand--you cannot believe it! i must be satisfied with that which you can understand, and one thing you can promise. hold fast by our rights; guard them against the oppressor, and suffer not that the necks of free men be bowed to the yoke. give me your word that you will yield up peace rather than the right, if it must be fought for." he lifted his hand with a great effort, and taras clasped it in his own. "it is well," said the dying man. "you will keep your word." with a burst of wailing they earned the dead judge into his house. on his face rested an expression of great assurance, born of the good faith in which he had died. for never has promise been kept more truly than that which was pledged to him as the shadows fell. chapter iv. taking up the battle. spring had returned upon the mountains. some of the higher summits, it is true, still wore their crown of snow, glittering now in the sunshine of april; but the little village gardens of zulawce were looking bright with early flowers, and on the slope toward prinkowce the graveyard had burst into bloom where they had laid judge stephen to his rest. the spot was carefully tended, and marked with a well-wrought stone cross, as taras had ordered, who was judge in his stead; for harasim, stephen's only son, had not troubled himself about it: drink was doing its work with him, and if his farm was kept in tolerable order it was due simply to the care of his cousins, anusia and her husband. taras had taken this burden also upon himself, though life pressed heavily on his shoulders; for it grew more evident to him, day after day, that it was no light thing to be judge of zulawce while wenceslas hajek, as count borecki's land steward, had power in the village. again and again the dying speech of stephen rang in his ears. as for the mandatar, he had rejoiced on learning that taras had succeeded the old judge; this gentle podolian, who had always been on the yielding side, seemed the very man for his plans. his fury naturally was all the greater on discovering his mistake. the 'capital subject' certainly never lost his temper or threatened violence, but every unfair demand he opposed with an inflexible "no," which was all the more effective for being given calmly, almost humbly, and fully substantiated with good reasons. on one occasion, however, his imperturbation was in imminent danger; hajek had patted him on the shoulder, saying, with a knowing wink: "well, my good fellow, suppose you allow me two labourers more; it shall not be your loss." taras upon this gave the rascal a look which took the colour out of his face, and made him turn back a step, trembling. from that hour there seemed enmity between the two, and the more the one strove to encroach, the more the other met him with refusal. but while taras succeeded in maintaining a stern calm, the mandatar again and again was seen foaming with rage. it was so upon a certain occasion early in april, and for a trivial cause. hajek was making a plantation, and wanted the villagers to allow him a quantity of young trees from their forest. "we are not bound to yield that," said taras, quietly. the mandatar paced his floor, apparently beyond himself; but a discriminating observer might have doubted the sincerity of his rage. "don't force me to take high measures," he roared. "why should you refuse me a few wretched saplings? i shall just take them, if you hold out." "you will do no such thing," returned taras, as quietly as before. "do you think i am afraid of your guns and axes?" hajek's words rose to a shriek, as though he were half-suffocated with passion, but his eye was fixed on the peasant's face with a watchful glance. "no," said the latter, "i am thinking that there are magistrates in the district. we shall never have recourse to violence, even if you should make the beginning." "this is palaver." "i mean what i say," said taras, drawing himself up proudly. "while i am judge here, the men of zulawce shall not take the law into their own hands on whatever provocation.... but why speak of such things? the trees you cannot have, so let me take my leave, sir." "go!" growled the mandatar, but a queer light transformed his features no sooner than taras's back was turned. "that is useful to know," he said to himself with an approving smile. "this man is quite a jewel of a judge.... no, there is no need to be wroth with you, my good taras! so, after all, my first impression of you was the right one!... old stephen could never have had a better successor!" but taras, the judge, went home with a heavy heart. he had no thanks for his battling, save in his own conscience; the men of zulawce had scarcely a word of acknowledgment. on the contrary, they considered him far too yielding on many points; and, as they viewed matters, there was truth in their charge. severin gonta and the late count, for the sake of peace, had not made good every claim to the very letter; but hajek demanded every tittle that was his by right of institution, granting not an hour of respite, and foregoing not a peck of wheat; and taras as a matter of duty never opposed him in this. it was quite correct, then, if the people said that the new judge insisted on their yielding all dues far more strictly than any of his predecessors ever had done. indeed, it was only the love and respect he had won for himself in the village that kept under any real distrust or open accusation. for he was all alone in his work, no one helped him by explaining things to the people, not even that shepherd of his flock whose duty it fairly might have been. the reverend martin sat on his glebe as on an isle of content, all because of that strange man, avrumko, who kept supplying him so freely; and any sympathy he might have given was thus drowned. but taras continued bravely and hopefully, comforting his wife when her courage failed. "the right must conquer," he would tell her; "and for the rest, have we not an emperor at vienna, and god above?" "but vienna is far, and god in heaven seems further," said she, disheartened. "not so far," cried he, "but that both will hear us if we must call for redress. but things will not come to such a pass; even a mandatar will scarcely dare to subvert the right and do violence." he was mistaken. hajek dared both. it was about a month after that conversation concerning the trees. taras in the early morning was in his yard, giving orders to his two servants, sefko and jemilian, concerning the sowing of the wheat, when he was startled by a dull report, which quivered through the air, a second and a third clap succeeding. "gunshots!" he gasped. "some one out hunting," said sefko. "no!" cried jemilian; "it is near the river. could it be 'green giorgi' with his band?" referring to a notorious outlaw of those days, a deserter, george czumaka by name, who wore a green jerkin. "no!" cried taras, in his turn, and making for the road. "in broad daylight he would never dare.... what has happened?" he interrupted himself, changing colour. a young farm labourer, wassilj soklewicz, came dashing along wild with terror. "help! help!" he shrieked. his clothes were torn, and he looked white as death. "what is it?" repeated taras, seizing him by the arm. "help!" groaned the poor fellow. "they have just killed my brother dimitri!" "where? who?" "the mandatar ... on the parish field!" said wassilj; continuing brokenly: "we had gone there early this morning, my brother and i, together with the two sons of dubko, to work on the field as you told us. we had taken our guns with us, intending to have a shot in the afternoon. we had just put the oxen to the ploughs when the mandatar arrived with a number of men, all armed. 'get ye gone,' he cried; 'you are trespassing on the count's property.'" "'begone yourselves!' returned my brother dimitri, seizing hold of his gun, which he had laid down, we doing likewise. 'this field has been parish ground time out of mind; i shall shoot any one that says the contrary.' "the mandatar at this fell back, but urged on his men from behind, and they attacked us with guns and scythes. we sent our bullets amongst them, and the foremost of the party, red hritzko, turned a somersault and lay still on his face. one of us had hit him. but they also fired their guns, and my brother fell, shot through the heart!... they were too many for us, and they turned upon as with their butt ends. but we got away!..." the poor youth told his tale amid gasps and sobs, and before he had finished a crowd of villagers had gathered. from their houses, from their fields round about, the men came running, gathering about their judge. most were fully armed, and all were wildly excited; for the parish field is sacred ground with every slavonic community; he who dares touch it is not merely an offender against their property, but against their very affections; it is all but sacrilege in the eyes of these men. taras also felt his soul upheave, but he conquered his wrath, knowing the people. "if i lose self-possession," he said to himself, "blood will flow in streams to-day!" so he faced the men, who were for pressing on to the scene of the outrage. "stop!" he cried, "we shall go in a body! call the elders and the rest of the men." the command was scarcely needed, for they were coming, every man of them, and the wives and the children. wrathful cries filled the air, the women wailed, and children shrieked with an unknown fear. the mother of the young man who had been shot, a widow named xenia, came rushing along; she had torn the kerchief from her head, and her grey hair fell in tangled masses round her grief-filled face. "avenge my child!" she implored the judge, clasping his knees. he lifted her, speaking to her gently; and turning to simeon and his fellow-elder he ordered them to let the men fall in. "the heads of families only," he said; "let the women and young men stay here!" "stay here!" shrieked xenia. "yes, why?" shouted the excited people. "let every one follow who is able to lift a gun." "my orders shall be obeyed," cried taras, drawing himself up in their midst. "i pledge my head that i shall do my duty!" these words of his were like magic, the people yielded, and the procession formed. but at this juncture anusia pressed through the crowd, her youngest child on her left arm, her right hand brandishing a musket. "take it!" she cried, offering it to her husband; "it is my father's gun and never yet missed fire!" "go home, wife," said taras, "this is not woman's business, i go unarmed." "why? why?" yelled the people; but she caught him by the shoulder in wildest excitement. "taras!" she screamed, "let me not regret that i was saved from the river! it is a man to whom i yielded, and not to a coward!" "for heaven's sake, woman," cried simeon, aghast, "you know not what you are saying!" but she continued: "he who would have peace, since blood has been shed, disgraces his manhood. will you allow yourself to be killed without striking a blow, lamb that you are?" taras stood proudly upright, but his face was livid, his eyes were sunk. his breast heaved with the tumult within, but not a word passed his lips. thus silently he held out his hand, motioning the woman aside, and she obeyed, confounded. "men of zulawce," he said at last, slowly and distinctly, but with a voice which, from its strange huskiness, no one would have recognised as his, "i speak not now of the dishonour my wife has put upon me; i shall do that by-and-by, in your presence likewise. but now i ask you, will you obey me as your judge, or will you not? once again, i pledge my head that i shall do my duty!" "we will," they cried unanimously. "then let us go." and the procession started, some sixty men, heads of families, following taras, who led the way with the two elders, simeon and alexa sembrow, his own successor. the field in question, the common property of the community, was an irregular square, sloping towards the river, its upper boundary being a coppice which also belonged to the parish. a large black cross rose in the centre. on stepping from the coppice, through which their road lay, the peasants could overlook the field at a glance. the mandatar with his men had established himself by the cross; he evidently had hired reinforcements, for they numbered some forty. at the lower end of the field, by the river, two of his labourers were seen ploughing with a yoke of oxen; another team stood ready for use by the cross. on the upper part, near the coppice, lay the body of the slain youth, evidently dragged thither by hajek's men. but when the peasants beheld the corpse, and the armed band below, their fury knew no bounds; a thundering "urrahah!" burst from them, and they pressed forward. but taras was before them, snatching at simeon's pistol and turning it against his own forehead. "stop!" he cried with a voice that could not but be listened to. "another step, and i shall kill myself before your eyes." they fell back, hesitating; but they obeyed. the mandatar's men meanwhile prepared for fight, mr. wenceslas himself hiding behind them. he let his under-steward be spokesman in his stead, a huge fellow from bochnia, boleslaw stipinski, by name. "what do you want?" roared this giant; "are you for fighting or for peaceful speech?" "we have come to defend our right," shouted taras. "your wrong, you mean," retained boleslaw. "but no matter, we stand on our master's soil, and shall yield it only with our lives. mr. hajek is prepared to affirm this to the judge and elders, if they will step forward." taras was ready to parley, being followed by simeon and alexa. they found the mandatar crouching on a stone, some of his men lifting their guns behind him. "tell them to put away their firelocks," said taras, quietly; "you need not tremble like that; if it were for fight, we had been here sooner." "then you are peaceably inclined?" inquired hajek. "if you will own yourself in the wrong, offering some atonement for the crime committed." "and if not?" "then we must refer the matter to the court of the district." the mandatar recovered himself; he even smiled. "perhaps that will not be necessary," he said. "you are a sensible law-abiding man, taras, and i daresay you will understand my view of the case quickly enough. you know that in the days of the emperor joseph a survey of the property was taken. i have the papers, and therein it is plainly put down: 'the boundary of the parish field is marked by the coppice on the one side, by the black cross on the other; beyond the cross as far as the river the soil belongs to the count.' so you see i am entitled to claim for my master that part of this field which beyond a doubt is his." "no," cried taras; "for when the survey was taken, and until fifteen years ago, the black cross stood close by the river, leaving a footpath for the count who has always had the fishing in the pruth. when the old cross was weatherworn the parish erected a new one in the centre of the field. that, sir, is the plain truth." "may be," returned hajek, smiling. "i suppose that would be a question for the magistrates to look into; in the meantime, i shall act upon the evidence of my own eyes. it was natural that i should request the men i found ploughing here to take themselves off. they fired their guns and killed one of my men; what could we do but fire ours? and i shall keep the two yoke of oxen to indemnify the count for his loss. there, i have done." "but we have not," said taras, solemnly, baring his head. "i call the almighty to witness that we are grievously wronged! and i protest that we could never own you in the right! it is in obedience to our lord the emperor, and in obedience to the law of god that we have refrained from violence. but both the emperor and the almighty will see us righted!" "well done!" said the mandatar, with a sneer. "this is a finer flourish than ever fell from the lips of father martin; the pope might fairly be jealous of you!" taras felt outraged; but he repressed the reproof that rose to his lips, and moved away in silence. "well!" cried the peasants when their leaders returned to them; "does he yield? or will you permit us now to offer him proof of our right after our own fashion?" "no!" said taras, "you shall follow me back to the village; we must convene a public meeting. but, first, we must carry the dead man into his mother's house, and you, simeon, meanwhile, ask his reverence to join us with the host." "but what if i find him incapable?" objected the elder. "no matter, it will not affect that which is holy." within an hour the community had assembled under the shade of the lime tree, outside the village inn. father martin, too, had arrived in full vestments, carrying the pix. it being yet early in the day, the elder was fortunate in finding him in his right mind. but before taras opened the meeting he had a domestic matter to settle. his wife lay at his feet, and her repentance was as passionate as her wrath had been. "trample upon me," she wept; "cast me from you, i have fully deserved it!" but taras lifted her up--kissed her. "i forgive it," he said, "but not again!" and then he went to speak to the people: "there is not a shadow of a doubt as to our right," he said, "and therefore the district court will be on our side. self-avenging yields tears and bloodshed only, and is likely to leave us in the wrong. i shall start this very day for colomea to demand justice against the mandatar, and you shall swear to me now that you will keep the peace while i am gone." father martin elevated the host, and the men, kneeling, took the oath. by noon taras had set out on his way. he had taken his best horse and borrowed another on the road, but the distance being a good fifty miles he could not reach the town before noon the following day. a courier from the mandatar had forestalled him. the district governor, therefore, herr ferdinand von bauer, a comfortable elderly gentleman, was not exactly pleased to see the village judge, and would have none of his statements. "i know all about it already," he said, "there is no need to repeat it." but taras insisted on substantiating his charge with fall particulars, which appeared to differ from the account that had been rendered to the governor. anyhow this comfortable gentleman began to shake his head, and to pace the floor of his office. at last he pulled up in front of the peasant, examining his face. "is this the truth you are giving me?" he demanded gruffly. taras met his glance fully. "it is the truth," he said solemnly, "so help me god!" "humph! humph!" was all the answer vouchsafed, and the governor again fell to pacing the floor, till after a while he once more stood still in front of taras. "be hanged, both of you!" he said amiably. "i mean both lord of the manor and peasantry. can't you ever keep the peace! a nice thing to have to arbitrate between you by way of resting one's old bones!" to be a district governor in galicia, to his idea, plainly was not a bed of roses. "go back to your people," he continued more gently, "i am unable to decide from a distance, but will send a commissioner to take evidence on the spot. meanwhile, you can bury your dead, since we cannot bring them back to life, whatever we finally decide." the judge returned quieted. the peace of the village had been kept, in spite of the towering rage of the peasants at having to stand by and let the mandatar till the field that was not his. the part beyond the cross, which hajek left to the villagers, was ploughed and sown presently by taras's men. "a man of the law will soon be here," he comforted himself and others, "and then we shall be righted." a fortnight had elapsed when the expected official made his appearance; but this, unfortunately, did not mend matters. it was a certain district commissioner, mr. ladislas kapronski, called the "snake" by his colleagues, which appellation fitted both his character and his gait, for in the presence of a superior this man never did anything but wriggle. he may have owed his advancement either to this peculiarity or to the number of his years, since preferment went by seniority, but never to his merits; for, whatever might be said of his cringing and deceitful nature, it was impossible to say aught for his capability, or even his desire of doing well. and having, moreover, a reputation for being frightened at the shadow of a hen, not to say at the sight of an infuriated peasantry, this commissioner plainly was the man for his mission! and he did not belie his fame. the question of murder he disposed of in an off-hand way. "both sides have had a man killed," he said, "let us suppose that they are quits. i may presume they killed each other, and since they are dead we cannot punish them; so that is settled." after a similar fashion he decided the question concerning the field. "i find the mandatar in possession for the count," he said, "and he can prove his claim from the title-deeds. i must, therefore, give judgment in his favour." "and if we had ejected him forcibly," cried taras, bitterly; "if we had not refrained from righting ourselves by means of bloodshed, _we_ should have found that possession is law?" "well, well," said mr. kapronski, trembling at this outburst, "i am sure it is very praiseworthy that you did not have recourse to violence. and i did not say that possession was law; indeed, it is not always. the field may really be yours; in that case, you must just file a suit and fight it out against the lord of the manor, leaving him in possession meanwhile." the peasants demurred, but taras urged silence. "is that all you have come to tell us?" he inquired of the commissioner. "well, yes--certainly.... no, stop; there is something else. you shall see how anxious i am to judge fairly. the two yoke of oxen which the mandatar has seized shall be returned to you this very day. i have so ordered it, for justice shall be done. but be sure and leave the count in possession; now do, or you will offend grievously." he had jumped back into his vehicle, in a great hurry to be gone. he considered he had done his duty, and drove away, greatly relieved to see the last of these people with their battle-axes and guns. taras for some hours was disconsolate, but his faith in justice restored him. he called together the people. "the right will right itself," he cried. "i trust in god and believe in the emperor. we must go to law!" but his influence seemed gone. "it is your fault," they exclaimed, "and you must bear the consequence! we men of zulawce carry a cause with gun and axe, and not pen-and-inkwise. it is just your tardiness that lost us half the field, we will not lose the other half by a law-suit. or, at least, if you will try the law, do so at your own expense." "i am ready for that," said taras. "a man standing up for the right must not stop short of victory, even though he should be ruined in the attempt." again he went to colomea and called upon the district governor. but herr von bauer turned on his heel. "we have done our part," he said curtly; "if you are not satisfied there is an attorney in the place." "i do not understand," replied taras, modestly but firmly. "i want the law to see us righted and is it not you who, in the emperor's stead, are here to dispense it?" "you great baby!" snorted the governor. but good nature supervened; he came close to taras, laying a hand upon his shoulder. "let me make it plain to you," he said. "if you go and kill the mandatar, or if he kills you, it will be my business to come down upon you with the law, even if no complaint has been urged, for that is a crime. but if you and your peasants assert that a field is yours, which the steward of the manor has possession of we can only interfere if you bring an action, preferring your complaint through an attorney, for that is a matter in dispute. now do you understand? if so, go and instruct your lawyer. do you take it in?" "no," said taras; "the right surely must be upheld, whether life or property be touched; and to the men of zulawce that field is as sacred as my life is to me. is not justice in all things the world's foundation? and does not he who disregards it wrong the very law of life! can it be the emperor's will that such wrongdoing is not your business?" "dear! dear!" groaned the magistrate; "have i not always said, it's a precious business to be a district governor in galicia? why, you are just savages here--no notion of how the law works! but you don't seem a man to be angry with, so begone in peace." taras quitted the office, standing still outside. disappointment and a sense of personal injury surged up within him with a pain so vivid, that he had to wrestle with it for fear he should burst into a shriek like some wounded animal. but he recovered himself and went to seek the lawyer. he soon found him--dr. eugene starkowski--a sharp-witted attorney, who at once caught the gist of the matter. he shook his head. "it was foolish," he said, "to move a landmark! but i will see what i can do for you." "how soon can we expect a decision?" "some time in the autumn." "not before!" exclaimed taras. "no, and you will be lucky if more of your patience is not required. it will not be my fault, but you see the gentlemen of the court like to take it easy." "take it easy!" echoed taras, as one in a dream, staring at the lawyer in helpless wonder. "take it easy!" he repeated wildly. "oh, sir, this is not right! justice should flow like a well which all can reach, for it is hard to be athirst for it." starkowski looked at the peasant, first with a kind of professional interest only, but with human sympathy before long. he smiled--"i will really do my best for you," he said, and his voice was that of a man comforting a grieving child. and he did his best, using his every influence to expedite the matter. in most lawsuits at that time in galicia six months would slip away before even a writ was served upon the defendant, but mr. hajek, in the present case, received his within a week. to be sure, he was entitled to a three months' delay to get up his defence, and he availed himself of it to the day--for what purpose, the poor peasants presently had reason to suspect. on the very last day of the term allowed to him he sent in his reply, pleading in exculpation the reasons he had given to taras, and demanding in his turn that a commission should be appointed for the examining of witnesses on the spot. taras's counsel was not a little surprised. to examine the peasants upon their oath was the one means within the reach of the law for arriving at the truth concerning the alleged removing of the cross which marked the boundary. it plainly was in the mandatar's interest to prevent this if possible, and to take his stand on the ocular evidence in his favour, as given in the title deeds. strange that he should propose the very means of settling the contest which of all was most likely to go against him! dr. starkowski could not make it out. "he is a fool," he thought, "unless, after all, he is sure of his claim, or, indeed, has bribed his witnesses." and both conjectures appeared to him equally unlikely, the former because of the solemn soul-stirring manner with which taras had invoked his help; the latter because of the good opinion mr. wenceslas enjoyed in the district town. for his parisian antecedents were not known there, and society had admitted him to its bosom as an amiable gentleman of irreproachable character. but since both parties were ready to be put upon their oath, there was nothing else to be done. and the same genius of justice who in the spring had so capably decided that there was no one to be accused of murder, was despatched in the autumn to act for the civil law. "examine matters carefully, mr. kapronski," said the district governor; "take the depositions of every individual witness, impressing them with the sanctity of the oath. go into the case thoroughly--there is no danger to yourself--and be sure not to hurry it over." the commissioner, with an obsequious wriggle, departed on his mission. "the old fool," he said, when seated in his vehicle, "as though it did not depend on a man's sagacity much more than on his taking time! i'll see through the business in less than two hours, i will." he was expected at zulawce, and all the community had turned out to receive him--men, women, children, not to forget father martin, who, let it be said of him, for once had eschewed his favourite solace, and was perfectly sober. mr. hajek, too, had arrived, followed by the gigantic boleslaw and a number of labourers on the estate. the commissioner drew up amongst them, and alighting beneath the village linden, called for a table from the inn. "that is the first of my requirements," he said to the mandatar; "the second i have brought with me," pointing at a puffing clerk, who was seen descending from his seat by the coachman, with a huge parcel of red-taped foolscap and an inkstand large enough to bespeak the importance of the proceedings. "the third requisite," continued the commissioner, "a crucifix, no doubt these good people can provide." they procured one from the nearest house. it was placed upon the table. "to add to the solemnity," whispered the clerk, "two burning candles ..." "no need," interrupted the commissioner. "i myself will be a light to their understanding." but his voice, as he turned to the people, quivered with anxiety. "i have come," he said, "to find out where the black cross, now in the centre of the so-called parish field, may have stood sixteen years ago. this is all the evidence i care for. so whoever of you has no testimony to offer on this head may take himself off--have the goodness to retire, i mean!" a few labourers from the lowlands only obeyed this injunction, no one else moving. all eyes were fixed on him, such proceedings, indeed, not being an every-day spectacle. "it is alleged," resumed mr. kapronski, "that the cross in question was removed from its formed position fifteen years ago. now, those only can affirm or deny this who were not children at the time. i will listen to no one, therefore, who has not passed his thirtieth year. i mean, all that are younger, i will ask them kindly to retire." no one stirred. kapronski looked about with an uncertain gaze. happily, taras came to the rescue. "have you not understood?" he cried, with far-reaching voice. "whoever has not reached his thirtieth year is not wanted." it sufficed. first the girls ran away, followed by the women and children, the young men leaving reluctantly. some two hundred of the villagers were left, forming a dense crowd round the table. "and now, listen," continued the commissioner. "whoever has no clear personal recollection where the cross stood sixteen years ago, let him lift his right hand." only two hands were lifted--those of the leaders of the contending parties. "i came to the village eighteen months ago," said the mandatar. "and i ten years ago," said the judge. "never mind!" cried kapronski, hastily. "please stay; these men might----" he surveyed the stalwart assembly with evident embarrassment, and then added, "you have a right to watch the proceedings! please, mr. mandatar, step to the right of the table; and you, mr. taras, to the left." "now then, listen!" he repeated, addressing himself once more to the people. "whoever of you remembers for a certainty that sixteen years ago the black cross stood where it now stands, in the centre of the field, let him step to the right, taking his place beside mr. hajek. but whoever, on the contrary, is sure of recollecting that the cross sixteen years ago stood by the river and was removed thence to its present place a twelvemonth later, let him step to the left side, joining your judge." the division took place amid ominous growls, which broke into exclamations of unbounded wrath and indignant imprecations when the opposing parties stood facing each other. "you curs!" cried the peasants, brandishing their axes. for not only was the mandatar supported by the labourers and farmers of the manorial estate, but, contrary to all expectation, some of the villagers had gone to his side--drunkards and others of low character. now, whatever these might be thought capable of, no one had given them credit for such open treason against the community--the very worst of crimes in the eyes of those people, to whom no bond is more sacred than that between man and man for the common weal. and what carried their disgust to its height was the fact that the son of their own old judge had joined the enemy. harasim woronka, too, had taken his place beside the mandatar, not won over by bribery like the rest of them, but by his own thirst for revenge: it seemed an opportunity for crushing the hated stranger. harasim was fast going to ruin, and in his fuddled brain the thought kept burning: "if it were not for taras i might be judge this day, besides being anusia's husband and the richest man of the village." and whatever benefit he had received at the hands of the noble-hearted stranger had been like oil to the fire of his hatred. too cowardly for an open act of revenge, he had lent a willing ear to the tempter coming to him in the guise of boleslaw; but what little good was left in his degraded soul must have pleaded with his conscience even now, for he stood trembling visibly. "you miserable woman of a man!" roared the insulted peasants; "you disgrace your father in his very grave!" harasim grew white, his hands clutching the air like a drowning man, for not a more terrible reproach can be offered to a child of that race. indeed, he would have owned his wickedness there and then by returning to the ranks of those to whom he belonged by kinship and destiny, had not boleslaw interfered, seizing the wavering object with his huge hand and holding him tight. "murder!" roared the peasants, making an onslaught against the giant. it seemed as though the fury of bloodshed were let loose. the three men by the table looked upon this scene with greatly differing sensations. the commissioner had grown ashy, being ready to swoon. mr. hajek, on the contrary, quivered with elation, but strove to hide his sense of victory beneath a mask of aggrieved consternation, saying to the representative of the law: "there, now, is it not almost impossible to maintain one's right with such people?" the virtuous creature would have felt doubly elated had one of the uplifted axes silenced harasim for ever. but that, to his disappointment, was prevented by the resolute and magnanimous courage of taras, the judge. the treachery of harasim had hurt him more than any of the others; but for a moment only did he yield to his feelings, duty coming to his rescue and making him strong. "forbear!" he cried, with powerful voice. "forbear," echoed the elders, and with them he faced the enraged peasants. they fell back, leaving a space between the two parties. kapronski kept shaking and quaking; his blanched lips opened and shut, but they framed not a sound. luckily for him, an incident--partly ludicrous, but in truth most sad--at this juncture diverted attention from his own miserable self; for, when the parties once more stood facing each other, they perceived what had escaped their infuriated senses before, that one man had not joined either side, but was left standing in the middle--the village pope, martin sustenkowicz. nor did the shepherd of zulawce at this moment look like the happy peacemaker between his belligerent parishioners, being too plainly of a divided mind, and dolefully unsettled. "why, your reverence," cried the under-steward, "what are you about! did you not swear to me yesterday that the mandatar was in the right?" "ah--hm--yes--yesterday!" stammered the pope, with a dazed look at the peasants, and taking an uncertain step to the other side. "stop! not this way, little father!" broke in alexa, seizing him by his caftan; "did not you tell me this very morning: 'the field is yours most certainly, for with my own hands i consecrated the new cross fifteen years ago'?" "hm--ah--yes--consecrated!" groaned the poor man helplessly, a distracted figure in their midst. the mandatar took pity on him. "move this way," he said, with wicked sarcasm, "there is room behind the table right away from the contending parties. we have no candles to solemnise the scene, let the light of your countenance make up for it, illumining this crowd of witnesses." the commissioner meanwhile had partly recovered, and had found his voice, though a husky one. "i must administer the oath," he said, "for you have given evidence by taking your position either on this side or on that. let any one who cannot swear to his deposition show it by lifting his hand." not a finger moved. kapronski gasped. he was anxious to get over the business, but this state of things seemed to force from him some kind of exhortation. "my good people," he cried, "why, perjury is no joke! there's a judge in heaven you know, and--hm--i mean--_we_ punish any one convicted of swearing falsely. and--it seems plain--only one of the parties can take their oath honestly. so do consider, i entreat you! now then--which of you cannot--hm--ought not, to swear?" but his well-meant speech fell flat. the only witness whose hand seemed to make an upward movement, harasim woronka, let drop his arm when the overpowering boleslaw whispered in his ear: "wretched coward, shall taras rejoice after all?" the commissioner wiped his brow--this was more than he dared report to his superiors. "unheard of case!" he groaned, turning to the mandatar. "hadn't we better get the priest to speak to the people?" "by all means," replied mr. hajek, with his most pious mien; "i have no doubt he will vastly influence the sleeping conscience." but taras shook his head. "mr. kapronski," he said, "it is a sad thing for people to be shepherded as we are. you see with your own eyes what manner of man he is. but we poor peasants have no voice in the matter, we can only strive to reverence the holy things, if we cannot reverence him who dispenses them. therefore we try to avoid anything that must lower him in our eyes, for it is not well when the people are given cause of mockery. nay, it is not well, god knows! judge for yourself, sir, would it be fit to let him speak to the people at this solemn moment? for is not an oath an awful thing, terribly awful?" kapronski breathed, relieved. were not the peasants the accusers in this matter? if they, then, were satisfied to have no further exhortation, he was not accountable for any consequences. he stepped forward. "i put you all upon your oath," he said, baring his head, and every one present followed his example. and having once again stated the matter to be sworn, the peasants, one after another, passed in front of the crucifix, giving their names and lifting three fingers of their right hand, saying: "i swear." but the mandatar's party after them, to a man, took the oath likewise. it was done quietly and quickly. the commissioner pulled out his watch. "an hour and forty minutes," he said, triumphantly. his vehicle had stood by in readiness. he mounted at once, and quitted the village with all possible speed. chapter v. the wrong victorious. autumn, as a rule, is by far the most pleasant season in the galician highlands. the winter there is long, dreary, and trying; the spring cool, and all too short; the summer exceedingly hot, and liable to thunderstorms almost daily. but in the autumn nature wears a genial face in the uplands, with a delicious continuance of sunshine, when the airy dome is scarcely ruffled by the breeze, and wondrously clear; day succeeding day of this gentle splendour till late in november sometimes. not so, however, in the year we are speaking of. in that season the birds had left early for their southern haunts, the earth looking bare and cheerless all of a sudden; the sun had hidden within heavy clouds, and the whirling snowflakes were at their chill play before september was well out. brighter days once more supervened, but they were bitterly cold, ushering in a fresh fall of snow and a dismal twilight of the heavens, which seemed determined to last. the people sat gloomily by their firesides, growing the more alarmed at this early show of winter as they listened to the tales of the old folk among them, who remembered a similar season in their youth--the winter of --which was a terrible visitation in that country, beginning as early as the present one. in that year the cold grew so intense that men scarcely ventured outside their cottages, because every breath they drew went like daggers to their lungs, and their limbs were benumbed in the space of a few minutes, so that even in trying to get from one end of the village to the other some had been frozen to death. and the snow drifted in such masses that the dwellers in the glens were hopelessly shut up, some actually dying of starvation. thus ran the terrible tale; but the old folk at zulawce were like old people everywhere, and the dread experience of their youth grew in horror with the receding years. the spectres of fear roused by these memories kept glaring at men and women within the lowly cottages. distress and suffering seemed at hand; and the poor were the poorer for the loss of the common field, the produce of which would have yielded them a welcome share. but more than this, the harvest had failed in part, and the cold overtaking the land so early threatened to destroy the winter crop. thus the future was as clouded as the present, and want might be looked for. had such trouble befallen the men of the lowlands they would have borne it sadly and meekly, bowing their heads before the lord of the seasons. but not so the defiant natures at zulawce, questioning their fate indignantly, and looking about for one who might bear the brunt of their anger; for, with the strong, affliction is apt to blaze forth in wrath. their scapegoat was easily found; for who else should be to blame for the loss of that field if not taras, their long-suffering judge! grievous days had come to him, and he would not have known how to bear his burden, but for the conviction upholding him that the decision of the court could not long be delayed now. this alone gave him the strength to continue his sorrowful duty day after day. the mandatar pitilessly went on grasping at every pound of flesh he might claim; the community either could or would not yield it. if taras tried to reason with them to submit to the forest labour, which again had been sold, they retorted it was not their duty, and even he might know now what came of being too docile towards a rascally land-steward! besides they had not the strength for it now, they said, half-starving as they were; and but for him the produce of that field by the river might now be safely stored in their granaries. and on his replying that, in that case, he must discontinue his office, they said scornfully their little father stephen had been a judge for fair days as well as foul; it was a pity that he was gone, since his successor evidently was not like him in this. and taras felt this taunt far more deeply than even the passionate appeals of his wife. he resolved to see the matter to its end; and, since there seemed no other means, he had the required forest labour done by his own men, or by others willing to work for his pay. "we can afford it," he consoled his more prudent wife, "and if i thus step into the breach for the parish it is not as though i took it from the property which you have brought to me, since i have added to it honestly by my own diligence. and i shall have a right to expect indemnification when better days shall have come round. god surely will see to our being righted, and he will lessen the burden we now have to bear. besides, a verdict must reach us before long, and there cannot be any doubt but that the court will see that the village has been wronged." the verdict, however, was still delayed. week after week passed amid suffering and dejection, and christmas to the villagers brought nothing of its own good cheer. for the grim snowstorms continued, and if at intervals the skies would brighten, it was only to usher in still sharper frosts. it was on the epiphany of that the rigorous cold unexpectedly came to an end. quite early on that day the people had been waked from their sleep by strange noises in the air, and rushing from their houses, were met by an unwonted warmth. it was the south wind so ardently longed for. it did not blow long enough to bring about any melting of the snow, folding its merciful wings all too soon; but the terrible cold nevertheless appeared to have received its death blow, the temperature not again sinking much below freezing point. and in happy mood old and young that morning went to church; men even who had been sworn enemies for years would look at each other pleasantly at the welcome change. taras also beheld brighter faces, and heard kinder words than had fallen on his ear since the sorrowful springtime. indeed, so strong and general was the feeling of relief and of gratitude due to the almighty, that even the pope was seized by the wave and carried to a shore of contrition he had not reached for many a year. mass had been read, and the people were about to depart, quite accustomed to the fact that father martin, on account of his own sad failing, would excuse the sermon; but they were startled by his request to resume their seats, and he actually mounted his pulpit. poor man, he could not give them much of a discourse, but such as it was it lent expression to their own feelings, and could not fail to touch their hearts. the people, who were in a good frame of mind, after church gathered in groups outside. there was the weather to be talked about, and the sermon, and the lawsuit; concerning the latter, some of those even who bore taras the deepest grudge were heard to say, "who can tell but that it may end well after all." and the most cheerful was taras himself. he moved about from group to group, kindly words passing to and fro. "let us trust god," he kept saying; "he has dispelled the fearful cold; at his touch the wrong, too, will vanish. my heart tells me so! the verdict cannot be delayed much longer, we may even hear of it before the day is out." these words had scarcely fallen from his lips, when that happened which, however frequent in fiction, is rare enough in actual life--his expectation was realised there and then. up the road from the river a sledge was seen advancing, driven by a peasant and carrying, it appeared, a large bundle of fur-rugs. no human occupant was visible when the vehicle stopped amid the staring peasantry, but the rug-bundle began to move, throwing off its outer covering, a bear-skin; a good-sized sheep-skin peeling off next, revealing as its kernel a funny little hunchbacked figure, an elderly townsman rather shabbily clad. he rose to his feet, inquiring, with a great deal of condescension: "my good people, is the judge of this village anywhere among you?" the stalwart peasants laughed at the puny creature, and even taras, moving up to the sledge, could not repress a smile. "and what do you want with him?" the stranger pursed his mouth; his hand dived into his pocket and produced an alarming pair of spectacles, which he put upon his shrivelled nose, plainly desirous of adding dignity to that feature, and then he said slowly, almost solemnly, "a man like you should say 'your worship' to me! i am mr. michael stupka, head clerk of dr. eugene starkowski." taras shook from head to foot, and clutching the man, he stammered, "you have come to tell as the verdict! you have got a letter for me!" and all the peasants pressed round them. "ah!" they cried, "we have got the field back, no doubt!... long live taras, the judge; he was right after all.... but do read us your letter." the terrified clerk all this time endeavoured to free himself from the iron grasp that held him as in a vice. "stand off!" he groaned. "i have brought you the verdict--yes; but ..." he faltered. taras grew white. hardly knowing what he did, he, with his strong arm, lifted the little man right out of the sledge, putting him down on the ground before him. "no," he said hoarsely, "it cannot be! the verdict surely is in our favour?" "why, dear me, can _i_ help it?" wailed the dwarfish creature. "are you savages here, or what! ah, you are strangling me ... it is not _my_ fault, i am only a clerk and of no consequence whatever ... i assure you! and dr. starkowski tried his best. moreover, the matter need not rest here; don't you know that there is such a thing as an appeal?" but taras evidently did not take in this hint any more than he had understood the preceding words. one thought only had laid hold of him, and he reeled like a stricken man. "lost!" he groaned hoarsely, the ominous syllable being taken up more shrilly by the peasants, who pressed closer still. the clerk, meanwhile, had produced the documents of which he was the bearer, the one being a writ of the court, the other a letter of dr. starkowski's. "there!" he cried, thrusting them under taras's nose. taras was striving to regain his composure. "we are usable to read writing," he said, gasping. "you must tell us what the lawyers have got to say. to whom have they adjudged the field?" but mr. stupka did not feel it prudent to answer this question right out. he broke the official seal, putting on a look of the greatest importance. "with pleasure, good people," he said condescendingly, "with pleasure! i'll read it to you, and translate it presently into plain language. the legal style, you know ..." but taras interrupted him. "to _whom_?" he repeated, more emphatically. "well, i should say," stammered the luckless clerk, "i should say ... to the lord of the manor, so to speak." "it is a lie," shrieked taras; "it cannot be!" but the peasantry veering round, cried scornfully: "did we not tell you that going to law is a folly? you have done it now!" utterly beside himself with the passion of his disappointment, the judge clenched his fists and set his teeth in the face of the mocking crowd, but the two elders laid their hands on him gently. "do not give way," begged the faithful simeon, "try and bear the blow; let us hear the verdict first, and then we will consider what next can be done." the clerk spread out the document. "in the name of the emperor!" he began, translating the somewhat lengthy preamble. the villagers loyally had pulled off their caps; taras only thought not of baring his head. simeon endeavoured to remind him, but the judge shook him off. the honest man looked at him doubtfully, and receded a step. the others did not notice it, too intent upon the verdict. it was a long piece of legal rhetoric, substantiating every statement with a flourish of evidential reasoning, in the german language, which in those days was the medium for judicial transactions throughout that conglomerate of babel-tongued countries going by the name of austria. it was no easy undertaking to translate the strangely intricate periods of official verbosity into the simple vernacular of the listeners; but mr. stupka, being as clever as he was small, contrived to make himself understood. the verdict amounted to a dismissal of the case, because the plaintiffs could not bring forward sufficient proof to uphold their claim. the description of the field in the title deeds, it said, was in favour of the party in present possession, and if a number of witnesses upon their oath had given contrary evidence, their testimony was invalidated by counter-evidence upon oath likewise. it was not the court's business in civil cases to start an inquiry whether false witness possibly had been tendered; it was rather the duty of the court to decide which evidence weighed heavier in the scale, and the balance had inclined in favour of manorial rights. it seemed strange, also, that the village judge, as had been reported, should have opposed the exhortation of the witnesses by means of the pope.... up to this point taras had listened in silence and motionless, but now a shudder ran through his body, and he clenched his fists. "ye adders," he panted; "ye deceitful adders!" "bear it," whispered simeon, entreatingly, putting his arm round his reeling friend. but taras scarcely needed the admonition as far as keeping silence was concerned, for his eyes closed; he seemed on the point of swooning. and moreover, the clerk continued, it was a fact that among those who had given their oath in favour of the manorial claim had been several heads of families of the village, men, therefore, who tendered witness against their own interest. such evidence could not easily be set aside. considering all these points, therefore, the case was dismissed, the plaintiffs to bear the costs, as was meet and just. "just!" echoed the men in savage scorn, taras alone keeping silence. his hand went to his heart suddenly, he staggered and fell heavily, as a man struck by lightning. for hours he lay in a swoon. they had carried him into his house; but neither the lamentations of his wife, nor their united endeavours to restore animation seemed to penetrate the dead darkness that had fallen on his soul. and when at last he opened his eyes his words appeared to them so utterly strange that they were more frightened still. "the very foundations are giving," he kept crying, "the holiest is being dragged low!" and he, in whose eyes no one ever had seen a tear, was seized with a paroxysm of weeping. he bemoaned his terrible fate, and between his sobs he called for his children, to take leave of them, he said. and he repeated this request so urgently that they could but humour him. it was a pitiful scene, and one after another the neighbours went away shudderingly, simeon pomenko only watching through the night by the sufferer's couch. but in the village the news spread that the judge, for sorrow, had gone out of his mind. not till the following morning did this piece of information come to the ears of the mandatar, mr. hajek having spent the night at zablotow, playing at cards with the officers of the hussars. his under-steward, boleslaw, impatiently lay in wait against his return, never doubting but that the news would fall on delighted ears, and he was not a little surprised at the mandatar's evident dismay, nor was this put on; for the count, still enlarging his acquaintances at paris, had, through his friends the usurers, got introduced to their solicitors, and hajek knew he must send him the wherewithal to stem the scandal of a prosecution, whatever he might wish to keep back for himself. so money, more than ever, was the need of the moment; and having succeeded in one villainous trick, he might hope to develop his talents for the further fleecing of the peasantry, and it was highly important, therefore, that the community should be represented by a judge who, at the risk of whatever loss to himself, was bent on keeping the people from offering violence. "gone out of his mind? dear me, i _am_ sorry," he said, honestly too. "but i daresay report has exaggerated the fact. he may have had a blow, but i do not believe he is the man to go mad. go to his wife and tell her, with my compliments, that i shall be pleased to send for the best doctor at colomea at my own expense." the man hung back. "i am no coward," he said presently, "and i think i could face any dozen of the peasants, if you wished it. but as for this woman--sir, do you know she is a regular huzul, quite a spitfire of a temper--and a man after all has only one pair of eyes to lose!" the mandatar did not care what risk these optics might run; the man had to carry his message. he was relieved, however, on entering the judge's house. the two elders, simeon and alexa were with the sufferer, and he appeared to be listening to their words. the storm had not yet subsided which tore his soul, and threatened to change the very drift of his being. he who his life long had stood like a rock against the surges of trouble, who had won happiness and prosperity through steadfast endurance, was sobbing and wailing like a child, and his friends could not but tremble for his reason as they heard his pitiful plaints. "i have striven to pass my life in honour," he would moan, "and now it must end in shame! and what of my poor children, since i have no choice but to follow the dictate of my heart?" he saw the under-steward enter cautiously, and his pale face grew crimson at the sight. simeon rose hastily to send away the unwelcome visitor, but taras interfered. "glad to see you, friend boleslaw!" he cried, cuttingly. "what good news has brought you hither?" the giant delivered his errand, stammeringly. "send for a doctor--indeed--at his own expense!" repeated taras. "well, i did not require this proof to tell me that the mandatar is an honest man!" and therewith he closed his eyes, lying still like a sleeping babe. boleslaw paused. "shall i----" he began presently, addressing the elders. but at the sound taras opened his eyes. "leave this house!" he cried, with a voice of thunder, and the powerful man quaked, making good his escape. taras watched his retreat, smiling strangely. "this message is something to be thankful for! you, my friends, could not help me, but this insult brings me back to myself. i shall fight against my ghastly destiny while yet i may!" "what destiny?" said simeon, soothingly. "do look at it calmly. you have, in a just cause, done your utmost to see us righted; and you have failed honourably. what else could there be said?" "what else?" reiterated taras. "and since it is a just cause--but what use in talking!... i daresay you thought i had lost my reason, because i have cried and wailed like a woman--did you?" his friends endeavoured to look unconcerned. "but, i tell you," he continued, with trembling voice, "it will be well if you never have occasion to find out that, though reeling, my mind was terribly clear!... i will try to spare you the discovery. i want to see that clerk again." "he has left," returned simeon; "he thrust his papers into my hand when you had fainted, and turning his horses' heads he made the utmost speed to leave us. the poor creature was really quite frightened; never in his life again would he carry a verdict to savages, he said." taras could not help smiling. "then i must ask the pope to read me that letter," he said. "leave the room, i shall be ready to join you in a few minutes." "do not exert yourself just yet," entreated simeon. but taras looked up sternly. "do not hinder me, man," he cried, "cannot you see that my very fate is at stake!" the men left him misgivingly. "what do you think of it?" said alexa, as they stood waiting in the yard. "god knows!" replied simeon, troubled. "but i cannot forget how he refused to uncover when the verdict was being read." the voice of anusia was heard, who would not let her husband go from the house. "you will be fainting again!" she lamented. but taras, though white as death, stepped forth, treading firmly. the three men walked away to call on father martin; but on entering the manse his housekeeper, praxenia, met them with a tearful face. she was an elderly spinster from the village who had presided over his domestic concerns since the popadja had departed this life, leaving the pope a widower. "god o' mercy," she sobbed, looking at taras, "it's a blessing that you, at least, have got back your wits. they said in the village that you had lost them. but you are all right, i see--would i could say as much for the poor little father. _he_ is quite off his head, i assure you; regular mad if ever man was!" "he will come round again, no doubt," said taras. "i daresay he has had a glass too much." "ah, no," wept the good spinster; "that were nothing since we are used to it! he has not had a drop since yesterday, poor old man, who never could do without his tipple; it is that which frightens me! he is lying quite still now, staring blankly, and talking a heap of nonsense between whiles." "humph," grunted simeon, "that certainly looks alarming. i have known him these twenty years, he never showed such symptoms." "didn't i say so--a very bad sign, surely! and all on account of that sermon, would you believe it? but let me tell you how it happened. i had gone to his room quite early yesterday morning--would i had bitten my tongue off first! though my going in was quite innocent-like. 'little father,' i said, 'there's a thaw setting in, and the parish is just beside itself with joy.' 'beside itself? dear! dear!' he said, 'i must go and see,' and off he trotted. but very soon he came back again, his eyes positively shining. 'naughty, naughty, little father,' i said, 'you have gone and been at avrumko's--very naughty, so early in the day, and before reading mass!' but he insisted that he had not been near the inn, and that nothing but the common delight had so excited him. 'ah! praxenia,' he said, 'what a day to have seen--all the village is praising the lord for his goodness. i must give them a sermon to-day, i must, indeed!' 'little father,' i said, severely, 'you had better not attempt it; you know it is beyond you now, and the people will only laugh at you; don't you remember how it was five years ago?' 'i do,' he said, ruefully, 'but i shall do better to-day.' there was no convincing him, he locked himself into his study, and through the door i could hear him at his sermon--pacing his floor i mean--vigorously, till the bells began ringing for service. i went to church, not a little anxious, you will believe me, and when he mounted his pulpit, as he had threatened, i said to myself: 'you'll stick fast, little father, and be sorry that you ever went up.' but not he--well you were there yourselves, and you know how beautifully he got through it, never once blowing his nose or scratching his ears--the beautifullest sermon ever spoken, though i say it, and moving all the parish to tears! i walked home proudly to look after his dinner, poor man, and said to myself he should have as many glasses now as he liked. but what was my surprise on going to his room presently, to find him weeping there, shedding the biggest tears. i ever saw. 'ah, praxenia,' he sobbed, 'to think of the lord's goodness in giving me this day. i have not deserved it, miserable old tippler that i am!' what was i to answer? i got his dinner ready, putting his bottle beside it; and he sat down at my bidding, but never a morsel he touched, his eyes looking brighter and queerer than ever. 'have a drop, little father.' i said, 'i'm afraid you are faint-like.' 'no,' he said, sharply, pushing the bottle from him. then i knew that something was wrong. and all the rest of the day, till late in the evening, he kept walking about his room, muttering the beautifullest words--preparing his sermon, he said, when i asked him. not till late at night could i get a spoonful of soup down his throat, making him take to his bed--no great battle, for although he is hardly more than sixty, he is just a child for weakness when the schnaps is out of him. 'now you must go to sleep,' i said, sternly. but not he! he folded his hands, lying still, with his shining eyes, muttering at times. he is going to die, i tell you!" the men were endeavouring to dissuade her from this mournful view, but were less certain of their own opinion when they stood by the bedside. the poor pope's appearance had changed alarmingly since yesterday. the face was worn and white, the wrinkles had deepened, and there was a strange light in his eyes. but he knew taras. "ah--is it you?" he murmured.... "'and he judged israel in the days of the philistines twenty years.' ... the bells are ringing.... i must preach to the people.... what is it you want?" "i came to ask you to read a letter to me, but i am afraid you are not well, and it is rather a closely-written epistle." "epistle? yes," returned the pope, catching at the word. "the first of the corinthians.... 'though i speak with the tongues of angels, and have not charity.... believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.... charity never faileth.' ..." and on he wandered. the men saw it was hopeless, and left him. "it is strange," said simeon; "our pope never spoke such edifying words while he had his wits about him. it does seem alarming." but taras's thoughts ran on a different track. he started. "i must go to colomea," he said. "there could not be much in a mere letter, after all. i must see the lawyer myself as soon as possible." he appeared so fully determined that his friends could but listen in silence, and even anusia saw he must have his way, though she demurred. "it were far better to leave the thing alone," she said. "if you are bent on making a sacrifice for the parish, give them the field we bought two years ago, it will make up for their loss, and it were better than losing everything through the lawyers." "you are the best of wives," he said, "but you do not understand. it is not merely about the field which is lost: but my fate, and yours, and the children's is at stake." "what is this you are saying?" she cried, alarmed; but he had touched his horse, and the sledge was flying along the road towards the district town. he entered the outer office of starkowski's the following day, but no sooner had mr. stupka caught sight of him than he flew from his chair, disappearing in an inner chamber with the startled cry: "heaven help us! a ghost ... the dead judge!" but the attorney came forth undaunted. "i am pleased to see you," he said, shaking hands. "i felt pretty sure my clerk had been exaggerating in reporting you dead. i suppose it was the painful disappointment which stunned you?" "more than this," said taras, "it was the bitter consciousness that this verdict must change all the future current of my life, unless, indeed, it can be annulled. i have come to find out whether this is possible. maybe your letter said something about it--i cannot read." "no, the letter was only to tell you the costs," explained dr. starkowski, "one hundred and twelve florins. but there is no hurry whatever, you may pay me at your convenience. i had nothing further to tell you, for i never advise carrying a suit into a higher court unless there be some hope of a successful----" "sir," interrupted taras, speaking slowly, and his voice was hollow, "think well before you tell me--you do not know how much there is at stake." the man's manner, and still more his distorted face, staggered the lawyer. "of course, i may be mistaken," he said; "but the examination of the witnesses, from which i hoped everything, has proved a bad business for us, and yet it appears the commissioner tried every conscientious means for arriving at----" "conscientious means!" cried taras; but conquering his rising anger he described the scene which had taken place outside the village inn, kapronski not so much as putting up his horses; and how the peasants had their own shrewd guesses how much had been paid by the mandatar to every rascal who had forsworn himself. "sir, i hope you will help me in this trouble!" he said, in conclusion. these simple words, breathing their own truth and sadness, went further with the lawyer than the most urgent entreaty. he had followed the legal profession for many a year, but the sense of the utter sacredness of his calling had perhaps never been so strong with him, nor his desire to see justice done more earnest, than at this present moment when that peasant had told him his tale. he promised to forward an appeal to the higher court at once. "there is yet another way we could try," he said; "you could inform against the perjurers. but if we failed in bringing the charge home to them, you would be in danger of imprisonment for libel yourself. i do not like to risk that, so we had better try the appeal." "do what seems best to you," said taras. "i trust you implicitly. but what a world is this if a man can be put into prison for making known the truth! is not truth the foundation of justice? can the world continue, if falsehood and wrong carry the day?" the lawyer no doubt could have given an answer to this question--a sad, painful answer--but somehow he felt he had better be silent. he contented himself with assuring this man, who seemed a very child in the ways of the world, that he would not fail in his most faithful endeavour, and set about the matter at once, moved by a feeling he scarcely could analyse. the appeal was on its way to the upper court at lemberg before taras and his servant had reached their upland home. they were nearing the pruth in the evening of the following day when the sound of bells came floating towards them, and a red glow appeared through the dusk where the ground sloped away in the direction of prinkowce. "something on fire!" cried the man, pulling up the horses. taras peered through the twilight, and, bowing his head, he crossed himself piously. "drive on," he said; "it is the torches at the cemetery. they are burying the pope." and it was so. father martin had died that morning, and they were laying him to his rest already, as they are wont in the mountains. there was no great show of mourning, poor praxenia's sorrow, perhaps, being the only honest sadness evoked. "ah!" she kept sobbing, "if it were not for that sermon, he might be here to conduct his own funeral! it is the sermon he died of, and not old age, as the apothecary said." but the peasants had their own idea concerning the cause of his death. "it is the wretched schnaps avrumko has introduced," they said. "if the rascal gave us unwatered stuff, we might live a hundred years, like our fathers before us." slight as the feeling of mourning was, it ye sufficed to turn the people's thoughts into a different channel, the loss of the pope thus acting as a palliative to the loss of the law-suit; and the question who should be father martin's successor was discussed with real interest. it was not mere curiosity which stirred them, for in the person of the pope a good deal of a parish's fate is bound up in those parts, and the congregation has no voice in the matter. they can but wait and see. but the men of zulawce were soon relieved of any anxiety, and had every reason to be satisfied. not a mouth had passed when the desolate manse once more was inhabited, and it was a young pope who had come to pitch his pastoral tent in the upland parish, having till then been curate-in-charge of borkowka, a village in the plain. leo woronczuk was his name, and it spoke well for him that his late parishioners accompanied him in procession as far as the wooden bridge over the pruth, where taras, at the head of the peasants, stood waiting to receive him. but what pleased his new flock more than anything was the fact that the stalwart young shepherd did not arrive singly, but with a blooming wife--the most good-natured of popadjas, to all appearance--and three round-cheeked, chubby little boys. for the galician peasants are apt to be prejudiced against a pope who is either a bachelor or a widower, or, worse still, a monk of the order of st. basil, thinking it impossible for such a one to enter into the every-day joys and sorrows of his people, or to understand their more earthly needs. now, father leo had a heart for these things, and this not only because he himself was blessed with a wife and three jolly little boys! he was no brilliant star in the theological heavens, no paragon of superhuman virtues; he was a simple village priest--a man among men--with warm-hearted sympathies; and if his intellectual horizon did not extend immeasurably beyond that of his peasants, he at any rate had a clear-headed perception of all ordinary points and bearings within that sphere. it was not without diffidence that he accepted his new charge, influenced chiefly by the peremptory need of income, his late curacy having been sadly inadequate in this respect, considering the growing wants of his family; and, if the truth must be told, the bad reputation of that upland parish, which might have tempted a priestly soul of more enthusiastic ambition, only tended to discourage him; he, poor man, not feeling himself divinely commissioned to make up for the many years' failings of his predecessor. he would far rather have been called to shepherd a people of a less demoralised kind than appeared to be the case here, where a number of men, on the very face of things, were guilty of wilful perjury. but once having accepted the charge devolved upon him by his superiors, he had made up his mind, like a brave man, to do his duty as best he could, be it pleasant or otherwise. and he made it his first aim to look into the apparent want of integrity among the people; to discover, if possible, who might be trusted and who not. he set about it quietly, without thrusting himself into people's confidence; nor did he think it necessary to frighten them into a higher state of morality by firing their imagination with grievous accounts of the punishment to come. his sermons were peculiarly simple, suitable in every way to the hearers' daily life--"a peasant almost could preach like that," said the people when he had dismissed them without once thumping the pulpit. but they discovered by degrees that, if his eloquence did not come down upon them thunderously, there was that in his words which might cling to them like good and sensible advice; while, on the other hand, he, not a little to his joy, could see that these people, after all, were not so black as they had been painted. leaving the one vice out of the question, which in that country is as common as air and water--the wretched tendency to drunkenness--the worst these highlanders could be accused of was their defiant spirit so apt to break out into violence. the pope soon found that they were not without a conscience, and that they had a true feeling of right and wrong, though it might be somewhat dulled by the unpruned egotistical instincts of human nature left to its own luxuriance. not many weeks had passed before father leo was sure in his own mind which had been the perjured party on that fatal day in september, but he avoided individual accusation. nor was it more than a moral certainty with him, as though he could take his oath that the black cross had not always stood in the centre of the contested field. but however strongly he felt in his honest mind that a vile wrong had been committed--robbing a poor, untaught, and easily misguided people not only of their property but, what was worse, of their good conscience--he yet repressed his wrath, and never by word or look showed the mandatar how entirely he abhorred him. nor was this reserve the outcome of mere selfish prudence, but rather of a wise perception that he could do more for the furthering of right and justice and the peace of his people in thus forcing the miscreant at the manor house to observe a show of good will. hajek, indeed, was deceived. he thought he had taken the measure of the new pope in believing him to be an honest but rather blockheaded parson, whom he treated accordingly with a certain amount of flattery, and even of deference. the mandatar would graciously yield a point whenever father leo, on behalf of the people, petitioned for a respite, or even for the lessening of an irksome tribute, assuring him that he was quite as anxious as himself to maintain the peace of the parish. the fact was, that while the suit yet hung in the balance, and a further examining of witnesses was a prospect to be dreaded, it was important that the village priest should think of him as an honourable man, not prone to harsh dealings, far less to open violence, or such a thing as an instigation to perjury. thus taras by degrees found an unexpected ally in the pope, nay more, a true-hearted friend. the saddened man would not have looked for such happiness, and when the unsought gift had come to him he met it almost timorously. it was a good honest friendship which sprang up between these two equally honourable, yet entirely different natures; but a friendship which, for all its truth, left the last word unspoken, because neither of them, whatever their mutual sympathy, was able to enter into, the inmost depth of the other's being. but the more the pope saw of the judge, the greater was his joy at having met such a man upon earth, a man so guileless and spotless, in whom selfishness was not, who seemed guided only by his own sense of justice and duty, and whose strength was the outcome of his great faith in the moral equity upholding this structure of a world. "a true, godly man," the pope would say to himself; but somehow the heretical thought would follow, "why, this man does not even need the christian's belief in a future life in order to be what he is." this feeling could not but breed certain doubts, but it did not lessen his hearty admiration of his friend's purity of nature, nor his longing to help him. he did what he could to ease the heavy burden of his dealings with the mandatar, coming forward as a mediator whenever it was possible; and he never lost an opportunity of proving to the villagers that their judge had acted righteously throughout. taras was father leo's senior, but there was something of a parent's tenderness for his child in the pope's constant readiness to stand by his friend. indeed, taras would often appear to him in the light of a grown boy whom no evil thing had come nigh to corrupt. "i could understand him," the pope would say, "if he were fourteen instead of nearly forty." and greater than his delight in the man was his surprise sometimes that he should understand so little of human nature and the way of the world. he took this for granted, but he was mistaken. taras was not wanting in the power of seeing things as they are, but only in the capability of turning such perception to any use. he was one of those rare beings who must ever follow their own inward prompting, who cannot be bent in this or that direction by any outward compulsion; but who, for this very reason, are so easily broken and bowed to the dust. there is much sadness in life, though little of real tragedy; but what of it the world has known has ever had for its heroes such natures. but neither did taras fully understand his friend. he would have blessed the day which brought father leo to the village, even if the latter had remained a comparative stranger to him; for the late pope's unworthy conduct had touched him far more deeply than any one else in the village, because his instincts for everything good and holy were so much keener. he knew well enough that many a village pope was no better than father martin had been; but he had felt to the depth of his true soul that it was a terrible perversion of what ought to be, if a village judge out of reverence for the sanctity of the oath sees it laid upon him to oppose an exhortation of the people by their own priest. it was an unspeakable relief to him that things had changed in this respect, and that the man who had come to represent the spiritual interests in the parish was of good report and fit to be an example; his gratitude rising to boundless devotion on perceiving that in word and deed the honest pope was bent on sharing his burden--yet he could not always understand his friend. the pope, to give an instance, might endeavour to correct some black sheep by saying: "you are not a bad man on the whole, it's just the drink which is ruining you; it were a great thing if you could overcome that failing!" at which taras would think that this was an untruth, because the man was bad in other respects besides the drink; that the pope was quite aware of this, and how could it be right to depart from the full truth, even with a good object in view? or, if father leo endeavoured to arbitrate between two quarrelling parishioners, he would tell them: "blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of god!" endeavouring to bring about a compromise even if the one, whether erroneously or feloniously, had been coveting the other's property; but can it be right, thought taras, to connive even in part at a wrongful intention for the love of peace? and if the pope was anxious to obtain some benefit for the people, he would not only listen patiently to the richest self-praise of the miserable mandatar, but might even enhance it by some word of his own; yet, shall a man fawn on an evildoer for the sake of mercy? these questions occupied the judge seriously, and one day, when they had been at the mandatar's together, he could not but unburden his heart to his friend. the pope smiled, saying: "it is written, be ye therefore wise as serpents." "yes," cried taras, "and harmless as doves!" "certainly," returned the pope. "it would be wrong to meet any one with the serpent's wisdom in order to overreach him. i never do that, and to the best of my knowledge i strive to advance the good and to fight what is evil. but since i have to do with sinful men and not with angels, i must be content very often to fight with human weapons." taras shook his head. "how could deception ever be right in order to further a good cause?" he exclaimed. "nor is it," returned the pope. "but if i can keep back the wicked man from further wickedness by speaking civilly to him, and not contemptuously, i am not wronging nor deceiving him, but on the contrary doing well by him." the judge walked on in silence, saying at last, gently but firmly, "i cannot see this; deception can never be right. i do not understand you." at which the pope might look up at the towering figure by his side, saying tenderly within himself, "he is simple as a child!" but what shadows even then were overlying taras's soul not even leo could know, though a strange fear at times stole over him that this soul, so childlike and so pure, was undergoing a conflict with the powers of evil, and was being worsted. there were outward signs of such battling: taras hardly ever now smiled; he would sit for hours in moody silence, with a stony look in his eyes, and his healthy countenance was being marred by the furrows of anxious care. anusia, too, would come to the manse with her trouble, saying sorrowfully, "he hardly sleeps now, for day and night this worry is upon him, making an old man of him before his time." "but what is it?" said the pope; "i am at a loss to know." "why, what should it be but this cursed lawsuit," sobbed the passionate woman, clenching her fists. "would i could strangle the mandatar and all the tribe of lawyers along with him!" the pope rebuked her, nor did her explanation satisfy him. "it cannot be the lawsuit that so weighs on him," he said; "for he speaks about it calmly, hoping for a favourable verdict from the court of appeal. i do not see what can thus oppress him, unless it be his troubled relations both with the mandatar and with the people, which are improving daily though, for i am doing my best to heal the breach," he added, with some complacency. the honest man had not the faintest idea that, however successful he might be, he was only lessening his friend's outward burden, that which lay on his shoulders so to speak, and which he had strength enough to bear, whereas there was a burden crushing his heart and leaving him utterly helpless in his silent despair; for taras kept his deep trouble hidden even from the eyes of the priest, his spiritual guide, feeling, perhaps, that the fundamental difference of their natures must keep them apart on the soul's deepest issues. "i should only sadden him," he said, "and make him angry; but i could never convince him, nor could he talk me out of it. no one could, for the matter of that, not the almighty himself, i fear; for if he can look on quietly when wrong is being done here below, i do not see that even he could do away with the consequences!" matters had come to an ill pass with taras even then. he had grown calm outwardly, but the fearful thought which had overpowered him so utterly on his first learning that the court's decision had gone against the parish had not left him. if it was not added to in these months of weary waiting, while the verdict was being reconsidered, neither did it lessen. and as he went on with his duties day after day, waiting for an answer from the court of appeal, he was like some traveller traversing an endless desert beneath an angry sky. the air is heavy, and the thunderous clouds sink lower, he hastening onward through the friendless waste; onward, though the storm will break and the flashes of heaven are charged with death. no shelter for him anywhere; on, on, he hastens, though his doom await him--no hope, unless a strong wind from the healthy east be sent to drive the dark clouds asunder ... but how should he hope for such kindly blast while the hot air is heavy about him, and cloud draws cloud athwart the heavens? he can but bear up and continue, a weary traveller, utterly hopeless, and conscious of great trouble ahead! chapter vi. appealing unto cÆsar. autumn had come; again the season was cold and gloomy. taras had waited patiently, but he had not the courage to face the long, dull twilight of winter if he must pass it nursing the one desperate thought. so he went to the pope and begged him to indite an inquiry to the lawyer. father leo looked him in the face anxiously. the man appeared calm. "you are thinking too much of the law-suit!" he said, nevertheless. "not more than need be," replied taras. "i have long settled in my mind all concerning that question." the pope wrote the desired letter. the reply came at the end of a week. he had done what he could, said the lawyer, to urge the case forward, praying especially for a re-examination of the witnesses; but he had received no answer so far. taras heaved a sigh when the pope had communicated this letter to him. "it will go hard with me in the winter," he said sadly. but the pope could not know the full import of these words. "you have done your duty," he said, "and that will comfort you." "there is no comfort in that," said taras, "though it may help one to be strong. a man who has laid his hand on the plough of any duty must go on till the work is done." the winter proved hard, indeed, for the waiting man, but the heavier the burden weighed on his soul the more anxious he seemed to hide it. "he has ceased groaning as he used to do," anusia said to her friend, the warm-hearted, fat little popadja; "and he seems to take pleasure in a pastime, rather unusual with him; he has become a hunter for hunting's sake." taras, in that winter, would be absent for weeks at a time, pursuing the bear. but his three companions, who were devotedly attached to him--hritzko and giorgi pomenko, the two sons of his friend simeon, and the young man, wassilj soklewicz, whose brother had been shot on the contested field--could tell little of the judge's cheer. "he is even more silent in the forest than at home," they said; "and if he takes any delight in the hunt it is only because he is such a good shot. he cares nothing for the happy freedom of life up yonder, nothing for the excitement of driving the bear; but his face will always light up when he has well-lodged his bullet." the winter was not yet over, and taras was again absent hunting, when one day--it was in march, --the pope received a large letter from the district town. the lawyer had addressed the decision of the upper court to him, giving as his reason that he had understood from father leo's inquiry in the autumn, that he also sympathised with the judge, barabola. "i pray you, reverend sir," wrote the lawyer, "to make known to him the enclosed verdict as best you can; for i am afraid the poor man will be crushed and not easily lift up his head again. the legal means are exhausted, the lawyer can do nothing more; let the pastor, then, come in and heal the wound." the good pope was troubled, his apprehension nowise lessening on hearing how the first verdict had overpowered his friend. "poor man," he said; "poor dear child! how will he take it?" with not a little trepidation, therefore, he went to see taras upon his return from the mountains, endeavouring to prepare him for the bad news by a rather lengthy and well-considered speech. taras however, behaved otherwise than the pope had anticipated. he grew white, and the deep furrow between his brows appeared more threatening, but his voice was firm as he asked, "then the upper court has upheld the first verdict?" "yes," said father leo, gently. "but you must not take it too much to heart, you have tried honestly." "let me know what they say," interrupted taras, as calm as before, but it might have been noticed that he leant heavily on the table beside which he was standing. the pope produced the writ, reading and explaining. the court dismissed the appeal, seeing no reason why the trial should be repeated, it being fully evident that the former examination had satisfied the demands of justice. the lower court's verdict, therefore, must be upheld. taras had listened to the end with the same rigid mien. "thank you," he said, when father leo had done. "but now leave me alone. you too, anusia; i must think it over." "what use in farther troubling?" demurred the pope. "dr. starkowski says especially that the legal means are exhausted; which means that there is nothing further to be done. you must submit to the will of god." "we will come back to that presently," said taras, with a ghastly smile, which quite frightened the pope. "you shall not be cheated out of your sermon, but not now ... not now!" he repeated the words almost passionately. father leo still hesitated; but anusia interfered. she had been sitting in a corner, weeping; but now she rose. "stay, pope," she entreated, taking hold of taras's hand. "husband," she cried, shrilly, "fly into whatever rage you like, thrash the rascal at the manor house till he cannot move a limb, if it will ease you; but do not hide your wrath within yourself. do not look so stony; it kills me, husband. i am maddened with fear! i know why you would have us leave you--you are going to lay hands on yourself!" "no!" cried taras, solemnly. "god knows, i have no such thought." but again the smile played about his mouth. "be at peace, wife," he added; "i have never stood in more grievous need of health and life than now. leave me." they saw they must obey, but they remained standing outside the closed door, listening anxiously. they hoped the terrible tension of his heart might be lessened now by the pouring forth of his sorrow, but they heard nothing save his measured step. it ceased at length, and all was still. "come!" said the poor wife, dragging the pope to a small window which gave them a peep into the room. they saw taras, sitting still, resting his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. he sat motionless. "we had better leave him to fight it out," said father leo, "his is a strong heart, and he will get over it." but anusia could not conquer her fears. "i must watch him," she moaned, the hot tears trickling down her face. "it is more than you think! why, he is like a child at other times, never hiding the thoughts that move him; and now he cannot even speak to me or you!" the pope endeavoured to comfort her, but it was ill trying when he was anxious enough himself. he left her presently to visit a sick parishioner who was waiting for him, returning in about an hour. anusia had not stirred from the little window. "he only moved once," she whispered, hoarsely, "and it was awful to behold. i watched him, hardly daring to breathe, and saw him rise slowly and lift the fingers of his right hand to heaven. his face was stony, never a muscle he moved, but his eyes could not hold back the tears, and they ran heavily down his death-like cheeks--ah, father leo, it must have been an awful oath he swore to himself--and now he sits rigid as before, staring hopelessly." "that won't do," murmured the pope, opening the door rather noisily and entering. he was resolved not to leave the room again, even if taras should dismiss him peremptorily. but there was no fear of that. the judge rose, and met him quietly, almost serenely. "you are right, father leo," he said, "it is no use to keep on troubling! i have well-nigh worn out my brains, and am not a bit further than before!... there is just one thing though i want to know: you told me the lawyer had written that all the legal means were now exhausted--are you sure? are these his very words?" "yes; it is quite plain." "but i am not certain. for i remember that our own judge, at ridowa, when i was a boy, had a protracted law-suit with a cousin of his about some will that was questioned. the district court decided in his favour; but the cousin appealed, and the court at lemberg was on his side. the judge thereupon took the case to a supreme court at vienna, and there he obtained his right. so you see there must be judges at vienna, who are over the court at lemberg." "taras," cried anusia, "surely you are not thinking of going to law at vienna? whoever could pay the costs?" "wife," he said solemnly, "if you knew what is at stake, you would ask me on your knees to plead the cause at vienna if we were beggars ever after. however, i must first find out about it. not that i doubt dr. starkowski, for he is honest, and will have written nothing but the truth; but i must have it from his own lips." he was not able to set out for colomea on the spot, having to arrange with the mandatar first concerning the spring labour due by the peasantry. and matters were not so easily settled as in the autumn, for mr. hajek was relieved of his fears as to a possible re-examination of witnesses, and showed his true colours. he would no longer heed father leo's suggestions, but set him aside as a meddling priest who had better not poke into mundane concerns. it was, therefore, not without much yielding to unfair demands that taras could come to an understanding with the rapacious steward, after which he was free to depart on his journey, carrying with him in a leather belt all the ready money in his possession--the silver thalers and golden ducats he had inherited of old iwan, or gained by his own industry. on his entering the lawyer's office, the enlightened stupka no longer took alarm; but all the more frightened was the kind-hearted attorney himself. "why, man!" he cried, aghast, "you look ten years older than when last i saw you. is it the lawsuit which so worries you? you must not give way like that. remember that you have a wife and children, and not only a parish, to live for." "it was an evil year," said taras; "but i have not come to make complaints to you, sir, but only to settle two points. firstly, what is it i owe you?" the lawyer brought down his ledger and named the sum--close upon two hundred and fifty florins. "we have to bear the costs, you see," he said in excuse. "never mind," said taras, undoing his belt and counting out the money. "now for the second point. you have written to our father leo that nothing more can be done. but are there not higher judges at vienna?" "not for this matter," returned starkowski; "there certainly is a high court of justice at vienna, but cases can only be taken thither when the district court and the provincial court of appeal have differed in their verdicts!" "that is bad," said taras. "but you spoke to me of another way last year--a prosecution for perjury." "yes, but i did not advise it, and would not advise it now," cried the lawyer, eagerly. "can you not see that none of these witnesses will own to being perjured, and you will hardly succeed in bringing the crime home to them--for where is your evidence? and even if you had evidence, in the case of some who may have betrayed themselves by their own foolish talk, and could get them convicted, you will hardly escape going to prison with them. for those whom you failed to convict would be all the more spiteful, and would have you up for libel. and for what good in the end?--the field would remain count borecki's after all!" "it is not that i am thinking of now," replied taras. "i do not seek restitution, but simply the right." it was evident that he strove hard to speak calmly. but when he opened his mouth again the words fell stammeringly from his lips: "you tell me, then--there is--no help left--none?" "none whatever," said the lawyer, "unless the emperor----" "the emperor!" interrupted the peasant, almost with a shriek. and exultation broke from his eyes; he stood erect, transformed in every feature as by magic. so sudden was the change, from dire despair to uplifting hope, that he staggered and reeled as under a blow. "the emperor!" he repeated, exultingly. "well, yes--but in fact--you see, the emperor----" said the lawyer, taken aback. but taras paid no attention. "oh, sir," he cried, and was not ashamed of the tears that flowed down his face, "what a fool i have been! people looking to me, and calling me their judge, and i never thinking of this! and how i racked my poor brain, and suffered, and strove with the awful future, and all for nothing! why, of course, there is the emperor; but i only thought of him while there was happiness; and when trouble came and the clouds hid the light of heaven, i forgot that the sun is behind them. i was even angry not to see it shining, and was wroth with the emperor, because the men of the law, who are but his servants, could not help me! but i know better now. i know the emperor will make it all right, let him but hear of it--why, it is his very duty, laid upon him by god himself! his servants may go wrong, but he will see the truth; they may judge ill, but he will be righteous, being above them all.... ah, sir, forgive my being thus beside myself and weeping like a child! but if you knew what thoughts went through me but a moment ago, when you told me there was no farther help!... but, thank god, you have remembered the emperor, while yet it was time--while yet it was time! for even a week hence, if i had gone away in my hopelessness, it might have been too late!" "too late!" repeated the lawyer, astonished. "what do you mean?" "ah! do not ask me, sir," cried taras, brushing the tears from his face. "i would rather forget all about it; it was a nightmare, an evil dream. how foolish of me! the very darkest plans i could think of, but never of this simple help, as simple as prayer itself. for who are our helpers in this life but god and the emperor? god paramount and hearing our cry, but not reaching down with his own arm from heaven in every instance, because he has appointed the crowned one in his stead, who is to judge men and rule them in his name. but the emperor is not omniscient, like god. one must go to him and tell him one's trouble, which i shall do now. and for his understanding me the better, i will ask you, sir, to put it into writing, that he may have it all down on paper what i have to tell him." thus sobbed and talked the peasant, running on, positively beside himself, as though heaven had opened with a great vision of help; and, fall of gratitude, he seized the lawyer's hand, bowing low to kiss it. but starkowski drew back hastily, stepping to the window. he was startled, and almost dismayed. his mentioning the emperor had been rather accidental, and he could never have dreamt of thus rousing the man. he felt morally certain that it would be quite useless to petition the emperor, not that _he_ doubted that the peasants really had been wronged in the suit. but how was the emperor to see this, in the face of two verdicts? every groat the judge would spend on that errand, every effort and particle of time, would be just thrown away. "it must not be," he said to himself. "i must get him to see it." but then the thought would rise whether it were not a wicked thing to destroy the poor man's hope--his last hope, to which he clung so pitifully. he remembered the words taras had spoken a year ago, and these were strange hints which had fallen from his lips just now. yet the lawyer had not an idea what awful resolve had ripened in the despairing soul of this man; he only perceived that he would leave no means untried, no violence even, to get back the field the parish had been robbed of--and this was bad enough to be prevented, if possible. he believed he saw a way out of the difficulty. "well, then, taras," he said, "we will try the emperor. i will draw up a memorial for you, and we can send it to vienna. you, meanwhile, go quietly back to your people. there is no need to leave your family and your farm and your public duties on that account. the emperor will see what it is all about from the document; there is no need to plead in person." at any rate, we shall thus gain time, the good man was hoping; he will calm down meanwhile, and will be able to bear his disappointment when it does come, perhaps a year hence. but in laying this pretty plan, he had not considered the man he had to do with. "no," replied taras, with his own inflexible firmness. "i will gladly take your advice, but not on this point. my whole future is at stake, and the welfare of my wife and children. how could i trust to a happy chance? i shall go to vienna myself, to see the emperor and present the petition." "do stop to consider!" urged the lawyer. "and what chance is it you are talking of? i shall forward the memorial by post safely, and shall get it presented by a trustworthy man--a friend of mine----" "why, this is a whole string of chances," interrupted taras. "the letter may be lost, or tampered with--one has heard of postbags being robbed. and your friend may fall ill, or die, before he can do what you request. but even if he were able to do it, and had the best of intentions, how should he speak for me, as i would myself? he would say a pleasant word, perhaps, thinking of you, his friend, or because he is in the presence of the emperor; but he cannot possibly be anxious about _my_ case. i must speak for myself!" "but how should the emperor understand you, not knowing a word of the ruthenese?" inquired the lawyer, a little exasperated. "now, that can never be true!" cried taras. "that is, i beg your pardon, some one must have told you a tale. it stands to reason that the emperor can speak our language. is he not the father of all his subjects, and are not we of them? and you would have me believe a father will not understand his children? no, no; that can never be! it is settled, then, that i shall go to vienna, and i beg you to write out the petition for me; i will call for it this day week. i shall hardly get away before that, for i must set things in order before i leave." there was no dissuading him. he returned to zulawce, and neither his wife's entreaties nor the pope's remonstrance made the slightest impression on him. they both felt grateful on perceiving that a change had taken place in him; but both were equally set against his intention, though for different reasons. anusia, for her part, did not doubt the likelihood of the emperor's effective interference; but a journey to the far-off capital appeared to her as dangerous and venturesome as an expedition to the moon. "who can tell what might not happen on the road?" she said to the popadja, into whose sympathetic ear she poured her fears. "he may fall among thieves; or he may starve in some wilderness; or sorcerers may catch him with their wicked spells, and i shall never see him again. and even if he were likely to get through all these dangers, how is a man to find his way on _such_ a journey and not be lost?" father leo's apprehensions were not quite so desperate, although even he considered the journey a venture; but his chief fear was this--that it would be useless. "the emperor cannot possibly come back with you in person," he argued with his friend; "and how is he to know, without personal inspection, where the black cross stood these years ago? he can only inquire of the local authorities, our friends at colomea; and how should they tell him anything different from what they have already decided? they must stick to the verdict to escape censure, if for no other reason." but taras had an answer to every objection. to his wife he said, "it is not the sorcerers you fear, but the sorceresses." and to father leo he said, "you know most things better than we do, no doubt; but even you have had no experience with emperors." it was plain he was bent on going. the following sunday he called a meeting of the men. "my own farm," he said, "i have entrusted to the care of my friend simeon. he has offered to act as my representative also in parish affairs. but i cannot accept that; the parish must not be without a judge for so many weeks, perhaps months. i therefore resign my office, but i advise you to choose him in my place." his friends opposed him, none more eagerly than simeon himself. but taras was not to be moved, and since his enemies failed not to second him, the resolution was carried, simeon being chosen by a majority of votes. he accepted the office, declaring that he would hold it until his friend returned. a few days later taras again stood in starkowski's chambers. the lawyer gave him the memorial to the emperor, and a private letter addressed to a friend of his. "go by this man's advice in everything," he said; "he is a man of high standing at vienna, and will counsel you well, being himself of this country." "very well," said taras; "i will do as you wish me; otherwise i should have gone straight to the emperor's. no doubt every child at vienna could show me his house." "but you don't expect the children at vienna to understand your ruthenese!" cried the lawyer; adding, with a sigh, "god knows what will become of you!" "i have no fear," said taras, solemnly. "how should a man fail to gain his end who tries to do what is right?" chapter vii. put not your trust in princes. this had happened early in april. taras had taken leave of his wife with the promise of letting her hear as often as possible, and he kept his word faithfully during the first stages of his absence. as early as the third week a letter arrived, dated from lemberg, and written for taras by a fellow-villager, a certain constantino turenko, who, as a soldier, had had the rare luck, in the estimation of the zulawce folk, of rising to the dignity of a corporal. "since my friend taras is unable to send you a letter of his own contriving," this military genius wrote, "and since i am as clever at it as the colonel of the regiment himself, i send you word that he hopes you are well, as this leaves him at present. i have shown him all over the place; he never saw such a town in his life. you had better tell my people and kasia, who used to be sweet on me, that they may expect me home in the summer on furlough. i shall bring my regimentals--won't they just be proud of me! everybody says i am a fine soldier." poor anusia was thankful for even that much of news of her husband. in may another letter arrived from cracow, indited by a musical hero of some church choir, also stating that taras was well, but adding he was running short of money, and that he desired a remittance under his, the singer's, address. father leo, however, knew better than to carry out this injunction. it was the last news of the absent traveller which reached the village. they waited, but the summer came and not a word of taras. "it is a long day's journey to vienna," the pope would say to anusia, "and he might not easily come across a man there who understands the ruthenese, and is not too grand to write a letter for him, so we must not be anxious." but when even the harvest was over without bringing a sign of life, father leo himself grew uneasy, and was less confident in calming anusia. and the poor thing, besides her waking fears, was harassed by nightly dreams of the most vivid apprehension, the least appalling of her visions being those in which she beheld her taras captivated by some pretty hungarian, but alive at least; but more often she would see him dragging along the weary roads utterly starving, and sometimes her dreams showed him dead in a ditch. with these tales of woe she came to the manse almost daily, and father leo did his best to console her. the pretty hungarian he found it easiest to dispose of, assuring the distracted wife that taras's way did not lead him through hungary at all; and, as for the starving, he believed it unlikely, considering the two hundred florins the traveller had taken with him, but death certainly was a contingency against which no hapless mortal was proof. and when this latter vision mournfully overbore the previous ones, the poor woman lost all her youthful energy, fading away with her grief, and father leo, for very pity of her, wrote to dr. starkowski, imploring him to procure some news. the good-natured man readily promised to make inquiries at vienna, but week after week passed and nothing was heard, nor did the lost one himself return. it was autumn, the first frost was felt, and it was saint simon and saint jude's. everywhere within sight of the stern mountains the people look upon this day as the herald of winter; the women see to their larders, and the men assemble to fix each household's share of firewood from the common forest. this being done, simeon, the new judge, had gone to the manse to arrange with father leo concerning the pope's due. that was soon settled, but the two men continued in mournful conversation, and father leo scarcely had the heart to dissent from the judge's doleful remark that the miserable field had cost the village not only one of its stalwart youths, but another and more precious life as well, inasmuch as it seemed beyond a doubt that poor taras had perished. sympathy with his fate thus kept them talking, the dusk of evening descending with its own stillness, broken at times by the wailings of anusia, who once again had come with her troubles to the kind-hearted popadja. there was a knock at the outer door, and almost simultaneously they heard the poor wife's shriek--: "taras!" they flew from the room. it was a mystery how anusia had recognised her husband without seeing him or hearing his voice, or even his footfall; but it was himself. "are you quite well?" he cried, as he caught her to his heart. "i have seen the children already!" the friends fell back reverently to leave the husband and wife to each other; but then they also pressed round him to shake hands joyfully, and the popadja hastened to light her lamp. but when taras entered the lighted apartment a heartrending shriek broke from anusia, and the friends also stood horrified. poor taras looked sadly worn--old and grey, and life's hope, as it were, crashed out of him. his powerful frame was emaciated; the sunny hair showed colourless streaks; the furrow between the brows had grown deeper still, and the eyes looked hollow in the haggard face. "you bring ill news, brother!" cried simeon, aghast. "ill news!" repeated taras. he endeavoured to smile, but failed sadly; and when the tears sprang to every eye about him, he, too, sat down and let his own trouble flow unhindered. "my poor, dear darling!" sobbed anusia, covering his head with her kisses and her tears--"come back to us a grey-haired man!" but her grief helped taras to recover himself, and now he did smile. he drew down his wife beside him, stroking her own brown hair gently. "is not that like a woman," he said, striving to appear light-hearted, "to make a fuss because the man she wedded must turn grey in his time! the glory of youth is treacherous, my dear!... but tell me about yourselves now, and about the village." "tell us about _yourself_," they cried. "we have died with anxiety these months past. where have you been all this time?" "it was not possible to come back sooner," said he. "it is a long journey to vienna, and i had to wait many a day before i could see him----" "the emperor! did you actually speak to him?" "well--yes--after a fashion! they call it having an audience," said he, with a strangely gloomy smile. "and i would not come away without an answer...." "have you got it then? the emperor's own answer?" "no; but i know what it is going to be.... however, let us wait and see. i want to know how you have been getting on--and what about friend hajek?" "he is not over-anxious to show himself," said simeon, making haste to add: "i am sure you will see that your farm meanwhile has done well. your live stock is in the best condition, and the harvest was most plentiful. your granaries are well filled, and i have eighty florins to give you for corn sold, and thirty for oats. but do tell us; did not the emperor promise to see to the matter?" "promise!" said taras bitterly, "to be sure he did!... but excuse me," he added, turning to the popadja, "i am quite faint with hunger. i was so anxious to reach home, that i put up nowhere today." the little woman blushed, and ran to produce an enormous ham, with no end of excuses for her negligence; and, trotting to and fro, she set on the table whatever of hidden treasures her larder contained. but her hospitable intent was ill-requited; taras swallowed a few mouthfuls, drank a glass of the pope's moldavian, and then pushed from him the plate which the kind hostess had filled for him in her zeal. "why, you have not eaten enough for a sparrow," expostulated the popadja. "do eat, judge--" correcting herself--"taras!" but, again blushing, she added: "why should i not call you 'judge,' for i daresay you will resume office pretty soon." "no!" he said sharply. "i shall not, and never will" "of course you will," interrupted simeon, eagerly. "you know i only accepted during your absence. i could never be to the village what you have been, and no one else could!" "i shall _not_!" repeated taras solemnly, lifting his right hand; "god knows i cannot!" they looked at him surprised; there was something in his tone which startled his friends. but anusia cried joyfully: "i am glad of it, husband. we will live for ourselves now, and be happy again. you must make haste to get back your own bright looks. you shall go hunting this winter as often as you like, it will do you good!" "yes," he said; "it will be well," adding, after a while, "and most necessary--most necessary!" "how so?" inquired the pope; "there cannot be many bears this winter, considering how you hunted them down last season." taras had opened his lips, but closed them again sharply, as though he must keep in the word that might have escaped him. and there was one of those sudden pauses of silence, burdened with unspoken thought. the popadja broke it. "now tell us all about the journey," she said. "i am sure we are all curious as to your adventures. tell us about the emperor--does he really live in a house made of gold?" "i am afraid i shall have to disappoint you," replied taras, with a smile. "his house is of brick and stone, and he himself a poor, sickly creature. and, indeed, i had no very wonderful adventures--i did not even fall in with a single sorceress, anusia, but that may have been because i did not look for any, having eyes and ears for nothing beyond the one aim of my journey. i had no peace or rest anywhere, and would have liked to take post-horses, but could not afford it. so i looked out for coaches and waggons going that way, and took to my own feet when opportunity was wanting. it is slow travelling, either way, but i fell in with other travellers, who told me their troubles, as i told them mine. it is passing strange: the earth seems fair enough, but i have not met a single being who told me he was happy. men seem to carry their burden everywhere, some more of it, some less, but there is none without sorrow; one finds that out if one goes a-travelling, folks talking to you as to a brother. and i must say, most of those i fell in with approved of my journey, one man only endeavouring to dissuade me. i had better go home again, he said. he was a jewish wine trader from czernowitz, who gave me a lift as far as lemberg. he was most friendly, and would not hear of my paying him; he listened to my story, full of sympathy, but he thought going to vienna was quite useless. 'there might be some hope,' he said, 'if these were the days of the good emperor joseph.' i, however, was not to be frightened from my purpose. 'it is not as though i wanted to petition for a favour,' i said; 'if i did i could understand that much depended on the kind of emperor we have. but i am not going to plead for anything save our right, and that he surely will grant, because it is his duty. a man must see his own duty, be he emperor or peasant.' he was silent after that, and we reached lemberg." "there, anyhow, you fell in with a happy individual," said the pope, interrupting him. "you met constantino turenko! i, at least, never knew a man to equal him in self-satisfaction." taras could not help laughing. "and yet he was not quite happy," he said, "since i found him sorely distressed for money. i had to lend him a florin. is he here?" "to be sure!" cried anusia; "what a braggart he is! why, he assured me how handsomely he stood treat for you at all the best inns of lemberg. of course i did not believe him, but the villagers somehow take his every word for gospel truth. he is quite a hero here, basking in his own glory. you should hear him--'i, a corporal of the imperial army! bassama!'"--she endeavoured to imitate the man. "he is a braggart!" "yes, his tongue wagged plentifully in my hearing also," said taras, "especially after he had borrowed my florin! but i was glad, nevertheless, to come across him. it was the first large town i had seen, and i felt lost. you have no idea of such a town, and yet lemberg is nothing compared to vienna! he would have liked to detain me; but having rested a day, i proceeded towards cracow. it was cheerless travelling now, for i could not understand the people any longer--at least not freely; the folk there have a queer way of talking, a kind of lisping it seemed to me, which does not come from the heart at all. i was silent and grew sad, feeling doubly pleased, therefore, in coming across a fellow-countryman, a 'diak'[ ] from somewhere near czortkow, who had run away from his wife because she boxed his ears rather too freely. that is what he told me. he was a mite of a fellow, and informed me he would like to seek his fortune in russia, if only he could get a little money; but i found presently he was telling me stories, and would do no more than frank him as far as cracow. that city is not austrian at all, the poles there having a little free state of their own. it was a marvel to me how a number of men could live together owning no emperor as the head of all justice; but i have come to see now----" he interrupted himself, again pressing together his lips to keep in the word he would have spoken, and continuing after a pause:--"i was going to say, it is sad to be in a strange country; and hungering for a companion i could understand, i took the little story-teller with me as far as cracow where i dismissed him." "how clever of you to see through him," cried anusia, proud of her husband's penetration. and she told him of the man's letter. "the little rascal!" said taras. "but, indeed, my two hundred florins were not such a fortune as you would have believed. things grew enormously expensive, and there was other trouble besides. i was thankful at seeing again the black and yellow posts by the road--the austrian colours. it was a poor enough country, on the polish frontier; but if the people there were to work their hands as they work their talkative jaws, i have no doubt it might be better. i got to richer districts presently; but matters did not therefore improve. i was among the moravians now, and to hear them speak sounded like a continuous quarrelling, till i perceived that their language still had some words like our own, especially such as bread, meat, and wine, things referring to eating, and the figures also--which was well. it was when i came among the germans that my heart failed me. a fine people, no doubt, with villages more flourishing than our towns, and fields and farms to rejoice a man's soul; but what a language! understanding was hopeless. i was driven to signs, moving my jaws when i was hungry and lapping with my tongue when i wanted to drink. but when i would have liked bread they brought me salad, and when i longed for a glass of water they offered me wine. however, i bore it all, anxious only to get along. towards the end of my journey i fell in with a good-natured waggoner, who was carrying woollen cloths to vienna, and he gave me a seat. he was a most kindly old man, to judge from his pleasant face; and i think he took a fancy to me, for he kept smiling and nodding as he walked by the side of his horses, i nodding back to him from my seat between the bales. by and by he climbed up beside me; but then we thought it a poor business to be nodding only, and began to talk, he in his language and i in mine, exchanging some of our tobacco between whiles in token of mutual regard. i wished sorely i could understand what he was saying. it seems hard that god should have made men with different tongues, to add to their troubles, when their life on earth is sad enough without it!" "why, it is the tower of babel which brought it on, don't you know?" broke in the popadja, blushing violently at her presumption. taras continued: "i was taken along by this good man for two days--slow travelling, for the waggon was heavily loaded. on the third morning he resumed his smiling and nodding more vigorously than ever, pointing with his whip in front of him, and saying, 'vienna, vienna!' i understood, of course, and my heart leapt within me! but i could see nothing as yet except a thick grey haze in the distance, and behind it a ridge of clouds, with domes and peaks sharply defined. i thought it strange, for the air was clear and cool, there having been a thunder-storm in the night. but as we went on, hour after hour, and the cloudy picture continued unaltered, i perceived my error. it was not clouds, but a range of mountains on the horizon. and that haze, as i discovered by and by, was nothing but the dust and vapour for ever rising heavenward from a gigantic city, like the hot breath of a monstrous dragon." the women gasped and crossed themselves. "the waggoner hurried on his horses a bit, and kept repeating 'vienna! vienna!' getting me to understand by all sorts of dumb show that he had his wife and children there--happy man! i thought of you all, and my heart sank within me at the sight of the great city where no one would understand me. but i repressed these feelings and began to look about. we were crossing a splendid stone bridge, long and wide, beneath which the river was rolling its yellow waves--that was the danube. beyond the bridge rose the first houses. they were cheerful to look at, not larger than what we can see at colomea, with pleasant gardens round about; but i knew we were in the suburbs only. 'i shall soon see the real town,' i thought, 'with the market place: and on it, i daresay, the emperor's house.' but minutes passed, and an hour had gone, and we were still driving along an interminable street with little gardens on either side, one like the other, though getting fewer, i observed, as we proceeded, while the number of human beings and of vehicles increased steadily. it was a crowd as at lemberg on market days, and there was a roar in the distance which rather puzzled me, growing louder and louder as we advanced. there were no more gardens now, and the houses were larger, some towering three, even four storeys high, with windows innumerable. i was utterly bewildered to think of all the human beings that must dwell there; and the street appeared endless, men and women jostling each other between the vehicles. and i saw that other streets opened out of this main thoroughfare, with horses and men and conveyances past counting. i clutched the bales between which i was sitting, utterly overpowered with the sight...." "ah," said anusia, sympathetically. "that street must be miles long; but we were through it at last, and there the city seemed at an end, and, not a little surprised, i saw large tracts of grass all around. at some distance i beheld a rampart, and behind it another city of houses, shining steeples, and a gigantic cupola. the crowd about us increased astonishingly, heaving in and out of the gates. it was a riddle to me, for had we not been driving through the city all along? i looked at my companion and he pointed ahead, saying 'vienna!' 'dear me,' i thought, 'then i have only come through a suburb as yet; what, then, will the town be like?' by that rampart they levy custom, and even victuals are taxed! i could not think what those green-coats were after in diving into my wallet, but they found only a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese, which they put back, laughing. "i felt more and more bewildered, and do not know how to describe to you my sensation on entering that city; it was like venturing into a bee-hive. yet this will scarcely give you an idea. imagine how it would be if all the needles in the fir-wood up yonder were suddenly changed into human beings, whirling about madly like flakes in a snowstorm! fancy if all the trees and shrubs were towering houses, closely packed, so that a ray of sunlight could scarcely get through! or how it would be if a thunder-storm were fixed for ever in the heavens above us, the booming commotion never ceasing, day and night!... but i am a fool for trying to show you by word of mouth what vienna is like; how should you conceive it who have never been there! and i cannot tell you how utterly forlorn i felt. it must have been written on my face, for the honest waggoner took hold of my hand, asking me a question. from his kindly look i seemed to understand that he inquired whether i felt ill, so i shook my head and smiled. but evidently this was not the answer he wanted; he kept repeating his question, and pointed to the houses, and at last he rested his head on my shoulder, closing his eyes and drawing his breath slowly. then i perceived that he wanted to find out where i intended to put up for the night. the thought had actually escaped me in my great bewilderment. before i knew what vienna was, i had believed the matter to be quite simple, intending to look for that mr. broza, dr. starkowski's friend, to whom i had an introduction, and no doubt he would take charge of me. but somehow i understood now that i could not well be carried all over the city in a great waggon full of bales; and as for setting out to seek the gentleman on foot by myself, i did not think that i should ever have the courage. so i shrugged my shoulders, making eyes of entreaty at my companion. he appeared to understand that i was friendless, and, having recourse to a dumb show of working his jaws, he brought home the question to me whether i desired to be taken to an eating-house. i assented, and, turning from the main thoroughfare, he drove up some quieter streets, stopping at last before an unpretentious building, which had a signboard, and on it a tree with bright green leaves. he cracked his whip, and a man appeared--a servant by the look of him, to whom my good friend explained my need. the man grinned, and, turning to me, inquired in polish whether i wished for a room. now, as for the poles, no one could love them or their language either, but i could have cried for joy on hearing the man, although he spoke but brokenly. he had been to galicia as a soldier, being himself a czech." "a fellow-countryman of our respected mandatar!" cried simeon. "yes; but with this difference, that frantisek proved himself to be honest. and when i had explained to him who i was and why i had come to vienna, he assisted me as much as he could, his first good office consisting in this, that he prevailed with his master to board and lodge me for a florin daily. why, anusia, there is no occasion to make such eyes, for it was cheap, considering i was in vienna. and he offered to show me the way to mr. broza's the following morning. 'it is too late to-day,' he said, having looked at the letter, 'for the gentleman, i see, lives in the city, and that is a long way off.' 'in the city!' i cried, aghast; 'why, what is this?' 'this is leopoldstadt, one of the suburbs,' he explained, calmly; and then i learned that the place with the interminable street we had passed before was floridsdorf. would you believe it, there are six such places forming the outer precincts of vienna, and nine regular suburbs--that is fifteen cities enclosing a city! and their inhabitants are almost beyond counting--as many, they told me, as in all the bukowina and pokutia together." "that, no doubt, was a story," interposed simeon, who was not going to be taken in. but the pope confirmed the remarkable tale. "i have read it in books," he said. "well, i leave you to conjecture what the real town was like to which frantisek took me the following morning. it is worse there at all times than on a market day at colomea or the most crowded fair; and what seemed to me most horrible, men and beasts--i mean vehicles--go jostling one another in a gloomy twilight, for the streets are so narrow and the houses so high that you have need almost to lie flat on the ground, face upward, before you can see a bit of sky or the dear light of the sun; but no one could lie down, or stand still suddenly, without being run over. even as it was, i was knocked hither and thither constantly, till frantisek took me by the arm and helped me along as though i had been a child. through numberless streets, and past st. stephen's--a church about twenty times as large as our own--he brought me to a place called the jew's square; for what reason i could not make out, for not a single caftan or curl did i see. mr. victor broza lived there in a stately house; but, dear me, the stairs i had to climb till i reached his flat! no beggar with us would thank you for rooms so toilsome of access! mr. broza's servant at first treated me superciliously; but when i had sent in my letter i was admitted at once. the man i had come to see was a fine-looking old gentleman, with silvery hair, and wearing gold spectacles. very noble he looked, but he was not at all proud. and what a comfort to me to speak in my own tongue again without being stared at as a curiosity! but when he began, though all he said was kind and reasonable and well-meaning, my joy was gone. he warned me not to rest too great hopes on the emperor. 'he is a good man, to be sure,' he said, 'and if your object were to obtain some money-help for your parish, either to build you a church or to alleviate some special distress, he no doubt would listen to you graciously. but he cannot enter into legal questions with his infirmity, poor man. his crown is a heavy burden to him as it is!' 'i do not understand that,' said i; 'if he can be gracious, how should he refuse to be just?' 'well,' said mr. broza, 'matters of law are seen to by his lawyers. that is what they are for.' 'but if they pervert the right?' 'then it is not his fault.' 'but, surely he will interfere!' 'the emperor?' 'yes; who else?' 'indeed, who else? you may well ask!' he said. 'your tale is a sad one, i grant, and if ever a case should be looked into i should say it is yours! ah, if his uncle joseph were reigning still, or even his father francis ... the more you tell me, the more i fancy yours is a case for imperial interference; but----' he stopped embarrassed. 'tell me,' i said; 'is he not able to do it?' i could hardly frame the words, and the blood ran cold at my heart. but mr. broza appeared to consider his answer, looking from the window, and saying presently: 'he is troubled with headaches; he is fond of working at his lathe, and he makes little boxes of cardboard.' i stared, open-mouthed, mr. broza adding: 'why should he not, poor man; it is an innocent pastime, and helps him to get through his days....' after that i could not well disbelieve it." "but he is the emperor! how is it possible?" cried simeon and the women. taras smiled bitterly. "how is it possible?" he repeated. "i also asked this question, and many another besides, till good mr. broza looked aghast at me, and spoke soothingly. 'i understand your feelings,' he said, passing his hand over my hair as though he were trying to calm an excited child. 'you are a fine fellow, taras, but i daresay the world looks different to you at zulawce from what it really is.' 'may be, much honoured sir,' i said; 'but i am sure of this, that human beings should act differently to one another than the wild beasts of the welyki lys, of which the stronger will always devour the weaker. every man must see this, be he a poor peasant of zulawce only, or the emperor at vienna.' 'he does see it, no doubt,' cried mr. broza, 'and he is always kind. but he can hardly know about every case of individual trouble, can he?' 'no, but that is the very reason why i want to tell him my own sorrow myself.' 'but he would not understand you, you only speak the ruthenese!' that was a blow! i had refused to believe dr. starkowski, and here was mr. broza telling me the same thing! 'a father unable to understand his children,' i said; 'it does seem strange; but i daresay he knows polish?' 'i am sorry to say he does not; he was weakly from a child, and his studies had to be curtailed.' 'then, does he understand czechish?' 'yes, that he knows.' 'that will do, then,' i said joyfully, 'i managed to get along with frantisek, so i daresay i shall with the emperor.' but that was not by any means the end of difficulties. 'i must warn you,' said mr. broza, 'he gives audience but rarely, the petitions mostly are received by one of his cousins or generals.' that was another blow, but i recovered it quickly, saying: 'well, then, i shall just keep calling at his house till i _can_ see him.' mr. broza at this broke into a smile. 'do you think you can go to the castle as you would to the house of your parish priest? there is a time set apart for audience once a week, though they are not very regular about it, and in order to be received at all you must first apply for admission in writing!' 'and i could come every week then, till i saw the emperor in person?' 'dear me, what obstinacy! what is the use of your spending your time and money here on such a chance? give me your memorial, and i will take care to have it presented.' 'sir,' i cried, 'i thank you; i see you mean well by me, but you cannot possibly know how much there is at stake. i must see the emperor myself.' and this i maintained in spite of all his reasoning. but he, good man, took no offence; on the contrary, he promised to obtain admission for me at the very next audience. he wanted to know my address, but i did not even know it myself, so frantisek had to be called to give the name of the inn. mr. broza wrote it in a little book, promising i should hear. but i wanted to have some idea how soon i might hope to see the emperor. 'i cannot tell,' he said; 'it may be some days, it may be weeks hence.' i left him sadly...." "well, i should not have waited like that," cried anusia, hotly; "surely the emperor goes for an airing once a day like any other christian! i should have waited outside his house till i caught sight of him, and, going up to him, i should have asked his leave politely to walk beside him a bit, and then i would have told him the whole story. that would have been my plan!" "and a very stupid one," said taras, smiling grimly, "though you are my wife. nor should i blame you, since that same stupidity was mine till i knew better. my heart quaked at the long prospect of waiting, and i knew from sad experience that it was no use to look for much in answer to writing. i said to frantisek, therefore, 'do show me the house of the emperor,' and he went out with me the following afternoon. once more we went far into the town, past the great church, and through endless noisy streets, till at last we stood before a large building. 'this is it,' he said. 'nonsense!' i cried; 'why there is not a bit of gold about it anywhere that i can see!' he, however, insisted it was the emperor's house. when i saw he was in earnest, i looked at the place closely; it was large, but not otherwise imposing, and quite blackened with smoke. 'i'd go in for some house-painting, at any rate, if i were the emperor; surely he can afford it,' i said to myself, adding aloud to frantisek, 'well, then, show me where the emperor lives!' whereupon he took me round a square surrounded with tall buildings, and through a gateway into another square, also overlooked by high houses, with sentries on duty at every corner. 'all this is the emperor's,' he said; 'here he lives with his relations and a great many attendants.' imagine my surprise. but then i said, 'i cannot but think that he sleeps in one room and feeds in another--so please point out to me where _he_ lives.' frantisek now appeared to understand, and took me to an open place, in the centre of which rose an equestrian statue in cast-iron; and he showed me a row of windows. 'very well,' i said; 'now let us take our stand by that entrance door.' 'what for?' said he. 'to watch for the emperor when he goes abroad.' 'you innocent!' he cried, laughing; 'don't you know that the emperor never walks out? you may see his carriage, if you are lucky, bursting from the inner court, and dashing through the town as far as a copse on the banks of the river, returning thence at the same quick pace.' he had hardly done speaking when there was a deafening roar, quite startling me. it was the sentry calling out the guard frantically. 'look! look!' cried frantisek, 'they are presenting--it's the emperor returning from his drive!' and while he yet spoke a closed carriage with six horses swept past us and disappeared in the inner court. but for all their fast driving i could see who sat inside--two officers, the elder of them in a plain grey coat, and the younger wearing a whole array of stars and ribands on his breast. 'that will be him!' i thought, but i heard frantisek say: 'poor emperor, to think of his wrapping up in his cloak at this season like an old man in the depth of winter--they say he is always shivering with cold!'" "i could not doubt that he knew, having lived at vienna these five years, and i went home sadder still; for he who was wrapt in his cloak looked weary and worn." "and was that really the emperor?" inquired the popadja. "it was; but it was long before i could see him close. for a whole week i waited for a message from mr. broza, but nothing reached me. ah, friends, those were grievous days! i sat for hours in the dull little damp room they had assigned to me, staring at the wall. i had composed such a beautiful speech on my journey, and had learnt it by heart, to address the emperor, but all that was useless now since he knew not the ruthenese; so i put together a few words which might serve my purpose. but perhaps he could not even understand that much, and all would be useless and things must go as they would!... frantisek, i saw, pitied me, for he would give me every spare moment of his time, hoping to cheer me; but how should he have succeeded? although he did his best, taking me all about the great city to divert my thoughts. it was but little pleasure to me, for the noise and bustle was dreadful, and the people stared because of my dress; there was quite a crowd sometimes following me, full of laughter and ill-disguised wonder, as though i were some monstrosity of a bullock. i soon grew tired of sight-seeing, and preferred my own little room, where at least i was unmolested." "did mr. broza forget his promise?" cried simeon. "by no means; he was doing his very best. he told me so when, at the end of a week, i ventured to call again, and i am sure he spoke the truth. 'your name is down,' he said, 'you will be admitted to the next audience, but the day is not yet fixed. next week, let us hope!' i continued waiting, growing more heavy-hearted day after day. and then i had even money cares to face! a hundred florins i had spent on my journey, and there was a florin a day of present expenses; how, then, should i return home if i must use up my little hoard waiting and waiting? i began to blame myself for not having followed your advice, and dr. starkowski's; and yet, god knows, i had not come to vienna to please myself. i could not have acted differently. was it not for the sake of all that is most sacred--my honour, and the good of my soul? was it not----" he stopped short, having caught a look from the pope's eye, searching his face intently. "well then," he continued, "i went on waiting ten weary days, when at last mr. broza sent his servant, announcing that the next audience stood fixed for the following tuesday week; that was yet twelve days, but i breathed more freely, knowing the day now when the uncertainty must end. thus humble a man becomes who is being taught by disappointment. i counted the days and hours, and on the sunday previous to the longed-for audience i went to mr. broza, begging him to tell me how i was to behave. 'you mean in the emperor's presence?' said he. 'why, yes,' said i. 'but did i not tell you that although there be an audience you must not count on seeing the emperor himself? the petitions, most likely, will be received in his name by one of the princes.' i had to sit down, for the room went round with me, and it was some time before i could answer. 'you did tell me, sir,' i said, when i was able to speak; 'but i fully trusted the emperor would be receiving in person this once at any rate; why but for this should i have been kept waiting so long?' but mr. broza shrugged his shoulders. 'let us hope so,' he said; 'but if you do not see him, be sure and hand your petition to the archduke--he probably will hold the audience. your conscience may be at ease, for you have done your duty to the utmost--better, i daresay, than any other village judge in austria.' 'thank you,' i said; 'but i can do no such thing. i shall give my petition into no hand but the emperor's own. and if he does not appear this tuesday, i must wait for another audience, and another, till i see him.' 'but, man, will you not listen to reason? who is to procure you a standing admission? such a thing was never heard of!' 'if it is really impossible,' i replied--'and of course i believe you, for you have acted honestly by me--if it is impossible, i shall know what to do.' 'and what may that be?' 'i shall throw myself into the way of his carriage when he drives out. if his coachman is able to pull up in time, i shall then present my petition; if the horses go over me, then it will have been my fate.' he looked at me aghast. 'and you would do that?' 'certainly.' 'well,' he said, 'there is no saying what one of you peasants is capable of in fighting for his right.' presently he added, 'i shall have you conveyed to the castle on tuesday, and fetched away again. you must come to me directly after the audience, directly--do you hear?' i promised; but my mind was made up." "taras," cried anusia, "how could you have such thoughts!" his eyes burned darkly, and he shook the grief-streaked hair from off his forehead. "i may have had worse thoughts," he murmured; but the others hardly understood him. he paused, and went on quietly: "well, then, the audience. i dressed for it quite early, as a bridegroom on his wedding day, putting on my top boots, and the long brown tunic with the leather belt, and over it my best sheepskin--all white, the one with the broidered facings, you know, anusia. it was rather hot for fur, suggested frantisek, who had made my boots shine like a mirror, anxious to do his part; but i knew what was due to the emperor, and took my fur cap of lambskin as well. the people stared worse than ever when, thus arrayed, i walked from the house to the open carriage kind mr. broza had sent for me, and as i drove along folk everywhere stood open-mouthed. i did not much care, for i knew by this time that the viennese, whatever they may be besides, are the most curious people under the sun. we reached the castle, and stopped by the entrance opposite the iron statue. a lackey helped me to dismount, bowing to the ground. i knew that the rascal meant it for mockery, and took no notice. at the top of the stair two red-coated halberdiers pretended to start at the sight of me; but i showed my order for admittance, whereupon they directed me to a door opposite. i opened it, and came upon some more lackeys, who affected the same amazement. one of them tried to take from me my stick of carved oak; but i did not part with it. they laughed and pointed me to another door. "i had reached the audience chamber at last: a long, spacious hall, all white and gold, and full of looking-glasses as tall as a man. i should never have believed such splendour possible--it was dazzling. some fifty petitioners were assembled there already--old and young, men and women, soldiers and civilians, priests and laymen--some looking anxious and some hopeful. one thing we had in common--we all carried memorials in our hands; but for the rest of it every age was represented, every station of life, and, perhaps, every people of this great austria. there was a poor tattered gipsy, and beside him a comfortable-looking lady in a silk dress; an old gentleman in threadbare garments, and a young handsome officer wearing the emperor's uniform; a jew in his black caftan, a sleek catholic priest, and many others. they moved about whispering, and behind them stood motionless some of the red-coated halberdiers. i could not but groan at the sight of so many seeking redress. 'alas!' i sighed, 'it would take the emperor half-a-day to listen to them all; and of course he cannot do that, weak and sickly as he is,' yet there was some comfort, too, in there being so many. some of these people, no doubt, had come a long way, as i had, spending their money for the hope that brought them; and surely, i thought, they would not do it if the emperor were not known to help readily. and it comforted my weary heart that rich and poor stood there side by side, all waiting for redress. 'we are all alike in the sight of god,' i thought, 'and so we are in the emperor's, who is his viceroy upon earth--how, then, should he not uphold the right?' this cheered me; i looked up boldly, gazing at the people as they gazed at me. "we were directed to stand in a half-circle, a man in a green dress-coat assigning to each his place; and i perceived that there were degrees of dignity. i stood at the lower end, furthest from the entrance we were facing, together with two other peasants, by the look of them, also wearing their national costume. the one was rather stout, his dress consisting of light blue breeches, a tight-fitting jerkin, and a cloth cap with a plume; the other, tall and gaunt, wore baggy red trousers, and a long yellowish jacket, holding in his hands a felt hat with a high pointed crown. we had to wait a long time, and i did as the others did, endeavouring to draw my neighbours into conversation. they answered civilly, each in his own tongue, neither of us understanding the other. that was disappointing; but i thought i would at least find out their nationality, and that by the only means i could think of. you know that our soldiers, if they bring home nothing else, return to us with a sad habit of swearing, picking up the country's oaths wherever they go. 'psie sobaczy!' i said; but there was no response. so my friends could not be of the slavonic race. 'kreuzelement donnerwetter!' they never moved; so they were not german. 'bassama teremtete!' upon this my stout neighbour in the tight breeches gave a jump, jabbering away at me delightedly; that settled it, he was a hungarian! but now for the other one in the yellow jacket. 'merge le dracul!' no response; he could not be a roumanian then. i was nearly exhausted, but luckily remembered one more chance. 'corpo di bacco!' i cried, at which he also flew at me, embracing me wildly--an italian! but i wished i had been less curious; for they went on talking at me eagerly, to the great amusement of all the company, and i could only nod my head, keeping on with 'corpo di bacco!' and 'bassama teremtete!' but why tell you all this nonsense?--there was a hush of silence suddenly, for the great entrance door had opened." taras paused, evidently not in order to impress his hearers, but because he was himself overcome with the recollection of that moment. "the emperor!" cried anusia, with a gasp. he shook his head. "there appeared in the doorway," he continued quietly, but with a tremor in his voice, "a man in the uniform of a general, rather short and white-haired, and some officers of different regiments behind him. my heart all but stood still and sight failed me--i think i should have fallen but for the steadying arm of the hungarian. it was _not_ the emperor; for although i had had but a passing glimpse of him, i knew his features from a portrait of his at the inn where i was lodging. that little white-haired general with the pouting under-lip--though he looked right pleasant otherwise--was a relation of his no doubt, being like him in feature; but it was not the emperor! ah, beloved! i cannot tell you what disappointment surged up within me, i could not put it in words if i tried for ever! i looked on, half stunned, watching him as he received the memorials. with most of the petitioners he could speak in their own tongue, and if there was one he was unable to understand, one or other of the officers acted as interpreter; but with no individual case was he occupied longer than about a minute, passing on with a gracious word. some looked relieved, some rather woebegone, as they made their exit, a lackey directing them to a side door. i watched it all through a haze as it were, and perceived that at that rate my turn would be in about an hour's time, counting from his beginning at the other end of the half-circle. i tried to collect my thoughts, but think as i would nothing could alter the resolution with which i had come--to plead with the emperor and not with his representative. and with a beating heart, but firm of purpose, i watched the prince's approach." "ye saints!" gasped the popadja, and anusia crossed herself. "at last he stood before me! i bowed low, he nodded and put out his hand for my petition. but i bowed lower still, saying: 'all powerful and gracious mr. prince! i know who you are, and that you are here for the emperor; but to him only can i make my request.' he looked at me surprised, and turned for an interpreter. one of the officers, a captain, with ash-coloured facings, being of the duke of parma's regiment, which i knew was drawn from podolia, stepped up, translating what i said. 'peasant,' added the officer thereupon, turning to me with a kindly face, 'the emperor is not to be seen, but it will be all right if you hand your petition to this gentleman, who is the emperor's uncle, his most serene highness the archduke ludwig.' again i bowed, saying, 'have the goodness to translate this to the prince. he who stands before you is taras barabola, peasant and landowner, lately judge of zulawce, sometime a happy man, but now despairing. he may be nobody in the eyes of the great ones, but he is a human being in the sight of god, and therefore of his viceroy, the emperor. he is here praying for his right, thirsting for it as the hart panteth after the waterbrooks. you, sir, are a fellow-countryman of ours, have pity on me and tell him this, word for word.' and the officer turned to the prince, interpreting my speech; whereupon the latter looked at me searchingly, putting a question. 'what is your trouble?' translated the officer. 'robbery of the parish field,' i replied, adding, 'tell him it is not merely a question of earthly justice, but that the future welfare of a soul is at stake. he is an old man i see, and will soon himself stand at the judgment bar of god; beg him, as he would desire the almighty to be merciful to him, to obtain for me an audience with the emperor.' 'my good man,' replied the captain, 'i am a podolian myself and have grown up among peasants, being the son of a village priest, so you may believe that i wish you well; but i am not going to translate this speech of yours literally, or this is not the way to address a prince!' 'but you must!' i urged. 'it were taking an awful responsibility on your soul if you refused me; and see, the prince appears to expect it!' so he had to translate it, and never a feature changed in the archduke's face, but his eyes were fixed on me piercingly. i did not quake--why should i?--but gazed at him fearlessly, my conscience not reproaching me any way. turning to the captain presently, he spoke a single word. 'wait!' translated the officer. and the archduke went on, taking the rest of the petitions and passing from the hall; whereupon the captain came up to me, saying, 'follow me; the archduke wishes to hear your story.'" "what rare good fortune!" cried father leo. "yes; i suppose so," assented taras. "we went along a corridor, and up and down some stairs, till we reached the archduke's room. it was a simple apartment, full of books, and not in any way more princely than mr. broza's. he was sitting at a table covered with papers. we were ushered into his presence, i telling my tale and the captain translating. the archduke's countenance remained as immovable as before; no matter what i was saying his eyes only showed his interest. he put a question or two: how we lived in the village, whether we reared cattle and such like. by and by he addressed a few words to the officer, who then led me away. 'well?' i said, trembling with hope and fear, when the door had closed behind us. 'your wish is granted,' replied he. 'be by the iron statue yonder at four to-morrow afternoon, where i shall join you to act as your interpreter with the emperor. "why the man is of another planet," the archduke said to me, "his confidence must not be shamed!" and he thinks the emperor will like to see you, and that your podolian garb will amuse him. he wishes you, therefore, to come in these same clothes to-morrow, and if you have anything in the way of weapons belonging to your dress to add it likewise.' 'for god's sake, captain,' i cried; 'i am coming to plead for the right, and not to show my clothes!' 'yes, yes,' he said; 'but do as you are told,' adding kindly, 'you may thank your stars for this chance; and even if to-morrow's audience will avail you nothing, you may find it useful to have obtained the archduke's interest.' 'i cannot understand that!' i cried. 'well, and i could scarcely explain it to you,' said he, with a smile; 'but it _is_ so.' and so said mr. broza, to whom i now went as i had promised; so also said the innkeeper, to whom, with the aid of frantisek, i had to give a minute account. they all agreed that i was fortunate." "why, a child could understand that," interposed simeon. "the emperor, no doubt, values his old uncle's opinion." "may be," said taras, with a painful smile; "but they did not take it in that way, as i came to understand the following afternoon. you may imagine that i arrived by the iron statue a good while before the appointed time--it is a figure of the good emperor joseph. the officer walked up to me by the stroke of four, conducting me through the inner court to a splendid marble staircase, and through many passages to a door blazing with gold and guarded by some of the redcoated halberdiers. we passed a large ante-room, and entered a smaller one, where we were told to wait. the chamberlain in attendance, who looked vastly stupid, kept watching me with furtive sneers, but i did not care; my heart felt more solemnly uplifted than if i had been in a church. there was the sound of a little bell presently; the chamberlain glided in, and returning, he beckoned us to enter." taras paused and drew a breath. "i think," he continued, slowly, "the look of that room, and of the two gentlemen in it, will be present with me to my dying hour: it was a large, splendid apartment, darkened with curtains, which left a half-light only, shutting out the sun; and at the table sat two officers--generals by their uniform. the one was that same old ludwig, and in the other i recognised, when he rose, the emperor! a feeble-bodied man of middle height, slightly stooping, with a good-natured face and blue eyes. he motioned me to come nearer, but i took a few steps only, and fell on my knees, holding up my petition. oh! i did not kneel merely because it might be the custom, but urged by my own deepest need. for at that moment all the trouble i had battled with for months past surged up within me, and, do what i would, the tears rose from my heart...." "and he?" cried anusia. "he came close to me, seemingly concerned at my emotion. taking the petition i held out to him, he gave it to the archduke, and then he addressed a few hasty words to me. 'he tells you to rise and dry your tears,' the captain whispered to me. but i remained on my knees, not to move his feelings, but simply because it was the natural position for mine. 'thou emperor,' i cried, 'have pity on me!' he plainly did not know what to say, and putting his hand into his pocket, drew forth a ducat, which he offered to me. 'i want no money; i want justice,' i cried. the archduke stepped up now, whispering a few words to the emperor, and then told the captain i was to rise, and that the emperor would be sure to examine into my case carefully. i obeyed with an effort, but then i begged the captain to say that i would not hold myself assured till i had the emperor's promise from his own lips. 'i cannot say that,' whispered the captain, alarmed; 'it would be most rude to the archduke.' whereupon i repeated the words myself, looking intently in the emperor's face. now the captain was obliged to translate, and thereupon the emperor nodded to me, but burst out laughing at the same time, as though it were quite a joke. i am sure he did not mean to hurt me, for he looked kindness itself, and would not kill a fly if it annoyed him, but his laughter cut me to the heart; i keep hearing it still in my dreams.... no doubt the anguish of my soul was written in my face, but he took no notice. he walked round me, examining me curiously, and putting several questions--who had embroidered this fur of mine? whether i had many furs like that? and several pairs of these boots? did i polish them myself? and so forth. i answered his inquiries, but good god! they stunned my heart.... i think i would have given my life for his asking me a single question which did not refer to my clothes. but not he! and i daresay my fur and my boots would have interested him awhile yet, had not the archduke again whispered some words to him. he left off questioning, and smiled at me once more with his good-natured smile, again offering me his ducat--not as a charity, as the captain had to tell me, but in memory of having seen him. thereupon, i took it--this is it, bearing his likeness." he drew the coin from his belt. they all were anxious to see it, and agreed that the emperor had a pleasant, good-natured face. "and now you were ready to start for home?" they said. "oh, no," said taras, with a sigh; "for though my object was accomplished, my heart was no wise at ease. i wanted to wait for the emperor's answer. my petition prayed for a re-examination of the witnesses, and thus much the emperor might command on the spot, i thought. mr. broza tried to dissuade me--it might be months before i should hear, he said, and it would be a waste of time and money. but i clung to my desire, entreating him till he pitied my distress and promised to inquire at the imperial chancery whether the emperor's decision had been received. it was a week after the private audience. the reply was hopeless--not even the petition itself had as yet been filed. 'i must look up that uncle ludwig,' i cried in my despair, and had some trouble in finding the captain who had acted as my interpreter--his name is eugene stanczuk, and his home is at kossow, a few miles from ridowa. i wanted him to take me once more to the emperor's uncle. 'that is quite impossible,' he said, 'and moreover the archduke has departed for his residence in styria; he will not return here for months.' when i heard this i knew that further waiting was vain. i strapped my bundle--honest frantisek brushing my boots for the last time sadly, and i went to mr. broza to thank him for all his kindness and--should he trust me--to borrow some money of him, for i had only ten florins left. 'that shall not trouble you,' he said, counting out a hundred florins to me without even a witness, as though i were his brother. 'let us hope for a favourable answer in time,' he added, 'but if i have any claim on your gratitude, as you say, promise me one thing--do not let it break your heart if it turns out a denial!' much as i owed him, this was more than i could promise; i had gone to vienna with a hopeful mind, and was coming away now broken-hearted." he ceased, the sadness gathering in his face. "i do not see that!" cried father leo, "there is every room for hope since you have the emperor's own promise!" "have _you_ seen him?" said taras, rising. "have you been to vienna? you have heard my tale, but you have not been there to see!... it is getting late--it must be near midnight. kind thanks to you, friends. come, wife, let us be gone!" chapter viii. despair. the days followed one another, and winter was at hand; taras, in silence, had taken up the old, changeless village life. he found plenty to do on his own farm in spite of the care bestowed upon it by simeon during his absence; and, labouring with his men, the most diligent of them all, he could forget at times that one thought which kept burrowing in his brain. but for other reasons, too, it was well he was thoroughly occupied, for intercourse with the villagers could have comforted him little. ill-humour against him had risen to its height, since his journey to vienna also had proved a fruitless errand. he had but two friends left besides the priest--his former colleagues, simeon and alexa. the others either openly hated him, or treated him with unkind pity as the fallen village king. as for his re-election to the judgeship, it was not so much as thought of. simeon, true to his word, had resigned his vicarious honours at all saints', rather expecting, however, the public confidence would turn to him; yet not even he was elected, but a certain jewgeni turenko. the man thus chosen was a harmless individual, rather poor, who never could have aspired to such luck had the freaks of fortune not singled out his younger brother, constantine, lifting him to the giddy height of a corporal in the imperial army. it had never been dreamt of in the village, that any peasant lad of theirs could be more than a private, and now this hero of zulawce had actually returned as a corporal, a live corporal, sporting the two white stars on his crimson collar. all the village felt itself honoured in this favoured soldier, entertaining the wildest hopes for his future. he has two years of service yet to come, they said; who knows but that he may be a sergeant before he has done? the young hero was ready enough to avail himself of the good opinions thus showered upon him. by his own account, he was one of the bravest of the brave, and as he could scarcely invent a great war as a background to his exploits, he devised some minor fancies, laying the scene in rebellious lombardy--"corpo di bacco! where the heat of the weather is such that an ox in the fields is roasted alive in two hours." how could the good people of zulawce have thought little of a man who, in such a temperature, had saved a province to the emperor? and more especially, how should their womankind not have admired a soldier who, to say nothing of his splendid moustache, had by his own showing been proof against the allurements of the very countesses in those parts--"devilishly handsome creatures, to be sure, but with the enemy's females i have nothing to do!" it was a fact, then, that within a few weeks, constantine turenko had the upper hand in the village; and as he could not be judge himself, being only on furlough, he managed that his brother jewgeni should be elected, while two other friends of his, equally humble as regarded their wealth and wit, were chosen as elders. thus aristocracy was laid low, the middle class rising. taras had not striven against it; he had voted for simeon, but for the rest he let matters take their course. "the beggars will be the ruin of the village!" cried anusia, in whom the pride of blood was strong. "it is atrocious that men like my uncle stephen, and you, and simeon, should be succeeded by the rabble!" but taras took it quietly. "they are making their own bed," he said, "let them try it!" "i wish you would not pretend such callousness," exclaimed anusia, "there is no one who loves the village better than you do!" "perhaps not," said he, "but i cannot alter the state of things; besides, i have other cares now." "cares? what are they?" she cried. "is not the farm as flourishing as ever?" to this he had no answer. he did his work in those days with diligence and perseverance, as though he were not the richest peasant in the village, but a poor labourer merely, who had to gain his next day's bread. and whereas formerly he had always been guided by his own opinion, he would consult his wife's now, soliciting her advice. anusia felt proud at this mark of confidence, till she discovered that he desired to hear her views in order to correct them. and as the question mostly referred to matters concerning which, capable as she was, she knew nothing, since, by the nature of them, they rather belonged to the husband's sphere, she lost patience at last. "what have i to do with assessments and taxes?" she exclaimed. "you must get to know about them," he replied, gently. "but why? is it not enough that you should know?" "yes, now; but the time may come when you will have to do without me." these words did not frighten her, appearing too ludicrous. a strong, healthy man, not forty years old--how should she take alarm? "you croaker!" she said, "we'll think about that fifty years hence." "it is all as god may will," returned he solemnly; adding, "do it to please me." "well, if it tends to your happiness, certainly," she said, good-naturedly, and did her best to understand what he explained to her concerning the taxes and imposts. in the presence of his friend, the village priest, taras never let fall such hints, meeting the good pope, on the contrary, with great reserve. but father leo took no umbrage, redoubling his affection for the saddened man, and doing all in his power to counteract the low spirits to which evidently he was a prey. he even proposed to teach him reading and writing. "it is useful anyhow," he said, "and you could amuse yourself with entertaining books." but taras declined. "it is no use to me now," he said, "and will be still less presently. besides, that which would rejoice my heart is not written in your books. nor have i the needful leisure; these are busy days on the farm, and after epiphany i mean to go hunting. i shall be gone a good while i think." "do, by all means," said good father leo approvingly, "it will cheer you. and there is the general hunt before christmas. you will not miss that." "i shall not take part," replied taras, quietly, "even if they ask me, which i do not expect." "not ask you!" said father leo. "you the best bear-hunter born!" but events proved that taras had judged right. constantine objected to his presence, so the people did without him. that warrior had contracted a real hatred of taras for various reasons, mostly foolish, but in part spiteful. to begin with, the dethroned judge was the natural leader of the more wealthy of the community, which was bad; he was an "enemy of the emperor," and that was worse; worse still, the community had suffered loss "through him, and him alone;" the worst of all being that constantine still owed a certain florin to "this bastard who had sneaked his way into the affections of an heiress." anusia felt it a personal insult, shedding passionate tears when the hunting party passed the farm; but taras did not move a feature, continuing quietly to fill the sacks of corn that were to be sold. one thing, however, he did when the last sound of the noisy party had died away. he entered the common sitting-room, calling upon his eldest boy wassilj. "my child," he said, "you are eight years old, and our little father leo is instructing you well--do you know what an oath is?" "yes," said the little boy. "and you understand what is being a judge?" "yes, it is what you were!" "well then, lift up your right hand and swear to me that never in your life you will offer yourself for the judgeship, nor accept it if they ask you. will you do that, and never forget?" "i will, and will not forget it," cried the little boy, earnestly lifting up his childish hand. and taras kissed him and returned to his work. but father leo, on learning of the new insult offered to his friend, expressed his hearty sympathy. "there is no need to trouble about it," said taras; "you see i am quiet." "and so you have every right to be!" cried the pope, warmly. "have you not always done your duty, ay, and a great deal more! if sorrow is your part now, you can accept it with a strong heart, as of god himself. he has been gracious to you, bringing you to this village and blessing you abundantly; and if he now chastises you, it surely is for your good in the end. the ways of god sometimes are dark." taras shook his head. "i don't believe that," he said, curtly. "not believe in god?" cried the honest pope, aghast. "i do believe in him," said taras, solemnly, "and i believe that he is all just, but that he brought me into this village, and that all this bitter grief has come upon me by his will, i do not believe. for if he guided every step and action of ours, if our fate were all his doing, no wrong could be done on earth. nor does he, and we are not mere puppets in his hand!" "puppets! what an expression!" cried the pope, rather perplexed and therefore doubly vehement. "nay, we are his children!" taras nodded. "his children, yes," he said; "if we may use an earthly simile to describe our relation to him, that is the word. but what does it mean? we owe to our natural parents life and the training they give us; beyond this they cannot influence us; and so some of us are good, some are bad, some are happy, and some unhappy, whereas every one surely would be good and happy if the will of our parents could bring it about. and it seems to me we stand in a similar relation to him above. he has made this world and the men that live therein, revealing to them his will: '_be righteous!_' he does give us a training by the very fact that the circumstances of our birth and childhood are as he wills them. but what we make of it, and what steps we take in life, that plainly is our doing. i own that we cannot go to the right or to the left in unbiassed liberty, for we choose according to our nature, following our heart and mind, such as they have become." "i do not seem to understand," owned the pope, hesitatingly; "but it would appear you believe in a blind sort of predestined fate, like any old crone of the village." "no," cried taras, sharply. "let me try and explain. during the years of my happiness, when blessings were about me, full and rich, like the summer sun ripening the harvest, with no shadowing cloud overhead, i did believe the goodness of god had thus ordered my day, and in my heart i thanked him. but when darkness overtook me with sorrow unspeakable, i grew sore at heart and hopeless as the lonely wanderer in the storm-tossed wilderness, seeking for shelter in the driving snow, and not a star to guide him in the night; before him and behind no voice but that of howling wolves.... no, said i, _this_ is not the will of god; it is fate! let me go the way that is destined--happiness and blessings were to be, and the misery is to be, and the end is not mine to choose! of what avail that i should strive thus wearily, seeking the path in darkness and battling to escape the wolves, since it is destined that either i be victorious, or fall their helpless prey? it was foolish, nay, maddening, while i thought so, but now i see differently: nothing is predestined, our fate is here and here"--he pointed to his head and heart--"our virtues and vices are our guides in life, and besides this there is but one guidance to those that will listen to it, that all-encompassing will of god--'thou child of man, act righteously!' that is it." "this is not a faith i can hold," said the pope, "but i am glad, at least, that you do not believe either in a blind fate or in mere chance. for my part," he added, solemnly, "i shall always believe in the overruling of a divine providence that numbers the very hairs of our head." "that faith has been taken from me," replied taras. "his heaping sorrow upon sorrow on me could be compensated for in the world to come; but i see the right trampled under foot, and the wrong victorious, and this cannot be by the dispensation of god. no; it is just the outcome of the folly or the wickedness of man. as to chance, i certainly believe in it--who could live on this earth for well-nigh forty years and deny it, having eyes to see! there surely is such a thing as chance. have you forgotten what i told you as to my coming hither, or do you think it was god's special providence to let that sunday morning be fine? did he order his sun to shine, merely that a poor man, taras barabola, should become head servant of iwan woronka's at zulawce, and not of that priest to whom i might have gone? is it not sheer presumption to suggest as much? i say, there is a chance, but it does not make a plaything of us, we rather play with it, making it subservient to our destiny. the bright sunshine that sunday morning certainly brought me hither; but do you think it made me the husband of anusia, or brought about my becoming the people's judge? do i owe to that sunshine the good that has come to me since, and the great load of evil? surely not, that was all my own doing, and nothing else. chance, then, is nothing; but what we make of it can be little or much." he drew himself up, looking proudly at the pope. "and this," he cried, "must explain my every act hitherto, and my future actions. if i could believe that providence has mapped out my fate, i would follow blindly. could i believe in chance or destiny, i should abide quietly what further they will make of me. but i believe no such thing--i hold that every man must follow the voice within, ay, the voice of god speaking to him in the highest law: 'be righteous! do no wrong, and permit no wrong!' and these two commandments, equally sacred, i will obey while life is mine!" he turned abruptly and went away. christmas had come. it is not a day of the children in the carpathians; they have no presents given them, and the christmas-tree is unknown; the one thing marking it out from other days being a certain dish of millet, poppy seed and honey, with mead as a beverage. in taras's family, too, the day hitherto had thus been kept; but now he sent one of his men to zablotow, ordering him to get various little presents for his own children and those of father leo. "it is a way they have at vienna," he said to his wife; "it seems a pleasant custom. and i would wish that the children should remember this christmas day." "why so, what is there about it?" "well, for one thing, i have been away so long this year," said he hastily, turning to some occupation. christmas over, he had two large sledges laden with corn, taking them with his servant, jemilian, to the new year's market at colomea, as was his habit. but on the second of january the man returned alone. "the master has business with the lawyer," he said; "he will be home in three days." anusia grew frightened, and ran to her friend, the popadja. "he is not going to come back," she wailed. "now i understand his strange speeches, and why he insisted on making presents to the children that they should remember this christmas. it was his way of taking leave of them!" but the pope reproved her. "if you do not know your husband better than this," he said; "i, at least, know my friend. it grieves me, to be sure, that he should re-open matters with the lawyer. but he has sent you a truthful message, there is no doubt about that." nor was he mistaken. taras returned even sooner, on the second day. "i guessed as much," said he, when anusia clasped him, sobbing passionately; "you took alarm because i had business with the lawyer; so i made what haste i could and travelled through the night." "but what is it?" she asked. he drew a little packet from his belt, unfolding it carefully, and producing a large sheet of paper. "the emperor's decision!" she cried, exultingly; "there is an eagle upon it!" at which he laughed bitterly. "no, my dear. that eagle merely shows the government stamp for which i paid five florins. the decision, that is, the refusal of my petition, need not be looked for for months. what need of hurry is there concerning a mere peasant!" but suddenly growing serious, he said: "listen, my wife! this paper affirms that i have made over all i possess to the children, but to be yours while you live. i have kept back nothing for myself, except some money and my guns." "wherefore?" she cried, trembling, "what can be the meaning of it?" "because--because--" he hesitated, the honest man could ill prevaricate--"because i might be fined heavily for the lawsuit...." "it is an untruth!" she exclaimed. "you think of taking away your life!" "no, indeed," he asserted with a solemn oath. but she could not take comfort, despatching little wassilj with a message to the pope. father leo came at once, expressing unfeigned wonder on being shown the document. "why, it's a deed of gift, in due form and legally attested. but what for, my friend; what for?" "you must not ask me." the pope looked at him; his gloomy face wore an expression of unbendable resolve. and father leo, thereupon, was silent, knowing it would be useless to inquire. after awhile, however, he began again: "i will not press you, taras; but tell me one thing: did you inform dr. starkowski of your reasons?" "no," replied taras. "and that was why he refused to make out the deed. 'i require to know your intention,' he said. but fortunately there is another solicitor at colomea now--a young man who did not trouble about my reasons." "fortunately?" echoed the pope, with marked emphasis. "yes, fortunately," returned taras, equally pointedly. "i have fully considered it." again the pope was silent; and then he spoke of everyday subjects in order to inquire presently with all the indifference he could command. "and what are your plans for the present?" "i have told you some time ago," said taras. "to-morrow is epiphany; after to-morrow i shall start for a several weeks' hunting." "not by yourself?" "oh, no. i shall have wassilj soklewicz with me, and my two men, jemilian and sefko--that is, if i may take them, anusia," he added, with a smile, "for you are mistress now." "do not jest," she said. "i am well content you should take them. there is little to be done on the farm now, and they are faithful souls. but i hope you will let the two boys and simeon go with you as well, they are just longing for it." "no," said taras, "that is impossible." nor did he alter his mind when, the following day, hritzko and giorgi pleaded their own suit. "have we in any way offended you?" they vehemently inquired. "certainly not," he assured them kindly. "you are fine fellows, both of you, but i cannot possibly take you. your father is a true friend to me, and he is getting old. i--i must not let his sons risk their life." "risk! why, what risk should there be? we did so enjoy it last year." "all sorts of things may happen on a bear hunt; and, indeed, i will not take the responsibility, on account of your father. it is different with those others who will accompany me; they have no special family ties, either of them. it is really impossible, my good fellows, much as i would like to have you." he took leave of them affectionately, as he did of their father, of alexa, and of the pope's family. they all felt concerned at his going, but none of them could have given any reason. anusia alone was brave-hearted. "you will recover your spirits," said the faithful wife, "and, therefore, i am pleased you should go. when shall i expect you back?" "in six weeks at the latest." and thus they parted. anusia once again ruled the farm, and did so with a strong hand, equal to any man's for determination. the new judge, jewgeni turenko, before long found occasion to testify to her firmness. the mandatar, for reasons known to himself, had been keeping at a distance lately; but whenever he was present at the village jewgeni had no easy time of it. for mr. hajek continued in the path he had begun, and his claims were many, the new judge being nowise equal to his predecessor in distinguishing the just ones from the unjust. and being something of a coward besides, he made all sorts of concessions which clashed with his duty to the village. so, hoping to conciliate his own party, he sought to lay the burden on their opponents. and, since anusia for the time being was unprotected, she seemed a fit person in his eyes to try the experiment upon. consequently, he showed himself on her premises one day, informing her that she must tell off two extra hands for the forest labour about to fall due. "there is no such claim on me," she said, curtly, "it will be no use wasting any words about it." he ventured to remonstrate, showing his fist; but the judge of zulawce had the worst of it--he retired rather hastily, bearing away on his face some visible tokens of her prowess. the sixth week had not elapsed when old jemilian presented himself before his mistress with a splendid bearskin, and delivered his message: taras sent his love, and prayed for further leave of absence; he would return for palm sunday. "is he well?" inquired she. "yes, quite well." "and of a cheerful heart?" "yes," averred the man. his eyes sought the ground, but anusia did not notice that; she trusted the honest servant, who for upwards of twenty years had lived on the farm. "then i am quite satisfied," she said; "let him stay as long as it gives him pleasure. it is five weeks more, to be sure; but let him have it." and thereupon jemilian went over to the pope's. "my master has sent me," he said, "he is anxious to know whether the imperial decision has arrived, he gave directions to have it transmitted to you. "nothing has come," said leo; "but how is your master?" jemilian repeated his statements, but father leo was not taken in, although he had trouble of his own, and sympathy with others might have been in abeyance--his youngest child was grievously ill of the small-pox. but he was a true friend of taras's, and could turn away from his own grief. "look me in the face," he said, sternly; "it is not meet to offer an untruth to the priest. tell me what you are after up there." "well, we hunt," jemilian replied, hesitatingly. but the pope was not thus turned off, and after a little more of prevarication the man was obliged to confess. "ah, your reverence," he said, "such hunting as taras's the carpathians have never seen. the almighty must have clouded his reason; he must, indeed! on first starting we all took it for granted he would lead us to the red hollow, the best hunting ground far and wide. but he took us on--on, far away into the mountains. he never notices the track of the bear, and if we call his attention to it he shrugs his shoulders. on--on, we go. he seems to have but one object--to get to know his way in the mountains. if we pass a dense forest he takes his axe, making his mark upon the trees. if we come across a herdsman he does not inquire what life the bears have led him, but is anxious to learn the character of the neighbourhood and its bearings. it is the same if we put up with any cottager. he makes friends with the people, giving them cartridges for their guns, and asking them for nothing but directions to find his way. on we go, westward chiefly, but exploring right and left--from mountain to mountain, from glen to glen. denser grows the forest, more ragged the clefts; we seek a path through the rimy brushwood, our hands torn with the brambles.... ah, your reverence, i am a bear hunter of thirty years' standing; but what the carpathians are i found out but lately." "and have you asked him what is the object of all this?" "indeed i have--again and again, but to no purpose. how often have i said to him: 'what is the good of roaming through the wintry waste like this? your servants would be well content if they could see you enjoyed it; but you push on, sad unto death--what is the good?' his reply being always the same: 'it must be, my men, and if you love me you will follow.' love him?--of course we do. your reverence knows as much as that yourself, that to know him is to be ready to go to the death for him.... well, we followed him like sheep their shepherd, chiefly westward, for the space of twenty days, when we reached a cottage, and the people there were huzuls still, but of different ways from ours. 'we are of the marmaros,' they said. we spent the night with them, and it was the same as everywhere. let taras but begin to speak with people, telling them of his life and inquiring into theirs, and his charm is upon them; they look up to him and are glad to serve him. indeed, your reverence, he has a wonderful influence over men, if he chooses to use it; this has been very plain in our roamings. from that cottage he led us back again towards pokutia. 'it was useful to have seen something of hungary,' he said; 'but now we will turn our steps homeward again.' that was both sensible and pleasant, and for sheer satisfaction i forgot to ask him why it should have been useful to seek a weary way through brambles and riven rocks to have a look at the marmaros. nor could i feel satisfied long, for he soon turned from the rising sun, striking off northward, over mount and dale, as we had done before. never a shot he fired, though we met the finest deer; he only kept noticing the country. at last we stopped far beyond delatyn; he gave us a day's rest, and then in quick marches he brought us back to these parts, stopping near the red hollow. we arrived two days ago, putting up for the night in the dell of old michalko, and yesterday we had some hunting at last. we were fortunate too, for not two hours passed before we sighted a splendid bear, and taras killed him, rather carelessly, but the bullet hit clean between the eyes. it was the first time these six weeks that i saw him smile--he was pleased with his good shot. and when lazarko and i had drawn the creature he sent me home with the skin." "lazarko," interrupted father leo, "who is he?" jemilian had tripped evidently. he grew red and stammered: "oh!... some fellow.... who joined us...." "don't attempt what you have so little talent for," returned the pope; "your lies are transparent. why do you depart from the truth?" "i cannot help it," said the man, apologetically; "taras has enjoined me so very sternly not to mention lazarko, for fear of harming the poor youth...." "lazarko?" repeated the pope, rubbing his forehead, and exclaiming suddenly: "you don't mean lazarko rodakowicz, of zolince, surely!" "yes i do," confessed jemilian. father leo was dismayed: "and this man our taras suffers near him! is he not aware that lazarko is a murderer? why the fellow shot the mandatar of his village!" "he did. but only because the mandatar dishonoured the girl he loved." "that is true. i knew the parties, zolince being but a couple of miles from my late cure. the mandatar was a wretch, the girl honest, and the youth had borne a good name. but to commit murder is an awful thing nevertheless, and lazarko, so far from in any way expiating his guilt, made it worse by escaping into the mountains, where he joined the band of green giorgi, thus becoming a brigand--a 'hajdamak.' i trust taras was not aware of that!" "he was," said jemilian, "for lazarko came to us straight from the outlaws. and since the matter has escaped me, i may as well tell your reverence the plain facts of it, for you are taras's friend. we knew well enough, on going beyond the red hollow into the heart of the mountains, that we must fall in with some 'hajdamaks'; for the carpathians are their natural haunt, and not all the whitecoats[ ] of the empire will be able to say a word against it. we had no fear; four of us, and carrying arms, we were a match for the devil if need be. besides, it is well known that the hajdamaks hardly ever attack a peasant or a jew; they are the sworn enemies of the polish nobles only, and of the whitecoats if driven to it. so we went ahead fearlessly, and our first encounter with one of their kind was not calculated to terrify us--a beardless milksop, half-starved and frozen. our watch-fire brought him near, and he begged humbly for leave to stay. but taras stepped up to him: 'let us first see if you deserve it!' he said sternly. 'is your mother alive?' 'she is dead.' 'then answer me truly, as you would wish her to be at rest in her grave. i presume even a fellow like you will own the sanctity of that oath! why did you take to the mountains?' 'well, just because of my mother's death; my father married again, and the step-mother turned him against me. i, the heir to the farm, had to do the meanest labour, and was treated like a dog besides. so i ran away!' 'this is no reason for taking to the mountains! why did you not try life in another village, eating your bread honestly, as the servant of some respectable peasant?' the fellow looked abashed. 'i had heard of the merry life up here,' he said at last. 'away with you!' cried taras, 'it is mere laziness and greed of enjoyment that made you a hajdamak! away!' and his look was such that the fellow made the greatest haste to escape. a few days later we had a more serious encounter. we were deep in the heart of the mountains, not far from the marmaros, resting one night in a forsaken cattlefold. our fire was lit, when suddenly an armed band appeared, headed by a handsome young man, with a finely-twisted moustache, carrying the white bunda[ ] carelessly on his shoulders, with the green, silver-broidered jerkin beneath...." "green giorgi himself," cried the pope, crossing himself involuntarily. "yes, himself! your reverence will be aware of the stories concerning him--that he has power to show himself in different places simultaneously, and that he knows men and all about them, though he has never set eyes on them before. how that should be i cannot tell, but he certainly knew us. 'i make you welcome, taras!' he said, condescendingly. 'i intend to start a-hunting tomorrow, and rejoice to fall in with the best bear-hunter of the country!' but taras did not accept the proffered hand. 'if you know me so well, giorgi,' he said, 'then you must be aware, also, that i never shrink from saying the truth. we are but four of us, and you about three times the number; we have but our guns, and you, i see, carry pistols besides. if you wish to attack us, we are lost. but nevertheless, i tell you, i shall neither hunt with you to-morrow, nor suffer your company a moment longer than i can help it this night. a man like you must poison the very air i breathe,' giorgi grew white. 'why?' he hissed, snatching at his girdle, where a pair of silver-mounted pistols were to be seen. 'i am not bound further to explain my opinion,' replied taras; 'to be a hajdamak is a miserable trade, yet there are reasons which may force an honest man to take to it. you have no such excuse. you are a mere deserter from the ranks of the whitecoats. and you carry on this sad trade after a cruel and shameful fashion besides. when the peasants of roskow, last autumn, called upon you to help them against their hard-hearted lord of the manor, you were not satisfied with plundering this polish tyrant's property, but you committed robbery in the village besides; you not merely killed the tyrant, who deserved it, but you killed the innkeeper, a poor jew, whose only crime consisted in having saved up a little money, which roused your cupidity. i could lay many similar charges at your door, but i daresay this will suffice.' but, so far from sufficing, it was more than the ruffian could brook. he drew his pistol, foaming with rage. but we three--sefko, wassilj, and i--had cocked our guns at him, his own people standing by gloomily. he would have discharged his pistol, nevertheless, had not one of his party made a dash at him, whispering something we did not understand. he gave a scowling look at his followers and turned to go. 'you coward!' cried taras, 'an honest man's bullet is too good for you!' at daybreak we learned the reason of his yielding, and, indeed, had guessed as much--he could not rely on his men. they had joined him, believing him to be an honest hajdamak, and not a murdering brigand...." "no hajdamak can be honest!" interrupted father leo, sharply. "well, honest, as the saying is," continued jemilian, a little abashed. "i was going on to say that at daybreak two of his men, lazarko and iwan, came to us, assuring us they had thus believed in him, and entreating taras to take them under his protection, as they were tired of the wicked life. he listened to lazarko but not to iwan, although the latter swore by his mother's grave that he also had intended to be an honest hajdamak...." "honest! honest!" broke in the pope once more. "i wish you would not thus use the word." "well, honest, as people take it," rejoined jemilian. "i meant to say that iwan had become a hajdamak only because he had shot a tax-gatherer who was unlawfully going to distrain the goods of his mother, a poor widow." "and that is an honest reason?" "taras admitted it as such. but he nevertheless refused the young man's request, because he had assisted green giorgi in a deed of cowardly violence. he gave this account of it himself, crestfallen enough: 'some weeks ago,' he said, 'while scouring the lower bukowina, we received information that a jewish wine-merchant from czernowitz was travelling by himself along the mountain road to transylvania. on learning this, the captain disguised himself as a peasant, requesting me to do likewise. we lay in waiting by the roadside. the jew arrived presently, driving his car, and green giorgi begged him to give us a lift. he good-naturedly agreed, although his vehicle was small, and, taking our places beside him, we drove on for about a couple of hours, engaging him in conversation. but on entering the dark, narrow valley of the putna, the captain stunned him with a sudden blow, ordering me to fire, which i did, yet with so trembling a hand that the bullet merely grazed his arm. thereupon green giorgi drew his pistol and despatched him.' thus iwan, amid sobs and groans; we listened horror-struck, but no one was more moved than taras himself. "'was not the jew a broad-built man, with a reddish beard, and blue, kindly eyes?' he inquired presently, with husky voice. 'yes, yes,' groaned iwan; 'ah, it is those eyes i cannot get rid of....' 'villain!' cried taras, 'i knew the man; he showed me a similar kindness. but even if i had never seen him i could have nothing to do with an assassin!' 'have pity on me,' pleaded iwan, 'i could not gainsay the captain, and it was but a jew!' 'away, villain!' repeated taras furiously; 'is a jew not a man? and you need obey no one for the committing of murder!' iwan fell on his knees. 'if you reject me, i can but shoot myself,' he cried. 'there will be no harm done if you do,' said taras, 'for it is what you have deserved!' we turned from him, going our way. and he did as he had threatened, the lads of old michalko telling us only yesterday that they found him dead in the forest, the discharged pistol in his stiffened hand. we were sorry, but taras never altered a look...." the priest paced his room excitedly while this report was being given, and now he stood still. "these, then, are your hunting pleasures!" he cried, wringing his hands. "is this the pastime by which taras hopes to regain his spirits? and the worst of it is, it seems to delight him--he will return for palm sunday only! how do we know he will return then?" "he will keep his word," said the man, confidently. "i was no less alarmed than you, and would not have come hither with his message had he not sworn faithfully to return by palm sunday." father leo took comfort, asking presently: "and did he tell you what he means to do now?" "not in so many words, but i am pretty sure he will now take us through the bukowina...." leo stared at the man, horror-struck, his whole figure trembling. his plump, honest face was livid with the thought that had come to him. he grew purple and white again, and big drops stood on his forehead. "jemilian...." he groaned. the man had watched him, his own appearance as it were reflecting the pope's emotion. but now he stretched forth his hands as though combating an unworthy suspicion. "no, no!" he cried, "do not--do not insult the pure-hearted man!" the pope drew a deep breath, and fell again to pacing his room. some time passed in silence; the labouring man seemed lost in gloomy thought. when he looked up presently, leo started as out of a dream. "go," he said with trembling voice, "and god be with you! tell him our conversation, and that i shall look for him by palm sunday without fail. if we were not in trouble ourselves, i would think nothing of the twenty miles' distance, but would go with you to urge his return even now." "do you know him so little?" said the man with a smile. "'twere easier to make the pruth flow backwards than to turn him from his purpose. but he will keep his promise." he drew a breath. "doubt him not! and pray for him," added the faithful soul, "he sorely needs it." jemilian departed, and father leo returned to the bedside of his youngest child. the little boy lay in high fever, tossing the more wildly as his hands were tied up for fear of his scratching the painful pustules. the apothecary who had seen him a couple of days ago had judged that the illness would run its course favourably, but that it had not yet reached its height. and it was so; twelve weary days had to pass before the danger was over. and even then the poor parents could not lift their heads, for when the little one recovered, both the elder boys sickened with the same terrible disease, and all their anxiety began afresh. no one could have blamed father leo if in this season of sorrow he had thought little of the absent friend, all the more as the daily visits of anusia had ceased; she was obliged, for her own children's sake, to hold aloof. but on the contrary, he thought much and pitifully of the roving man and his strange hunting-time. it scarcely needed the sad news which reached him on the last sunday in lent to rouse his sympathy afresh. for on that day a messenger from the district town brought over the long-expected imperial rescript. leo knew what the contents would be, and yet he hesitated to break the seal. those thoughts that had come to him as he listened to jemilian's report--thoughts of a suspicion which he had striven to combat--surged up in him afresh. and he felt as if that red seal in his hands were dyed with the heart's blood of the most righteous man he had known. he almost felt forbidden to break it, and when he did so at last it was with a sigh. he was not mistaken; the writ contained not merely a denial, but also a reproof for having wantonly troubled the ear of his majesty. father leo groaned. "taras must never know that," he murmured. "i shall not give him the literal contents." but not four-and-twenty hours had passed before all the villagers knew that the emperor had written a letter to taras, saying: "you good-for-nothing subject, if ever you trouble me again about your law suits, i shall have you shut up in prison!" it was the corporal who thus paraphrased the imperial decision, having it direct from harasim woronka, who was a common labourer now, thanks to his drink, working for the mandatar. it was mr. hajek's doing that this version was thus carried to the people; he had learned at colomea that the decision had arrived, and had instructed his under-steward accordingly. father leo was greatly incensed, and saw he had no choice now but to inform taras of the full contents, there being no mention of prison at any rate. and he made up his mind to get an insight into taras's heart if possible, hoping the confessional in passion week would yield the opportunity. palm sunday was at hand. early spring had made its appearance, the snow was fast melting, the south wind blew, and the hearts of men were happy. father leo especially had reason to bless this early spring, the vivifying influence of which made itself felt in the sick-room, helping to conquer the dread disease. but the parents yet took turns in sitting up at night. and thus the night before palm sunday found father leo awake in the dimly-lit chamber; the boys were asleep, he, with stockinged feet, walking up and down between them and the window. again and again he stood still by their little beds, looking down wistfully at the pale faces of his children, on which the illness happily had left no ravages, and, turning back to the window, he would gaze out into the moonlit night. the village street was bright as day, but solemn in silence. the trees, just breaking into tiny buds, stretched forth their branches into the glimmering air, and there were quivering sounds as of the whispering winds of spring. from a copsewood near, the call of the screech owl was heard; it is counted a death omen in most places, but father leo scarcely noticed the dismal notes for the kindly light pouring down upon the world. and the pious man lifted a full heart to the giver of all goodness, who had brought back his little ones from the arms of death. "if i could but tell them," he murmured, resuming his walk, and seeking words for the holy things that moved him. the good man was making his sermon for the morrow. he was startled by a sound from the window, a finger tapping the pane gently. a dark figure stood without, and, looking close, he recognised taras. he hastened to open the sash a couple of inches. "welcome! welcome!" he said warmly, "i am glad you have made good your promise." "i returned an hour ago," replied taras. "my wife and children are well; but you have seen trouble?" at which the pope made haste to add that the lord's goodness was being shown to him even now. "come in," he concluded. "it is late," said taras; "i only wanted to have a look at you. though, let me say, i know what you are keeping for me, happening to fall in with the two lads of simeon by the czeremosz yesterday, and they told me the imperial decision had arrived." "but i daresay they have not told you correctly," said father leo, anxiously. "we will put off everything till to-morrow, but no false report in this respect shall grieve your heart; a minute longer than i can help. the rescript consists of a few lines only, and i have read them so often that i know them by heart. it is true that your petition is refused, because the verdicts of the local courts had plainly shown you in the wrong. and you are warned from again appealing to the emperor needlessly; it is condoned this once, because of your evident zeal for the good of the parish. these are the very words: 'the subject taras barabola is herewith instructed to refrain from again troubling his apostolic majesty or the imperial magistrates, and to submit to justice.' that is all, i assure you; never a word of prison. and it is bad enough as it is." "bad enough," repeated taras slowly. "what were the last words?" father leo looked at him, he could see his face plainly in the moonlight; it was quite calm. so he repeated the final clause. "to submit to justice," said taras after him, slowly. "good-night." the pope would have wished to detain him, but the clock had struck one some time ago, and it was the hour for giving the children their medicine. so he shook hands with him through the window and returned to the little patients, where the phial stood by the side of a night-light. he was just taking up the bottle, when suddenly--fearfully--a cry rang through the stillness without, half lost in the distance, but so terrible, so death-inspired that he shook violently, sending forth a cry in return. the children sat up in their beds sobbing, but he flew back to the window, trembling, and listened. deep silence had settled without, and not again was it broken; yet he gazed out anxiously, prepared for the very worst. but all seemed at peace; the little cottage gardens, and the street, and the fields beyond, lay swathed in moonlight, but deserted and still. nowhere a trace of living soul, not a sound to be heard, save the whispering of the branches bending to the night air. was it taras? did ever human breast send forth such a shriek of mortal agony? the priest could not tell, but he remembered the screech owl. "the bird of night may have flown past the house," he reflected, straining his ear to catch a repetition of the sound. but all was still; only the wind kept swaying the branches. he crossed himself and returned to his children, endeavouring to calm them; and having given them their medicine, he strove to take up the thread of his sermon. but that was well-nigh impossible. again and again he stood still, listening; but only the gentle voices of the night reached his ear, no sound of alarm--the screech owl was silent.... the small hours passed slowly, gloomily. with the dawn the popadja entered to take his place. "little father," she said, "have i been dreaming, or did i hear it? a terrible cry broke upon my sleep, as of a man being strangled and crying for help...." "i daresay you dreamt it," returned he, huskily, making haste to gain his study; there was early service at eight o'clock, and he really must collect his thoughts for his sermon. but it was impossible, for while he was yet dressing he was suddenly seized with a burning desire to see his friend, and nothing was to be done but follow the inward compulsion. he snatched up his cloak and hurried from the house. entering taras's farmyard, he found his two eldest boys in their sunday garments, with bright plumes in their brand-new caps. they were making a desperate noise with toy trumpets. on seeing the pope they ran up to him and kissed his hand. "father returned last night," they cried, "and see what he brought us--a trumpet each and these beautiful caps." "is he at home?" inquired the priest. "no. he is gone to see jewgeni." "the judge?" "yes--that judge," returned little wassilj, with all the contempt he was capable of. "he has business with him. he would never go and see him for the pleasure of it." "and where is your mother?" "getting ready for church." "well, tell your father to come to me in the vestry directly after service. do you understand?" wassilj promised to deliver the message. "and i know what for," he added, with childish importance, "the emperor's answer has arrived." full of disquietude the priest retraced his steps. "what business can he have with the judge?" he wondered. explanation was at hand. he came upon the judge at his own threshold. "glad to meet your reverence," said jewgeni. "i have called for your advice. my brother is against it, but all the people are for it." "for what?" "it is taras's proposal. he came to me this morning saying: 'i want you to call together the general meeting directly after service--not merely the heads of families, you know, but all the community. you are aware that the final decision has arrived from vienna. i want to render an account to the people. now whether you are my enemy or my friend is nothing. you are the judge, and i claim this as a matter of right,' i need not tell your reverence that his friend i certainly am not. for, firstly, he is against the emperor; secondly, he is a bastard; thirdly, he is only a lowlander who has sneaked into our village; and, fourthly, that wife of his----" the man involuntarily put his hand to his face. father leo understood the gesture, but his heart was too heavy for a smile. "i know," he said quickly, "you are not exactly his friend, good man though he is. but what answer did you give him?" "none at all," replied the judge, rather bashfully. "how could i without first consulting my brother constantine, and he is against it. 'do you want him to talk the people over?' he said. 'what have we to do with his petition to the emperor? if he has lost his case it serves him right,' said constantine." "for shame!" cried the honest pope. "but what of the people? you said they are for hearing him. i hope they are." "well," returned jewgeni, "my brother ought to know, being a corporal! but the elders and others of the men who heard of it think differently. 'he shall have the meeting,' they said; 'it is due to him in simple justice.' and what may be your reverence's opinion?" "call the meeting, by all means!" cried father leo, warmly. "shall this man, who has sacrificed so much of his time, his money, his powers, for the good of the people, not be permitted to render his account, because he has stood up for your right, even beyond his duty? of course you must hear him!" "very well, then," said the judge, meekly, kissing the priest's hand, "the meeting shall be called. the people can be informed after the service, but i will send a message to taras at once. yet i am not sure my brother, the corporal----" he scratched his head and went his way. it was high time for father leo to repair to church for early mass. he hastened to his vestry, where the sacristan stood waiting to assist him with the vestments. and father leo began his duties. the church was one of the united greek community, in which mass was read according to the roman catholic rite, but in the language of the people, consequently the worshippers were able to follow intelligently. it was a good congregation, and they appeared to listen prayerfully whilst father leo with his choristers chanted the antiphony. but the good father himself had trouble in centering his thoughts on his sacred occupation. his eyes had scanned the people, and he knew that neither taras nor anusia were present. but taras's companions had come--jemilian, sefko, and wassilj soklewicz, looking haggard and worn. mass over, the priest returned to his vestry to put off the heavy garments before mounting the pulpit. he was on the point of re-entering the church, when the outer door leading to his sanctum was torn open, little wassilj bursting in, sobbing. "what is it?" cried the priest, white with apprehension. "little father," sobbed the child, lifting his hands beseechingly, "mother entreats you to come to us at once--at once! it is a matter of life and death, she says." "good god--what is it?" "alas!" cried the boy, "i cannot tell you! i only know that mother is in despair." "is your father at home?" "yes! we were just starting for church, when a messenger from jewgeni arrived, saying, 'the judge will comply with your desire, and the general meeting shall be called,' thereupon father turned to mother, saying, 'then we cannot go to church, for i owe it to you to tell you before telling the others.' and to us he said, 'run into the yard, children.' but we remained in the hall ... and ... we never did it before!" sobbed the child. "did you listen?" "yes! we heard father's voice, he spoke lowly and we could not understand. but presently mother gave a sharp cry, as though she were suffering some fearful pain. i could not help bursting in, fedko and tereska after me. mother was on her knees before father. 'don't do it--oh!' she sobbed. 'but i _must_!' he said, 'not even pity for you and the children must prevent me!' and we began to cry, and mother said, 'yes, children ... come and kneel to him! perhaps he will listen to your tears, if he will not to mine!' ah, little father, her face was streaming...." "go on; what else?" "we knelt, we lifted up our hands, and we cried, 'don't do it, father, for pity's sake!' but he shook his head, big tears running down his own face. and then mother sent me to fetch you. do come, little father!" said the child, weeping. father leo's chest heaved. "how can i?" he said, "the people are waiting for the sermon! it would be wrong to disappoint them." "it would, your reverence," remarked the sacristan. but the child had got a hold of his gown, repeating anxiously, "come; oh, do come!" "it is the lesser wrong," said father leo, with a sudden resolve. "run home, wassilj, and say i am coming directly." and hastily he entered the church. "i beg your leave, good people," he cried. "i cannot give you a sermon to-day. god will forgive me, there is a holier duty waiting," and he vanished into his vestry. there was a loud murmur in the congregation, surprise being uppermost. and then there was a flocking forth from the building. but outside jewgeni and his elders kept crying: "go to the linden, all of you! we call the general meeting for the hearing of taras." the corporal stood by, smiling an evil smile. "let us go and hear the joke!" he said, following the stream of the people. chapter ix. the passion of justice. the pope, meanwhile, made what haste he could to taras's house; it was barely a ten minutes' walk, but it appeared to him fearfully long. having reached the farm, he rushed into the house--it was silent as a churchyard; after much looking and shouting he discovered only little tereska near the hen-roost. the child had a tear-stained face, but seemed to have recovered her spirits, taking evident pleasure in chasing a hen. "where is your father?" inquired leo, anxiously. "gone!" said the child, and began to cry again. "gone?"--father leo crossed himself--"where to?" "don't know--he and mother----" "to the meeting?" "don't know," repeated the little one, sobbing more violently. "mother was crying, and father was crying!" but the hen appeared to make its escape, and the child was after it. "they can only have gone to the meeting," said the pope to himself, retracing his steps speedily. the inn with the linden in front of it was a little way beyond the church. the village seemed deserted; only a tottering old man in front of a cottage sat basking in the sun. "i wish you would send my grand-daughter back," he called out, querulously, "taras will have plenty of listeners without her." father leo, indeed, found the place crowded; the very oldest and youngest excepted, none of the village were missing. for the "general meeting" is an event, and duly appreciated. the faces of the people reflected its importance as they thronged in a circle about the linden, where a table had been placed by way of a platform for the speaker. taras was just mounting it when father leo arrived; a murmur of expectation ran through the people, of pity, too, with most, and of spite with some. but surely this latter sensation was smitten with shame at the sight of the unhappy man about to address them. his hair had become grey, his face was worn, and his eyes burned with a piteous fire deep in their sockets. "ye men of the village," he began, with trembling, yet far-sounding voice, "and all of you who are members of this parish, i thank you for coming here, and i thank the judge for having called this meeting. for although it is but a duty on your part, and on his, to hear me, yet a man who has lived to see what i have seen, is grateful even for that much! "jewgeni will have told you why you are here: i want to render an account--yet not concerning the past, as he seems to think, but concerning that which is at hand. listen, then, to what a man has to tell you who has been happy and has become unhappy, because justice is what he has loved and striven for most. some of you love me, others hate me, and i daresay i have grown indifferent to many. but i pray you listen to me without love or hatred, as you would listen to a stranger whom death overtakes in your village, and who is anxious to unburden his soul before he goes hence. you would have no personal sympathy with such a one, but you would believe him because he is a dying man. well then, believe me likewise, for i am a dying for your sakes!" a shrill cry interrupted him, and a wave of excitement passed over the closely-pressed people. in vain the pope endeavoured to force his way; this wall of human beings stood firm as a rock. but on the other side of the linden, towards the inn, some of the men were seen moving. "they are taking away his wife!" was whispered from mouth to mouth. "she has fainted!" taras had not stirred from his place. an agony of grief quivered in his features, but he stood motionless. they saw him lift his hand, the commotion subsided, and in silence they hung on his lips. "men and women," he resumed, "you have just witnessed that which is enough to move any heart! give her your tenderest pity! she needs it doubly, not understanding that what i am about to do i _must_ do. love to me and to the children makes it impossible for her to follow my meaning. but you will see more clearly; you will perceive it is not wantonness and wickedness that forces me to separate from those that dwell in peace. the guilt of it will not fall on my head, and i need not fear the wrath of god. when the day of his reckoning comes i shall be able to answer. but i also shall have a question to ask of him in that day, and i shall look for _his_ answer. let me hope it will not differ from what meanwhile i have said to myself in his name! "listen, then, to my confession. there is both good and bad to be said of me, in accordance with the truth. for a man should not be unjust to himself, any more than to others. and if in most cases it is but a false shame that would conceal one's vices or one's virtues, it were a crime in mine. my heart, therefore, of which i have not yet been able entirely to root out pity for myself, shall not influence my speaking. and what were the use of complaints? am i not like a man whose fields have been wasted, whose dwelling has been destroyed by the flood from the mountains? shall such a one sit down by his ruined home crying: 'why should god have sent this to me? why should the flood find its way just to my house?' why, indeed! surely it was not mere accident that the pent-up waters should have broken through just in this direction; and if he is wise he will not sit still, but will ascend the torrent till he find the cause of his trouble. and i will not have you stand about me lamenting, but you shall follow me up the stream to see why the roaring waters have burst on my happiness, singling me out for destruction. "you are acquainted with my past, as though i had grown up among you. you know i am a bastard, and that i had to suffer greatly on this account; but you also know that, thanks to my mother, the wrong i endured became a blessing. she had been brought to see that the heart is poisoned which ceases to believe in justice on earth; so she regarded not herself in order to teach me that faith. and when i had been able to overcome a terrible temptation, when i had gained for myself the goodwill of men, this faith of hers appeared to me also the very bulwark of life. yes, my friends, i had learned to look upon this earth of ours as upon a well-ordered place where each man has his own share of labour, and is rewarded according to his work: for equity and justice seemed to be the foundation of things. "he who has once admitted this belief into his heart and mind can never be really unhappy, even if misfortune should overtake him like a thunderstorm in summer. trouble did come upon me. i bore it--first the illness and death of my mother, and then the return of my father. the first trial was the sorest, but my soul could rise from it with less effort than from the intercourse with the vagabond, just as the body will recover more easily from some painful gunshot wound than from a lingering fever. you all know how i strove to do what was right by my father, and you also praised me for it; but it was only a rendering of justice, the paying back of the debt i owed to my mother. he denied being my father, the memory of her that was gone was being sullied, and that made me willing for any sacrifice, ready to bear any burden without murmuring or sinking under the load. it made me serious, but not sad. for did i not suffer for the sake of justice, which grew all the dearer to my heart! "the old man died. i did not rejoice; i felt like those men who all their life long carry salt in heavy loads from here to hungary, bringing back packages of hungarian tobacco instead. the poor slave wipes his forehead and is glad to have arrived at his destination with his burden of salt, but he is not therefore jubilant, for he knows that he will set out with his bundles of tobacco to-morrow, which are just as heavy, though otherwise different from the salt. yes, my friends, young as i was, i had already learned the lesson that this life of ours is a mere changing of burdens, and i was content it should be so. for did not everything depend on how we carried our load! but mine hitherto had been heavy, and i longed for a change, longed for another burden elsewhere. i believed that at ridowa i should never cease hearing the unkind and evil speeches of him for whom i had borne so much; the very air, i believed, must be full of them. you know that even the wild beasts can be driven forth from their haunts; destroy their home and they will repair it, but if you befoul it they go. so i looked for a place elsewhere, and chance brought me to zulawce. "looking back on those days, how should i not be filled with the pity of it all? you know how i came to you--a man loving diligence and understanding his business, thoroughly capable of managing a farm, honest in all things, and trustworthy. of the pleasures of life i knew nothing. i had never yielded to drink, had never conquered a man in fight, never kissed a girl for love. but i did not regret it, enjoying in those days what i believed to be the greatest satisfaction of all, a real content with myself. and why should i not? was i not doing my duty? was i not endeavouring to be just--yes, and had suffered for righteousness' sake! added to this, i had complete power of self-control as far as that may be said of sinful man. i knew that this taras, a self-made man, who from a despised bastard had risen to a position of respect among his fellows, would all his life long be noted for integrity, for helpfulness and justice; that he would never permit any wrong, nor ever intentionally repay evil with evil. thus i believed myself strong and safe, come what might; for i could never be false to myself, and the world could not fail me, since, to the best of my knowledge, it was so firmly grounded on justice." he drew a deep breath, a sad smile hovering on his lips. "bear with me, my friends; did i not warn you there were some good things to be said of me? but be very sure there is cause for blame as well, nay, i must bring an accusation against myself concerning the very days i speak of. my self-reliance was far stronger than could be justified by any virtue or success of mine. i not only believed myself to be a good man--which no doubt i was--but the very best man of my age and condition. this ugly delusion, like my virtues, was the natural outcome of my history, of my every experience. if a man has to climb a very steep mountain, he must believe in himself, considering himself stronger and more capable than perchance he is, else he would never set out on his journey, at any rate he would fail by the way. and how much more so if he is all alone! 'the thumb thinks more of itself than all the four fingers put together,' our much-lamented father martin used to say--one of the few sensible sayings he could boast of. "you may wonder that i should accuse myself just of _this_ vice! if i were to put the question to you to bring home to me any proud saying or act of conceit, i dare say none of you could do it. have i, then, deceived you--shown myself different from what i am? do i stand here a hypocrite, self-convicted? nay, god knows it is not so, and this will not explain the apparent discrepance. it was no trouble to me to be gentle and good and kind to every one, first at ridowa and then at zulawce--helpful to all, and ready to serve them. i did but follow my own inmost nature, and to be different would have cost me trouble. indeed, that pride of mine which possessed me was of a peculiar kind. i, at least, never knew a man who was lorded over by a similar taskmaster. the consciousness was ever present with me--'this taras barabola is a good man, and righteous and just. i am glad i am he!' but it were a mistake on your part to suppose that for this reason i was happy, wrapped up in my own esteem. no, indeed--that pride of mine, again and again, was the cause of shame to me, when i examined my deeds and those of others. 'no man is a church-door,' says the proverb with us. and i, too, was of flesh and blood; i, too, must fail and sin where i would not. little sins mostly, at which another might have laughed without therefore being counted wicked or specially hardened. but to me, they were grievous beyond words. and no effort, no honest will of mine was a defence against them; for man is but human, and walking along the dusty road of this life he can scarcely keep his skirt entirely pure. the careless man will not be troubled by a little more or less of dust on his garment; but he who, so to speak, has a habit of frequently looking at himself in the glass, cannot but feel the smallest speck a burden. and thus, just because of my pride, my little sins have weighed on me far more than many a man can say of his grievous ill-doings, and to atone for them seemed almost impossible. "but more than this, even the ill habits of others would be a burden to me in the same way. for instance, to exemplify it by the most frequent occurrence, it was a real pain to me to see any neighbour of mine yield to drink, carrying not only his earthly gains but his very manhood into the public house, there to lose them. others would find it best to mind their own business, but that pride of mine left me no peace. 'what is the use of your being so good, taras,' it would say, 'unless you strive to help and save? what is the use of your being so sensible, so sober and self-denying, except that you should be an example to these besotted fools?' i was just driven to do what i could to rescue the man; my pride would have torn me to pieces had i forborne; and if i failed in my endeavour, as in most cases i could not but fail, it made me sad at heart, and i believed myself bad and useless because of it. it was the same regarding the laziness or unfitness of any in their daily work. i would try to get hold of such men gently, teaching them without hurting their vanity. in these things i mostly succeeded, for a man will more readily take your advice concerning the ploughing of his field or the management of his cattle, than he will take it in matters of drink or ill-usage to some poor girl. moreover, i could always fall back on myself--i mean, if some idle or besotted neighbour would let his farm go to ruin i could come to his assistance; for the diligent man is never short of time, and my own farm need not suffer because of my helping another. indeed, i have often thus helped a neighbour, sometimes because compassion was strong in me, but more often it was just that same pride that made me do it." "you should not say so!" broke in a voice, quivering with emotion. "you should not, indeed! how dare you call it pride--how dare you make a vice of what is the rarest of virtues?" it was father leo. with a troubled heart, shaken to its depth with pity and with grief, he had listened to his friend. he alone had understood what taras meant in saying he must "separate from those that dwell in peace," and he knew that the terrible forebodings which had come to him during the interview with jemilian were about to be fulfilled. but how to prevent it--ah, how, indeed? every fibre of his honest soul trembled with the apprehension of it; every faculty of his brain was bent on finding a means of averting the great sorrow at hand. "i am unable to hold back ruin," he murmured, pressing closer to the table, longing to be nearer his friend when the terrible word would be spoken. and standing there with a beating heart, the whole history of the strangest of men once more passed before his soul--all the shaping of so dread a fate--since first he beheld taras, the leader of the community gathered by the pruth to receive him on making his entry into the parish; all he had known of him since, until the interview by the window in the past night, until that cry of despair still ringing in his ears but far distant already, for god only could tell how much of the terrible history had been woven even since that cry.... "it is all as it must be," sighed he, bowing his head; "there is no help for it!" but his impassioned heart could not surrender without a struggle. if he could do nothing else for his friend, he at least would not allow that best of men to accuse himself unjustly before this crowd of listeners, of whom few indeed were fit to look upon so noble a soul thus laid bare to their gaze. it was for this reason he had interrupted him at the risk of a sharp rebuke from the highly-wrought speaker. but taras was calm, smiling even as he made answer: "nay, your reverence, i must distinctly contradict you--i know it was pride. but i will own to you that the only man to whom i ever opened my heart before this hour, speaking to him about this vice, shared your error. the man i mean was that honest compatriot of ours at vienna, mr. broza, and he spoke words to me which i should not repeat if i were not a dying man. 'this is sheer blasphemy,' he said, 'do you not see whom you accuse of sin, if you call that kind of disposition pride? none other, let me say it reverently, than the saviour himself--christ jesus, the lord! in this sense he also was proud--ay, a thousand times prouder than you--the very proudest man that ever lived.... but happily,' he added, 'happily we call it by another name--the beneficence of him who being a law to himself is filled with tenderest love to his neighbours.... i do not mean thereby to compare you with our lord, taras,' he concluded, 'but you are a rare man nevertheless--a christ-like man.' bear with me, men and women, for let me say it over again, it is a dying man that dares repeat such words to you. and surely i know my own heart better than another can know it. it was pride that moved me; it was sin. "but having now laid bare my inmost heart to you, showing you the good and the bad within me, you may judge for yourselves how i must have felt when first i came among you. it was as though i had entered a strange world, it was all so different from the lowlands--different and, as i was ready to say, worse. but my pride did not permit me to look down upon you on that account, or to rejoice in finding you wanting; on the contrary, it urged me at all hazards to correct your ill habits. it was no easy matter for me to understand you, and find a reason for your doings; but i set about it and perceived where to make a beginning, and to what length i could go. my task grew plain. there was need to improve your agriculture, giving you for your low-lying fields the ploughshare of the plain. there was need to show you how to benefit your live stock by increasing the number of herdsmen and providing the cattle with shelter. there was need to accustom you to a garb more suitable to your labour, need to teach you the advantage of adding rye-bread and beef to your staple food. there was need, above all things, to break you from that wildest of your habits, so full of danger to yourselves, the constant wearing of arms...." he stood erect, stretching forth his hand, as he scanned the people proudly. his eyes shone, and his voice increased in fervour. "for twelve years i have lived in this village. as a poor serving man i came hither, and for years i bore the scorn of many. i have never boasted of what you owe me; no word or look of mine ever called your attention to what i have done for you. nor would i do so now. what, indeed, were the gain of your thanks to a man in my position? but i will have you know the _truth_ about me, and justly you shall judge me; it is therefore i ask you--have i done these things, and were they for your good? have i benefited you, and is it my doing--mine alone?" his voice swelled like thunder: "speak the truth, men of zulawce--yes or no!" there was a breathless silence, broken after a minute or two, as the forest silence is broken by a gust of wind when the branches whistle, the stems bend and creak, and every creature starts up affrighted, the many voices blending in one mighty sound; and thus to the pale, proud man but a single answer was given, bursting simultaneously from these hundreds of men. "yes, taras, yes--it was all your doing!" and then only the excited answers of individuals were heard. "yes, indeed," exclaimed an old man, "just eight years ago taras built us the first cattle-fold, and the gain since has been double!" "long live taras!" cried simeon, half choking with sobs. "yes! yes!" broke in wassilj, the butcher, "if we feed better, it is because he showed us how!" "and it is all true concerning the plough--i ought to know!" chimed a voice like that of a little boy. it was marko, the smith, a giant to look at, who owned this queer little voice. "long live taras!" repeated simeon; one after another joining in the cry--"yes, taras for ever!" but the unhappy man stood trembling, his bosom heaved, and tears ran down his haggard face. he tried to speak, but the words would not rise to his lips, nor could he have made himself heard for the people's wild acclamation. at last he succeeded, and, holding out his folded hands to them, he cried with a voice so rent with agony that his listeners grew white with dread. "stop! stop! for pity's sake, stop! let not your thanks overwhelm me, lest your reproaches presently be the harder to bear. for pure and honest as my intention was, you will come to see i have lived to be a curse to myself and my family; a curse, also, to you!..." there was a deep silence when he had thus spoken, a solemn pause, and all the harsher sounded the spiteful voice of the corporal which broke it: "a curse? ah, you own it! but you took care it should fall lightly on yourself, you who fooled an heiress and sneaked into the judgeship!" "hold your tongue, you villain!" burst from a hundred voices; and when simeon added, indignantly, "be off, wretch that you are!" the echo went round, "be off!" the worthy hero grew pale, continuing, however, to smile and to twist his moustache, that finest of moustaches in all pokutia. but ere long his smile forsook him, for he beheld a little armed band that had pressed up to the speaker, endeavouring now, with cries of resentment, to make their way to him. there were six of them--hritzko and giorgi pomenko, the sons of simeon; sefko and jemilian, taras's men; wassilj soklewicz, and with him a stranger--that same lazarko rodakowicz, whom taras had admitted to his own followers, although he had come to him from green giorgi, the outlaw. they were in a towering rage, and evidently bent on punishing the corporal. constantino trembled visibly, offering not the slightest resistance when two of his comrades--like him, on furlough--took hold, one of his right arm and one of his left, to drag him away towards the inn. the people made room, but the words which fell from their lips were anything but complimentary. "you cur!" cried the men, "you heartless scoundrel, how dare you insult that man in his sorrow? ... cannot you see that he has resolved upon an awful thing, even his own death? ... and besides this, are you not one of ourselves, you beggar? do you not know that respect is due to the general meeting?" the crestfallen warrior saw fit to hold his peace, making what haste he could towards the safety of the inn. not till he had gained the threshold did he find courage to bethink himself of some witty remark, but it shrank back within his own soul on his entering the parlour; he stood still, abashed. they had laid down the wife of taras on one of the broad wooden benches of the deserted place. the heart-broken woman was a sight to move any man; some of the women were striving to comfort her, especially the good little popadja and a kindhearted jewess, the innkeeper's wife. poor anusia had recovered from her swoon; she lay with wide-open eyes, moving her lips, and burying her hands wildly in the black masses of her hair, which hung about the death-like face. but her mind seemed wandering, she gazed absently; and no words--a moaning only fell from her lips, rising to a smothered cry at times, and dying away. the women who tended her felt their blood run cold with the pity of it--no impassioned speech, no flood of tears, could have moved them like that stifled cry, as of a wild creature in an agony of pain. once only she found the power of words when the corporal had just entered the room--"away, whitecoat!" she cried. but the next moment she raised herself on the bench, clasping her hands and holding them out to him with piteous entreaty: "no--stop--hear me! make him a prisoner--don't let him go--for the merciful christ's sake, make him a prisoner!" she sought to gain her feet, but the women held her back gently: "she is going out of her mind!" they whispered, awe-struck, making signs to the corporal to be gone. he was only too glad to obey, quaking with horror, and retreating to the open air. silence had fallen without, and the crowd once more prepared to listen to the haggard, grief-maddened man, who had once been the gentlest and most peace-loving of them all, and whose wife could but entreat his meanest enemy now to hold him back from lawless deeds.... "to come to the point," taras was saying, "the most painful part of it all--how did i come to be a curse to you, to myself, to all in this place? it is the consequence of an awful mistake; yet it was not my belief itself that was at fault, nor my trust in you, but my confidence in others! "to this day it is my deepest, holiest conviction, and i will maintain it with my dying breath, that this world is founded on justice. to each of us, i hold, god has given a duty to perform, but we have our rights also, which others must not infringe. this indeed is the staff which the almighty has given us to enable us to bear up under our load. for a burden each one has to carry. and for this reason no one shall dare to touch his neighbour's staff, or to add unrighteously to his load. for he that dwelleth above has ordered all things wisely, adjusting the burden of each man, and weighing it in the scales of his equity. the man who dares to interfere with this highest justice, sins against god's rule upon earth, and he shall not do so with impunity. but the almighty does not visit every deed of wrong with his own arm; for he will not have us look upon justice, or atonement for its violation, as on something supernatural, but as on a thing essential to this life of ours, like the air we breathe. for this reason he has portioned out the earth into countries, calling a man to the rulership of each, to be judge in his stead, to protect the well-doer and to punish the evil-doer. this god-appointed man--it is the emperor with us--has a great burden laid on him by the almighty, but also a stronger staff to uphold him than any of ours, the imperial power. yet the most powerful man is but human, and even an emperor has but two eyes to see; and, like the poorest of his subjects, he can only be in one place at a time. so he, again, follows the divine example, portioning out his great empire into districts, appointing a man in each to be judge in his stead, and investing him for that purpose with some of his power--for since he is to bear part of the emperor's burden, it is but fair he should have part of the emperor's staff to strengthen him. these men are the magistrates; and in their turn they follow out the example of their master, the emperor, and the higher example of him above--they see that every parish is administered by its own judge, yielding to him part of their power to guard the right. in like manner every village judge behaves to the heads of families. i look upon it as a glorious ladder, replete with comfort, uniting earth with heaven, and bringing us poor sinful men nearer to him who made us. i say it is glorious, because the proudest intellect could not add anything to its perfect goodness; and i say it is replete with comfort, because the very lowest step of this ladder is under the same law as the highest. for no matter whether i be a shepherd or a king, he who wrongs me is committing equal sin, and it is the duty of those to whom god has entrusted the power to protect the shepherd as though he were a king. my duty is to do what is right, and not suffer any wrong silently, but to report it to those whom god has appointed to protect me. all further responsibility must rest with them! "such being to this day my holiest conviction, i am unable to swerve from my former opinion concerning you. you appeared to me like wild beasts, your love of avenging yourselves filled me with horror until i perceived whence it came; it was because you had not yet been taught to wean yourselves from the ways of your ancestors, who, descending from the mountains, settled here. they did well to look upon their firelocks as the best argument in maintaining their rights. for god will have the right respected, and the ladder i have spoken of is subservient to it; but where the influence of that ladder cannot make itself felt, as in the far-off mountain districts, the power of watching over his own right must return to the individual man. god himself must have so willed it, otherwise he would not have peopled those outlying haunts. but you, who are within reach of the law, continued to act as though god had never made the provision i have spoken of! it filled me with horror unspeakable; and if your lesser shortcomings had power to rouse that pride of mine, how much more so this offence!... "many of you will remember my wedding-day, and how i was laughed at for being so serious; but i was not sad, only full of thought. i knew that i was about to enter upon an entirely new life, a life beset with the most difficult duties. for when i stood before the altar i not only married the girl i loved, but, if i may so express it, i married this village; and not only to her, but to you also, ay, and to justice herself, i promised with a sacred oath to be faithful unto death. no words of mine could ever express what i felt on that day, how my thoughts from my own newly-granted happiness would roam away to a solemn future. for i knew that all my life in this place would be a falsehood if i did not strive with might and main to bring you to accept that will of god for yourselves also.... on my wedding-day! such a terrible taskmaster was that pride of mine!... "i set about it. i soon perceived that i could do little unless i had power vested in me--unless i were elected to the eldership. but i scorned the idea of bringing about that end by despicable means. i could only leave it with god--whose kingdom i strove to uphold--to guide your minds. and when i had been chosen, i directed my every effort to the furthering of the glorious end i had in view. "that same end was still my desire when the new mandatar arrived four years ago. you there and then turned against him; i spoke for him. events have since shown that you were right in your antipathy, for he is a wicked man; but you were wrong nevertheless, hating him only because he was the mandatar. this dislike of yours came to be the test of my influence with you; for those of you whom i could convince that it was wrong to hate him because it was his business to claim the labour we owed to his master, could learn to understand also about that will of god. i did succeed with many of you, and the day was at hand that should prove it; for when the mandatar came down upon as with his demand, expecting us to render the tribute of our live stock to the very day, you accepted my view of the question. it was the same in the more difficult matter concerning the forest labour. i shall never forget what i felt after those meetings. 'thou god of justice' my heart kept crying, 'these people are learning to accept thy will!' old stephen turned from me--a real grief--but it could not lessen the holy joy i felt. indeed, that same joy would have been mine if those meetings had cost me"--he said it slowly, and with marked emphasis--"the love of my wife, or the welfare of my children! the rupture between me and him was irretrievable; there could be no agreement between the village as it had been and the village as it should be according to my hopes, and, therefore, none between stephen and me. even his dying words, greatly as they touched me, offered abundant proof that his thoughts and mine concerning the most sacred things in life had ever been widely apart. i did not understand him when he said to me, 'it cannot but end ill when the judge is of another caste than the people he is called to rule.' ... i believed, on the contrary, that it would be an ill thing for zulawce if the judge, like the rest of the people, were given to violence. now if there had been among you a man of a like mind with myself, and better than i, i would have thought it wrong to seek the judgeship; but as it was, my very conscience laid it upon me to do so. i was chosen unanimously, as never a judge before me or since. i was glad for myself, and more glad for your sakes. there was little danger now, i thought, that you should ever fail in your duty to the count, or try to right yourselves by force of arms. that the new mandatar was a miserable scoundrel i knew soon enough; it caused me vexation and disgust--the kind of disgust one feels in touching a toad--but i never for a moment considered it a cause of alarm. how should the righteous come to suffer in a country where justice prevails? so i never even threatened him; ay, more than this----" he paused as though he had to brace himself up for pronouncing the words that must follow. but presently he added, "i have to say that which hitherto has been utterly unknown to you. let your wrath be upon me, for it furnished the root whence all this trouble has sprung. yet i could not have acted differently. it was myself who assured the rascal, on his hypocritical inquiry, that we should never meet violence with violence; and it was this assurance of mine that gave him the courage to wrong us, coward that he is!" a cry of rage, not unmixed with surprise, burst from the assembled men, followed once more by a deep silence, when nothing was heard but their excited breathing; they were anxious to hear more, and he continued: "you have a right to be angry! but i also was right in thus speaking to him. and the proud confidence whence those words of mine had sprung did not forsake me when he dared violence. i was more deeply roused than any of you, because i loved the right more deeply. but we had need to keep our hands pure, both for our own sakes and for the dear sake of justice, for the guilt of it all must be left with him entirely; therefore, i staked my very life to prevent your having recourse to violence on your side. i thanked god that i succeeded; and for the rest of it, it no longer was concern of ours, but of the imperial law court. i waited for the verdict as never before did human soul wait and hunger for the word of man! and when at last it was given--well, if you will take into account my life and the man i am, you will understand that no human tongue can describe the indignation which possessed me. i was utterly broken, yet not with impotent rage, nor yet with my just resentment against those miserable weaklings that should have righted us--but only with an utter pity for myself. for at the very moment when that hunchback creature of a clerk made known to us their decision, the conviction darted through me: 'poor taras! if right and justice are not to be trampled under foot, you will have to become a law-breaker in the sight of men!'--i, the happy husband and father, the good, peace-loving judge--a _law-breaker_! ... _that_ was what smote me down, making me swoon like a woman, and for _this_ reason i cried and moaned like a child when i returned to consciousness. still, it was at that time only a thought, brooking no gainsaying it is true, but there was no resolve about it, still less any planning. my mind was overshadowed with the thunder-cloud that hung heavy on the inward horizon. i had not yet come to consider the ruin that lurked in its blackness, and as yet i gazed upon it with horror and dismay as upon a thing within the range of vision only, but outside the circle of my soul. and once again confidence lifted her head. what though the court of the district had failed to do right, there were other steps of the ladder beyond! i carried our complaint to the court of appeal at lemberg, hoping and waiting yet again. but not with the strong hope of the former waiting! the mind yet clung to it, but my heart had lost its assurance. and the cloud remained. it spread more and more, forcing me to consider how it would break. and then,"--his voice sank to a hoarse whisper--"and then i felt an inward compulsion to go hunting in the mountains ... it was there i came to see how it would end.... "on returning--it was about this season last year--i found the superior court's verdict. the plea was declared to be groundless. i did not burst into a rage, i did not even lament; but i saw that the cloud must break. it was due, however, not only to me and mine, but even to humanity, once again to consult my legal adviser. he mentioned the emperor; it was only by way of saying something, for the poor man, himself helpless in the matter, pitied my distress. but that remark lit up my night, comforting me greatly; it sent its radiance across the dreary wild in which the straying wanderer had vainly been seeking his home. the darkness, the terrors were forgotten, for the light of his own hearth had shone forth to guide him. i had forgotten that there was one on earth whom the matter concerned even more than myself, because god had laid it upon him as a great and holy duty; and i knew now it was my duty to go to that man--to appeal to the emperor. i went to vienna, upborne by a boundless hope! it gave me courage to face the strange country, to face every difficulty in my way to reach the ear of majesty.... "but when i had seen him--it required no word of his--i knew that my hope was vain. now, i will not have it said of me that i speak unjustly of any man; let me say, therefore, i do not look upon the emperor of austria as on one who loves wickedness or unrighteousness. he is a poor, sickly creature, fond of his lathe they say, and he seemed very anxious to know about my boots and breeches. that is all; for he is my enemy now, whom i shall have to oppose as long as there is breath in this body, and it behoves a man to speak more generously of his enemy than of his dearest friend.... "i returned home as a man who knows what is before him, and, recognising his duty, determines that the inevitable shall not find him unprepared. i acted accordingly with a sadness unspeakable, abiding the imperial decision. not that i was foolish enough to hope it might turn out favourably; but what i meditated grew to be right only when the emperor's refusal had reached me. it would have been sin before! but the time of waiting must not be lost.... once again i retired into the mountains, endeavouring to make myself at home there more and more.... "last night father leo transmitted to me the final decision. it is unfavourable. i have it much at heart that you should understand it is the denial in itself and nothing else in the writ that has ripened my intention. some foolish clerk has clothed the refusal in unkind words, talking of prison unless i submitted. but i know better than to imagine that he did so by order of that harmless man, the emperor, who is too good-natured to think of hurting a fly. it is not that which moves me. nay, if he had penned it with his own hand i would not care a straw about it, any more than i should be influenced to the contrary if he were to write: 'my dear taras, it grieves me sorely to deny your request; but i am anxious to reward your honest zeal by sending you the golden cross with which i decorate great heroes.' i should send back his cross, and would proceed with the duty which is before me." as these words were falling from his lips his armed companions--sefko and jemilian, wassilj soklewicz and lazarko rodakowicz--had approached him more closely, standing quite near to him now. their faces were white and quivering with emotion, most of all jemilian's, who could not restrain his tears as he turned to his master, handing him his gun. "not yet," said taras gently; but he took the weapon, leaning upon it as he continued, distinctly, slowly, and solemnly: "now listen to me, ye men, and all that have come to hear me! listen attentively, that you may be able to repeat my words to any that should ask you. a fearful wrong has been committed in this village--there has been robbery and perjury. i have used every means provided by the law to undo it. it has been of no avail. the perjured witnesses remain unpunished, and the wrongdoer enjoys the benefit of his robbery. nay more--not only have i vainly appealed to the constituted authorities, the guardians of our right, but i have done so to your hurt and mine. i have been a curse to the village, because i strove for justice. he who loves the right must suffer, and the evildoer flourishes! "it is incredible, and how should one understand it? is that fair faith of mine falsehood and deception? is it not true that god has put an emperor over the land, giving him much power, that he should see to the right? is there no such ladder as i have spoken of binding earth to the high courts of heaven? "yes--yes, and yes again! it is so, it must be so everywhere where men would dwell in safety; but it is not so with us. in this unhappy place the arbitrariness, the unfitness, the carelessness of men has counteracted the holy will of god, making the wrong victorious! "what, then, is the consequence for every right-seeking man? i have shown that wherever the divine institution is powerless, as for instance in distant mountain haunts, it is not incompatible with the will of god that every man should be the guardian of his own right. and how should it be otherwise in an unhappy place, where the wicked man's violence is left to trample down the right with impunity? in such a place also the power of protecting his life and goods must return to the individual man. if there is no emperor to help me, i must help myself! "hear, then, these three things. let them he repeated from mouth to mouth, that all men shall know them who dwell in this unhappy land in which justice is not to be found! "firstly! since the emperor is not doing his duty towards me, i am not bound by my duty towards him. and therefore i, taras barabola, declare before almighty god and these human witnesses that i can no longer honour and obey this emperor ferdinand of austria. his will in future is nothing to me, i disown and disregard it; and in all things in which hitherto i have acted according to his laws i shall henceforth be guided by my own conscience solely. should he cause me to be summoned i shall pay no heed; should he despatch his soldiers to catch me, i shall defend myself. and since his magistrates abuse their power to the furtherance of wrong, and he takes no steps to prevent it, i shall strive to lessen that power as much as possible, waging war upon it wherever i can! i shall do this anywhere, everywhere, while i can lift a hand! yes, i, taras barabola, in the name of almighty god, herewith declare war against the emperor of austria!--war!--war!" a shriek rose from the people, surprise, horror, approval and disgust blending together in a single cry, which died away as suddenly and completely as though it had been wrung from these hundreds of listeners--an involuntary outburst of their mute dismay. "secondly! because justice is withheld from us, i shall take it by force. i shall oblige the mandatar to indemnify the village. yet this will not be the extent of my duty, but only a beginning. if the name of almighty god is not to be dishonoured in this country, there is need of a judge, of an avenger, before whom the evil-doer shall tremble and whom all good men can trust. and since there appears to be no one else for this holy office, i shall undertake it, looking upon it as a sacred duty while life shall last. i will be a protector to the oppressed in the emperor's stead, since he is not. and because his power is with the wrong-doer, i shall require a strong arm to oppose it. i shall unfurl my banner up yonder in the mountains; let each and all come to me that will serve the right. the wild forest which hitherto has been the haunt of lawbreakers only, must now be a gathering-place for those that honour the law, but to whom justice is dearer. there i shall dwell, beyond the reach of any of their hirelings. i shall swoop down upon the dwellings of men whenever the high calling i have accepted requires me to do so, and i shall return thither having avenged the wrong." "a hajdamak!" cried simeon, despairingly. "our taras a hajdamak!" "taras a hajdamak!" echoed the people, some scornfully, some in utter dismay, according to the hatred or pity that rose uppermost. "no!" cried taras, a deep flush overspreading the pallor of his face. "god forgive you for insulting me at this time. a hajdamak is a brigand, but i shall be the leader of a band of avengers, and we shall fight against every evil-doer--against those scoundrels also who go by that name. let me add, now, what in the third and last place i have to say. within a week from this, by easter sunday, my banner will be unfurled up yonder. whoever can come to me with pure hands, either to inform me of a wrong committed, or to join my band, will be able to learn my whereabouts from any honest herdsman or bear-hunter of the forest. but let him consider it well before he becomes a follower of mine. if he seek pleasure or lawlessness let him not come near me, for our living will be of the poorest, and i shall maintain the strictest discipline. if he hope for booty let him keep away; for no plundering will be allowed, and with my own hand shall shoot the man who, while following my banner, shall dare to touch any man's goods. let none come to me who can testify to being happy, for he that follows me must know that there is no returning, that he has separated himself for ever from all men dwelling in peace; he must be ready to meet death any day, either in open combat, which is a death to be courted, or on the gallows, as though he were an evil-doer indeed. it would not be thus if men were different, if generosity and self-denial were not so rare in the world; for then my banner could be that of open insurrection, enlisting all good men against the common foe--the wrong to be put down. but this cannot be; i must be satisfied with the possible. "and now i pray you to make this known, not forgetting to add that taras barabola will continue this war until he has gained the great end he strives for, until that glorious, divine institution is visibly established in this land. if i can but succeed, let happen to me what may, and though i should have to pay for it with my own life, i should meet even the felon's death a victor indeed." he paused, his breast heaving, and then he added, with faltering voice:-- "and now ... fare ye well! accept my best wishes, individually and as a community .... i am grateful to those who ever did me a kindness, and forgive those who have done me any wrong ... be good to my unhappy wife, to my poor little children.... i leave them here--ah, forsaken indeed.... pity them, don't pity me.... if you will but believe i am not wantonly becoming an outlaw that is all i look for.... it may be the last time you see me.... may your life be happier than mine.... farewell!" these broken words fell upon so deep a silence that they were heard plainly by all that crowd of listeners, although his voice had sunk to a whisper, quivering with tears. and none dared break the silence when he had finished, until, with a sudden leap from the table, and surrounded by his companions, he strove to make a way for himself towards the church. then only the sacred awe which held them spellbound was lifted from the souls of these men, yielding to a commotion unheard of, even among that savage people--in their 'general assembly' at least. every man seemed ready to attack his neighbour; it was a tumult unspeakable, and some time passed before one voice succeeded in making itself heard above the rest. it was that of the corporal. "stop him!" he roared. "he is a rebel, i will make him a prisoner in the emperor's name. you must help me, all of you. jewgeni, what is the good of your being judge?" he was not left alone this time, some dozen of old soldiers rallying round him. but the rest of the men indignantly opposed him. "we are no policemen!" chirped the infant voice of the herculean smith. "no policemen!" echoed the people.... "let him go in peace!... he has addressed the general meeting, and has a right to go free." "in the name of the emperor!" reiterated the corporal, white with rage, and, snatching a pistol from the belt of his nearest neighbour, he pointed it at the men, "let me do my duty, or woe to your lives!" "woe to yourself!" cried wassilj, the butcher, brandishing his axe in the would-be hero's face; and blood would certainly have flowed had not the judge interfered, an unwonted courage coming to him from the urgency of the situation. "do you know this sign?" he cried, thrusting his staff of office between them. "there is power vested in it; this is the general meeting, and i command you, desist!" and the combatants owned his authority, wassilj dropping his axe and the corporal his pistol. taras, meanwhile, surrounded by his little band, attempted to break through the ranks; it was not so easy, for the people pressed round him, endeavouring to hold him, and discoursing wildly. but far harder to the parting man was the sorrowful entreaty of his friends. alexa sembrow, the late elder, had fallen on his knees before him, his white hair framing an agonised face. "don't taras, for god's sake, don't do it!" he kept repeating, while old simeon bethought himself of another means, haply, to stop him. he was pressing to the inn to bring hither poor anusia. father leo alone looked on with folded arms, his face quivering, his lips unable to move. he was the only one for whom taras yet had a word; turning to him with deep emotion, he said: "forgive me, thou best of friends, forgive my silence, and my grieving thee now so sorely. thou hast loved me truly, i know!" that was too much for leo; he lay weeping in the arms of his friend. "alas," he sobbed, "what a man is lost in you!" "not so!" replied taras, disengaging himself gently. "he who obeys the dictates of his own true heart cannot be lost, happen what may--at least not in the eyes of the just ones...." he turned away, stopping once again: "father leo," he said, below his breath, so that the priest only could understand him, "father leo, will you promise me one thing?" "surely. what is it? about your wife?" "nay; i require no promise on her account, for i know your heart. it is about--myself--when one day--my last hour shall have come--may i send for you? will you come to me--to any place?--no matter how terrible it be?" "i shall come," faltered the pope. "do you pledge me your word ... to any place?" "wherever it be." "thank you for all your friendship--for this last proof most of all...." he turned away hastily, whispering to jemilian, "are the horses ready?" "yes; behind the church, as you commanded. young halko has saddled them, and is waiting your orders." "then let us be gone." but one more wrench before he could be free. the sons of simeon, hritzko, and giorgi, had caught his knees. "take us with you," they cried; "we cannot--we will not let you go without us!" "get up!" he cried, sharply; and there was no gainsaying his voice, hoarse though it was with emotion. "do you think i am villain enough to ruin the sons of my friend?" adding, with a quivering smile: "you are quite incorrigible. what was the use of my resisting your importunity before? but love me always, and remember me when i am gone. you are dear to me. good-bye!" he walked away, and none stopped him. having mounted, he was about to spur his horse, when once again his name was called with a shriek so heartrending that he shuddered and paused. he knew who was calling him. his unhappy wife was standing outside the inn, looking after him with despairing eyes. she would have fallen to the ground had not old simeon supported her trembling figure. "farewell!" faltered taras; but the sound did not reach her, falling dead at his own feet as it were. he could but wave his hand, and, spurring his horse mercilessly, the creature dashed away in a maddened gallop, his men following; and the little band vanished in the mysterious shadows of the fir-covered uplands. chapter x. to the mountains. there is a strange legend concerning the origin of the carpathians, which, now towering abruptly, now rising in gentler lines, form a mighty wall of separation between the rich lowlands where the theiss flows and that vast plain, of heath-country diversified with fertile tracts, stretching away southward beyond the pruth into roumania. to those blue-green domes cling the gathering clouds, and sailing away thence they burst in storms of rain upon the magyar or upon the ruthen, as the capricious winds may list; and in those forest-haunts the rivers rise which come down from the heights, headlong at first and wondrously clear, but flowing wearily as they reach the plain. the dwellers round about differ in race and tongue; but they look to the mountains as to a common centre, where the weather is born, and whence the water is given for the lowlands; and common to all is that quaintest of legends, whether slav, or magyar, or roumanian--a legend crudely imagined, but not without a meaning of its own, however fancifully expressed. there was a good old time, the people will tell you, at the beginning of things, when the earth was a fair garden, a fertile plain, with pleasant groves here and there, and gentle hills. there were no mountains, no ravenous beasts, no thunder storms, no bursting waters, and the people were of one race and tongue. men were happy in those far-off times--tilling the soil, and living on the fruits of this beautiful plain. and god would visit the garden he had made, and bless the children of men. but these foolish people were not content, and, uniting in their pride, they clamoured for golden harvests without previous toil; in punishment whereof the lord god ceased to visit them, confounding their language so that they could no longer clamour in common, and permitting, moreover, a mighty barrier to be raised between them--the great carpathians--to separate them into different tribes. for the enemy of men was sent to raise the mountains, and to make them terrible withal. the heaving earth burst upward, and there were peaks and crags to frown at the discontented race. the evil one took seven days to shape the carpathians, beginning on a sunday, on which he heaped up the most towering parts, and finishing off with the lesser carpathians on the seventh day when his power was nearly spent; that was saturday, for which reason no doubt this part has always been a dwelling-place of jews. the mountain range of seven divisions, as is plainly to be seen, was of awful aspect, since the evil had the making of them: not a tree or green thing would grow to clothe the riven rocks and the peaks he had raised to spread terror upon the once smiling plain. for the lord god had been wroth with men. but there was one in heaven, the good saviour, who prayed his father not to be angry for ever, but to let him add beauty to the mountains which the evil one had made for the punishment of men. he went, and at his touch the whole range was changed, not losing its dread gloominess, yet gaining a wondrous beauty over and above. for the saviour with his pitiful hand covered the bare mountains with the grandest forests ever seen, surrounding the rocks with spreading verdure, and planting flowers at their feet. he made waters to spring in every glen, and cascades leap from the crags; and though wolves and bears went prowling, he created sheep and the dappled deer to browse in the sylvan haunts. and ever since, the people will tell you, the carpathians have had a beauty of their own, but with terror combined. it is hardly to be imagined how a man would feel who, by some magic, were to find himself suddenly transplanted into the heart of these mountains. for unmoved he could not be, were his perceptions never so blunted; a sensation of awe would steal upon him with something of wonder and dismay. nay, such a feeling must come upon any wanderer ascending step by step from the lowlands, though the gradual rise would prepare him in a measure for the weird grandeur and stern beauty unrolling before his eyes. to such a one the range at first would appear as a gigantic ridge of clouds heaped up on the horizon, but differing in hue according to the time of day; of a bluish black in the morning, they fade into shades of grey, transparently pale in the full daylight, till the sinking sun suffuses them with a crimson blush, and they continue shining through the long twilight like a wall of fire at the far end of the dusky plain. but the following morning those same shapes are black again, and all the darker if the air be clear--a wall of towering density jutting its pinnacles into the ethereal blue. they seem approaching, but the vast plain is delusive; they are yet miles away. the landscape, however, has left monotony behind, growing more changeful at every turn. the moorland has disappeared, with its sedgy pools, instead of which there is an abundance of rivulets, growing more limpid and more headlong as you proceed; for you are ascending steadily, your horizon enlarging. cornfields are few and far between, wheat making room for the more hardy oats; while all about you there are great tracts of brownish uplands, where juniper bushes are plentiful and the heather will burst into sheets of bloom. villages are becoming scarce--mere hamlets, too poor for a manor house, too poor almost for a church, and with cottages of the humblest, the public-house alone retaining its undesirable dimensions. orchards are no longer to be seen, but beech woods increase; the forest encloses you, and soon even the beech is crowded out by the fir. the sky, wherever it appears through the jagged branches, is of a deeper blue, for there are no misty vapours here as in the lowlands; but the air is filled with a strange, crisp perfume, the resinous exhalations of pine wood. every sense thus is alive to the change of scenery, and if you are a lover of your lowland home, despite its dreariness, you will be overtaken by a haunting sensation of fear of the unknown world you have entered. but emerging from the pine wood presently, and looking back from the height you have gained, the very plain behind you has assumed another aspect, a strange loveliness enwrapping it. the old homely expanse is aglow with an emerald hue--a giant meadow seemingly--streaked with the silver of its flowing waters; a shining greensward, the brighter for its cottages; and far yonder, where the blue of the heavens seems mingling with the green of the earth, your own dwelling perchance, a fair jewel in a radiant setting. but the far-off wall, with its towering blackness? it has resolved itself magically. to your right and to your left, and above you, there are round-domed mountains and bolder peaks rising atop of one another to an immeasurable height. that path up the pine wood has brought you into the heart of the carpathians, and their strange beauty, weird and wild and unspeakably mysterious, is upon you suddenly. yet monotony is even here; the world seems a sea of swaying pines, and the eye has nothing to rest it from the gloomy green save the sky, vast and blue. the heart grows lonely and wistful, but scarcely attuned to tender thoughts as amid the voices of the plain. the spell of the forest wilds is upon it, bracing it up to its own sterner kind. resistless and tossing, each torrent dashes through its rocky glen, breaking into clouds of spray about the boulders, and mantling the young pines in a shower of shining drops. and from the forest deeps strange music is heard of groaning branches and whispering tree tops, now wild and solemn, now murmuring as in dreams, never ceasing, but going on for ever like the song of the sea. and as you listen you are caught in a trance, and drawn deeper still into the witching region. nature here does not captivate by little gifts and graces; but, having looked at you once with eyes of kindling beauty, wild, weird, and awful, you worship at her feet. it is a charm both chaste and powerful, and, having known it once, you seek to know more. but not many are admitted to that delight, which is still reserved for the few--even as in the days when taras barabola repaired up yonder to unfurl his banner. yet occasionally some lover of the wilder aspects of nature will quit the shores of the theiss or the fruth to seek entrance into the enchanted regions of that unknown world. the forest wilds of the welyki lys to this day are given over to bears, hajdamaks, and huzuls, and the lowland folk aver that there is little to chose between either. but that is a libel. even a bear up yonder is as good-natured as a bear can be, not having made the closer acquaintance of man. a hunter by nature, he hates being hunted, and grows surly in consequence; nay, it must be owned that in the more inhabited parts he has quite lost his native _bonhomie_, growing cunning and spiteful, robbing more than his need, and killing for mere blood-thirstiness. not so, however, up among the wilds. he is lord in possession there; behaving, accordingly, with a pride of his own, and not without generosity. of course he will have his daily tribute, and fetches it too--now from this fold, now from that; but the shepherds and herdsmen quite understand this. there is no help against the lord of the soil, they say; but the bear, on the whole, is at least a convenient landlord, fetching himself what he wants, and not expecting you to carry it after him. not fiercely as a robber, therefore, nor stealthily as a thief; but leisurely and with dignity, master bruin arrives at the pen, picks out his victim--the sheep, goat, or calf which takes his fancy--and walks away with it as quietly and unconcernedly as he came. and he behaves most fairly, not oppressing one unfortunate subject more than another, but visiting in succession all the pens and folds within a certain radius of his lair; so that he may be looked for at pretty regular intervals. the herdsmen have an idea that he acts from a positive sense of justice; while others, less credulous, are of opinion that the bear of the carpathians is a great walker, and thus naturally finds himself now in this quarter, now in that, turning to the nearest sheep-fold when it is time for his dinner. that the queer biped he meets occasionally might also serve him for a meal, he generously ignores. if he falls in with a herdsman, he gives a growl: "with your leave, brother, there is room for us both." he growls too, though more angrily, on meeting any stranger, but rarely thinks it worth while to attack him; and if he comes across any one asleep he will have a sniff at him, but without a thought of hurting. while the wolf, that low, ugly creature, is hated and hunted down everywhere, a strange feeling of respect prevents any native of the upper mountains from killing a bear. "the poor little father has none too easy a life of it," they say, "and it is not well to murder an honest fellow." there is a tale preserved in the forest of an englishman who once arrived there with the notion of bear-hunting. but although he had muskets of wrought silver, and held them out as presents to any who would help him, not many were found wicked enough to join in the chase. "indeed," say the people, "all who went were frozen to death, the bad englishman first and foremost. it served him right for wishing to hunt the poor little father." the very outlaw, the homeless hajdamak, shares this feeling; and hunting for the pleasure of it, whatever he falls in with in the lower forest regions, he acts peaceably in the upper haunts. "we go shares with the bear up here," he says, "and he behaves well to us." the huzul also, that hybrid of slavonic and mongolian blood, who lives up yonder as a herdsman, hunting the wolf and the deer, and tilling such bits of ground as he can, is not nearly so bad as he is believed to be by his betters in the lowlands. his one great vice is an ingrained want of morality, his own share, handed down from his fathers, of original sin. his ancestors, drifting away from the great wave of migration, unused to a settled home and personal property, knew neither christianity nor the wedded estate. their descendant has accepted all these fetters of lawlessness, but he wears them lightly, according to his nature. he has submitted to a settled dwelling, having a hut of his own, but he will not live in it except when he cannot help himself. from the time the snow begins to melt, until it lies again mountains deep for seven months in the year, the huzul moves about with his cattle from pasture to pasture, from glen to glen, as though driven, not only by outward necessity, but also by a mysterious inward need. while the world is green--winter to him being the black time--he is never long on the soil of his own property. he must return at times to till his field, to sow and reap his oats--the hardest and most unwelcome of labour; he _must_ do it, else he would die for want of food, but he never thinks of adding to his wealth by means of agriculture. every lamb rejoices his heart, and he is proud of his foals; but if he enlarges his oat-field, it is only because of the downright necessity of meeting his wants, and nothing beyond. neither is he greatly advanced in his notions of personal property. to be sure there are certain fields, and pastures, and flocks, belonging to certain settlements, these consisting of three or four, sometimes even of ten or twelve families of the same kindred, and united under one head who rules by birthright. this chief appoints the sowing of the fields and the management of the sheep, but not a grain of oats, nor solitary lambkin belongs to him any more than to another. it is all common property. indeed, there are even pastures and flocks which are the joint property of several settlements, so that a single lamb may happen to belong to several hundred owners. such property is managed, and the proceeds are allotted at the meeting of the married men, who, though of different settlements, are yet related to one another; for such common ownership always springs from the fact that their forefathers formed one family, which, growing too large, had divided for want of space. there is no personal property then, save wearing apparel and arms; everything else belongs to the family, which means to the clan. the student of political economy, it will be seen, could enrich his knowledge among the huzuls! they are no favourites with the clergy. they are catholics to be sure, of the greek church, but a good deal of their ancestors' heathenism has survived, and their lowland neighbours say of them that a cat is as good a christian as they when she crosses her paws. they take care to have their children christened in the name of some saint, and they know that there is a god almighty living up yonder with the virgin mary and their son, and that there are lots of angels and devils, and of saints no end. this is the extent of their catechism, except, perhaps, that some few can repeat the lord's prayer after a fashion. there is no helpful pastor to feed these poor sheep, showing them the comfort they require as much as any. for they also are part of the groaning creation struggling with the sore riddle of existence, and their sense of helplessness is the greater because their lot is cast amid supremest hardships, leaving them too often the prey of the blind forces of nature. as much, then, as any of the striving children of men they are in need of the assurance that there is a compassion more than human; but who is there to tell them the good news? there are popes in the distant villages whose nominal parishioners they are. "why do they not come to church, then?" innocent question! the journey would take several days, even if they remembered they would be welcome. but since there is nothing to remind them of the far-off church and pope, how should they remember? and so christianity to them has resolved itself into the legendary knowledge of the heavenly household, a poor, useless knowledge, although the huzul does his best to grasp the idea of the godhead, clothing it in his own image. the almighty to his perception is a just huzulean patriarch, something like hilarion rosenko dwelling by the "black water;" the virgin mary a kindly housewife; and christ, the saviour, a great, noble hunter, whom the spiteful hajdamaks killed for entering their domain. they don't quite understand why the popes should keep talking about this saviour as though he were alive still; for if he is, why does he not show himself among the mountains? but besides this "christian" belief, they keep up the institution of those shining divinities worshipped by their ancestors of old--the sun, the moon, and the host of stars. these, happily, can be seen, and their blessings felt--the light and the warmth they shed upon the darksome wilds. but who shall save them from the powers of evil about them; from the stormy whirlwind rushing through the forests, uprooting the strongest trees and sweeping away the sheltering roof of their homestead? who shall help them against the wicked sprites whose gambols produce snowdrifts, burying men and cattle? or who protect them from the evil witch stealing about in the gloaming with sickness in her train? for they are surrounded with uncanny beings of whom they know nothing save the ill-effects they feel, and they know but one means of pacifying them--as one pacifies an ill-natured neighbour, by occasional bribery. these strangest of christians and dwellers of the mountain wilds even manage to die without the pope's assistance. when some aged pilgrim lies at the point of death on the couch of bear and sheepskins they have spread for him, neither he nor his people give a thought to the ghostly shepherd of the nearest manse. what would be the use, indeed, if they did think of him, since it would take him at least nine days to come and return? so it is out of the question, and it is as well that neither the dying man nor his weeping relatives miss the spiritual comfort. one of them says the lord's prayer, adding some other mystic charm with which these poor people strive to pacify the divinities they believe in, the sufferer repeats the words with his dying breath and expires without anxiety on that score. when the corpse has stiffened, they bury it beneath some forest tree, cutting a great cross into the bole, not forgetting some mysterious signs to its right and left "for the other gods." if, then, they manage even to die without the aid of a parish priest, it is scarcely to be wondered at if they do not need him to tie the nuptial knot. when any man and woman among them, generally of riper years, have agreed to spend their future days in common, this is a matter, they think, which concerns no one beyond themselves except the heads of their settlements, who never withhold their blessing unless the bridal pair should happen to be of different settlements at variance at the time about some bit of property or act of violence. if such is not the case the wedding is fixed upon forthwith, and word is sent over the mountains: "come to the homestead of marko, on such and such a day, when long-legged sefko will take curly magdusia to wife." and everybody is sure to come, bringing little gifts of kindness, and taking their fill of the schnaps which the heads of the settlements have procured in exchange for some sheep in honour of the guests. and when the last drop has been consumed, sefko and magdusia are looked upon as married, which does not always imply a change in the place of abode of either of them. as for the pope's blessing, it is not disregarded on principle, since even the other gods are remembered; only there is no hurry. sefko has no idea that magdusia, in order to be his really, must be given to him by the pope, and so he takes his time about it, presenting himself for the blessing when opportunity offers, maybe the christening of their first offspring. if the pope be at all zealous he will, of course, lecture them on their want of morality, the pair listening submissively, but never understanding what should have roused the good man's ire, or displeased the almighty, as he tells them. as for the infant, it is considered to belong to its mother's settlement, growing up to the same rights as any other youth. for the rest, the huzul shares in all the virtues and vices of uncivilised humanity: he is free from envy, candid, brave, and hospitable, but also coarse in his tastes and cruel. the emperor's magistrates are nothing to him, he does not need their protection; and of his free-will he is not likely to pay any tax. let his cousins of the lowlands do that, whom he pities and despises accordingly. of a similar kind are his feelings concerning the homeless hajdamaks; he, the native of the mountains, looking upon the outlaws much as the bear is supposed to look upon man; and, in consequence, actual enmity between them is rare. not unless he were really starving with hunger or cold would a hajdamak ever think of attacking even a single herdsman up yonder, a last remnant of generosity preventing him from wronging those on whose soil he dwells, and who, as he but too well knows, could take grievous revenge any moment. not in the memory of men, therefore--which is the only source of authentic history within the mountains--has it ever happened that a band of outlaws dared an attack upon any settlement. but if the huzul has little to fear from the hajdamaks, he may yet get into trouble on account of them, that is, by means of the whitecoats who are after those ruffians. the huzul considers it incumbent on him to hate the soldiers; for are they not the servants of a power he refuses to recognise? but that power will lay hold of him if it can. there is no help for the emperor--he must just put up with it--if the huzul refuses to consider himself a taxpayer; some imperial exciseman, however, may see his opportunity of paying the huzuls a visit under cover of the military. "hang the hajdamaks!" groans the huzul, "but for them no confounded exciseman would have ventured up hither;" and, overpowered with the thought of his loss in lambs and sheep, he is sure to add: "hang the whitecoats! i wish the hajdamaks could teach them a lesson and make them keep clear of the mountains for ever." he is so wrathful, indeed, that he could scarcely tell which of the two he would like to see hanged first. a strict neutrality, however, is the outcome. he would rather die than betray to the whitecoats the hiding place of "green giorgi"; at the same time he has no idea of warning the outlaw of his enemy's approach, or of rendering him any assistance whatever. he just looks on; and nothing would please him better than that the belligerent parties, like the fighting lions of the fable, should devour each other bodily. and there are other considerations, besides, inviting him to neutrality. he knows that there are ruffians among the hajdamaks whom, even with his notions of honour and justice, he cannot possibly approve of; but they are a mixed lot, and there are others among them who have done nothing a huzul would despise. and since it is not written in a man's face why he has become an outlaw, the huzul behaves alike to them all, neither loving them nor hating them, but holding aloof strictly. the imperial authorities, then, cannot expect the huzuls' help against the bandits, and need not fear their making common cause with them; but that is all, since no one ever lifts a finger to raise the poor dwellers of the mountains and teach them a higher standard of right and wrong. it were quite useless to expect any better; and if regiment upon regiment were let loose upon the carpathians no lasting result could be looked for; for to give chase to any outlaw in the vast forests is as hopeless as to seek for a particular insect in a cornfield. the lawless trade will not die out till civilisation takes up her abode in the mountain wilds, taming the dwellers therein; and, if unable to make better men of them, preparing the way at least for her nobler sister, even justice herself, in whose fair sight men are equals, and oppression shall not stand. it would be a mistake, however, to imagine that all hajdamaks are criminals and cut-throats; a distinction must be made. there is no exact rendering for the word itself in any of the western tongues, and, fortunately, the thing also lies beyond the experience of happier nations. the bulgarians only have a similar word, denoting a similar existence, the "hajdamak" of the carpathians and the "hajduk" of the balkan being akin, both revealing in strangest blending some of the best and some of the very worst impulses of a suffering people. it is not easy, therefore, to judge fairly. there are three distinct types among these outlaws, or "free men" as they call themselves. firstly, there are those who have escaped from the arm of justice, having committed some crime, and who are not only guilty in the sight of the law, but of ill repute even among their kind. these men never unite in great numbers, their own wickedness rendering them distrustful of one another. singly, or at most by twos and threes, they will pursue their villainous trade of waylaying travellers, or perpetrating what robbery they can. they avoid open fight, being best protected by their cunning. secondly, and far more numerous, are those who are criminals indeed in the eye of the law, but are looked upon by the people as martyrs to their cause. some may have fought the tax-gatherers in bitter despair when they were about to be sold up; they may have been good and peaceful men, who thus suddenly took up the evil life. but, terrible as existence may be in the forest wilds, it is better than prison, and the unhappy man flies thither from the wrong he has committed almost in spite of himself. "he is gone after the sun," say his neighbours, glad to know him safe when the constables seek him--gone westward, that is, from lowland podolia into the carpathians. and others there are, martyrs to the sad relation between the polish landlord and the ruthen peasant; the landlord oppressing, till at some dark moment of wrath or drunkenness the peasant snatches up his gun or hatchet. there are deserters, too, from the emperor's colours, sympathised with cordially; for what right should the emperor have, argue these people, to levy the life-tax among them! "come join us, ye men, for life here is sweet!" are the words of a hajdamak song. but in truth it is an awful existence, although the miserable fellows do their best to make it bearable to one another. they will gather in bands of a score or more, plighting their troth, each sharing with the other the good things which are of the fewest and the ill things that abound. the huzul will leave them alone, and the whitecoats they need scarcely fear. but it is nowise easy to be an "honest hajdamak" when hunger and cold pursue them--for they have notions of honesty of their own, as old jemilian suggested in his report to father leo. it is "honest" in an outlaw not to commit mere vulgar robbery, or take life save in self-defence or for revenge. he may rob a polish landlord or the men of the law, but he would be disgraced by robbing a peasant or a village pope. it is quite "honest" to stop a stage-coach, empty the postbags, and rob any polish or austrian passenger; but it would be disgraceful to inquire what money a pope might carry with him, travelling by the same coach. there was a time when no stage-coach in those parts could be safe from an attack of hajdamaks, unless accompanied by a strong escort of soldiers. "great deeds," however, grew more and more impossible, and indeed they were never easy. it was always a miserable life in the dreary wilds, without shelter in the rigorous winter-time, and often without food. and it would entirely depend on what manner of man the 'hetman' (captain) was, as to how a band would bear up through such a season of distress; whether "dishonesty" would be had recourse to, when for the gaining of a mere livelihood they would sink to the level of the despised criminal, or whether their spirit would rise to some "great deed" of despair, even if it must bring them to close quarters with the whitecoats. but this second alternative, as a rule, might only be looked for if the 'hetman' was a hajdamak by deliberate choice, driven to the life for an idea rather than as the outcome of some crime. men of this kind form the third class; they have always been rare, and the history of one adopting the awful trade of his own free will has ever made a stir. mere love of pillage could never be an adequate reason; for a man of this description is aware that he can rob his neighbours with less trouble in the plain. no, there are nobler motives--a wild passionate manliness rising against oppression, or a yearning indignation and pitiful sympathy with the helpless despair of the people, will urge some few to "go after the sun." these few are the last representatives of the true hajdamak, who is fast becoming a legend of the past. the ruthens, now the most peaceful and the most oppressed of slavonic tribes, at one time were the boldest and most belligerent of the race, the terror of their neighbours, poles, russians, and roumanians. but to-day one could only wonder why these people in song and story should always be designated as "falcon-faced," if indeed such a face were not met with among them occasionally even now--bold and clear-cut, full of energy and passion, with dark daring eyes. and as the type is found still, so are the old dauntless courage, and the ardent love of liberty. but he who preserves the true nature is lonely among his kind, and the misery about him will fill his soul with a bitter yearning for the times that are gone, the times surviving only in their songs--wild passionate outbursts, full of bravery and fortitude, sounding strangely enough on the lips of the humbled, labouring peasants. and such a one by his own inward necessity is driven forth from the plain; he takes to the mountains, and henceforth it is his one desire to make war upon the polish oppressors, the murderers of his race. it is his one idea, his one resolve; and being a man of energy and power, he will naturally rise to the leadership of a band. he is an "honest hajdamak" at first, but does not always end so; for it is an evil trade, hurtful to body and soul. and whether they remain "honest," or fall away from the higher aspiration, they are sure to end ill--they and their followers. truly an evil trade, and few taking to it ever reach old age; the pitiless cold, or hunger and hardships of grimmest kind decimating the band, while the more hardy ones fall a prey to the wild beasts, if not brought to the gallows instead. and whatever their end may be, their people are anxious that their memory should be wiped out--anxious it should be forgotten that one of theirs took to the mountains. a hajdamak while he lives is held in some respect, inasmuch as he has gained the liberty sighed for by others--the dead man is nowhere. but among the numbers living and dying thus sadly, there are three whose names are not forgotten, whose memory lives in song and tale, though dimmed with the haze of receding years; three who are famous, moreover, as being the only "hetmen" who moved the huzuls to take part for or against them. the first of these was one alexander dobosch, called the black, or the iron-framed, a ruthen from the bukowina who arose towards the end of the eighteenth century, and for several years was far more powerful throughout pokutia than the emperor. he had been a well-to-do peasant, and a boundless ambition only appears to have led him to his strange and fearful adventures. the huzuls adored him, and he behaved like a king of the mountains, issuing manifestos to the "fellow at vienna," making laws and levying taxes. but this was his ruin; the huzuls were not going to condone in the iron-framed hajdamak what they had never approved of in the "fellow at vienna." their devotion gave way to wrath, but the man was so powerful that they dared not oppose him openly. he was poisoned by some of his followers at a drinking bout. of a different type was "wild wassilj," or, as song has it, the "great hajdamak," a podolian peasant youth, lithe as a sapling pine, strong as a bear, and daring as a falcon. he had been in the personal service of a young noble, the brother-in-law of the lord of the manor, both of whom were the terror and detestation of every father and husband in the neighbourhood. but wassilj suddenly set his face against the lawless life, growing strangely silent and anxious to be good; the fact was he loved an honest maiden of the village. but, unhappily, his master himself had set eyes upon the girl, and, finding her proof against his advances, he carried her off with the help of some menials. wassilj thereupon waylaid and shot him, forming a band there and then, and becoming the scourge of the nobility for miles around, his thirst for revenge being unappeasable. it was found in those days how little it availed to send out soldiers with a hope of crushing the bandits in their mountains. the "great hajdamak" was not vanquished by anything the authorities could devise against him; but the innate spark of goodness in his wild and wayward heart overcame him in the end. for he was not a bad man by nature, and the remorse that would seize upon him was as poignant as it was true; but he quieted his conscience with the delusion that he was doing these terrible things for the sake of the suffering people. one day, however, when he had overpowered some nobles in the castle of his native village, and had called upon the judge to assist him in bringing them to their just doom, the latter refused, saying he was an honest man, and could not join in the evil work of a cut-throat. that word struck wassilj to the heart, and the same night, with a bullet from his own gun, he stilled that misguided heart for ever. but the third one, whom the huzuls assisted--he whom in song they called "the good judge" and "the great avenger"--was taras barabola. chapter xi. outlawed. the "good judge!" ... the "great avenger!" ... it was not only after his death, not in commemorating song only, that taras was first so designated. these appellations dated from the spring-time of . when palm sunday had come and gone they were echoed from mouth to mouth, while the strange declaration of war that had been uttered beneath the linden of zulawce was fresh in the minds of all. his mission was believed in, though as yet unaccredited by deed. as on the wings of a mighty wind the news sped from village to village, from district to district. not a week passed before all the people had heard it--in pokutia, in the marmaros, in podolia, and in the bukowina; and gathering in groups after the morning service on easter sunday, it was the one topic with them everywhere: "to-day taras will be unfurling his banner.... could there be a surer proof of our misery? he, a christ-like man, and yet driven to turn hajdamak!... but it is well for us--taras has ever been a good judge, and he will prove a mighty avenger!" this opinion had formed rapidly. a whole people stirred to its depth is almost always a righteous judge, a true prophet. every man and woman understood that unheard-of things were passing. true, it was within the experience of most of them that some one or other had taken to the mountains; but such volunteers to the desperate trade had been young fellows without home ties, or men of a turbulent character breaking away from the restraints of the law. but how different with this peace-loving peasant, who had everything to make his home attractive, this man who once pointed a pistol at his own forehead to prevent violence from being met with violence! that phrase of mr. broza's which taras himself had repeated reluctantly, and only because he was a "dying man," had taken hold of the people's imagination--_a christ-like man_. and truly there was a breath of the divine sweeping the senses of the oppressed peasantry as they strove to understand his motives. it could not be the love of revenge with him, for he had not been wronged personally; it could not be that he sought to defend his own property, for it had not been touched. he must be doing it, then, simply because "in this unhappy country justice was not to be found," and "because the people had sore need of one to avenge them." and if there is anything that will move the heart of man to its inmost depth, filling it with holy reverence, it is the unselfish deed done for love of a cause which is sacred to all and believed in by each. with similar enthusiasm taras was greeted in the mountains. the rude men who dwell there had been gained so thoroughly during his former sojourn, that one and all they welcomed the news of his returning to be among them for good. was he not a victim of the oppression they hated? its sworn enemy, who henceforth would live to oppose it? every glen on either side of the black water was alive with sympathy, and taras had a staunch ally in every man far and wide in the forest. in his own village, too, opinion had rallied round him entirely, though it would have been difficult to say whether this was due chiefly to the impression he had made upon his hearers on that sunday, or to the selfish vanity of the people. the hearts of some had certainly been touched, and a natural pity for his forsaken wife roused others; while others, again, were merely glad that taras had come to see the folly of trusting in the law, and it flattered their pride that from among themselves an avenger should rise who would make the country ring with his valour. a man of zulawce in those days was welcome wherever he went, because he could tell of the hero of the hour. the people round about seemed to be insatiable of news concerning this taras, and were ready to stand any amount of drink to him who could gratify them, for which reason the men of zulawce, nothing loth, invented story upon story to glorify the pure-hearted man whose life they had embittered all along. yes, the outlaw once more had risen to be the great favourite of his adopted village. yet there were few, even in his own village, who felt for him truly or mourned his loss, and the one man whose sorrow was most deeply sincere carefully avoided the very mention of his name. the good pope had not breathed a word concerning taras since that saddest of partings beneath the linden. his wife only guessed how he suffered, but even she was mistaken in believing that his heart ached for the loss of his friend alone. he was battling with another sorrow, a deeper trouble overshadowing his pious mind. and the moment came when the popadja understood it. it was on the evening of good friday. not till nine o'clock, and weary with the many services of the day, had the priest returned home, eating a mouthful of supper, and retiring to his study. thither his wife followed him presently, establishing herself with her needlework in silence. he was pacing the room, murmuring to himself, as was his wont in preparing his sermon, and she refrained from speaking, but gave a furtive glance at him now and then. she had often thus watched him occupied in holy meditation, and the inward peace radiating from his countenance at such times would sink into her own heart with a loving content. not so now, for an unspeakable grief was reflected in the face she gazed upon, and the bitterness seemed overflowing till she trembled and took courage to interrupt him. "husband," she said, with a beating heart, "are you now busy with the sermon for easter day?" he started, looking before him gloomily. "i am utterly unfit!" he whispered hoarsely, as though speaking to himself ... "utterly unfit!" he groaned aloud, covering his face with his hands. the good wife was by his side in a moment. "leo," she sobbed, "what is it? ... ah, yes, i know; but you must not thus give way to your grief. you could not prevent it!" he shook his head, and then caught her hand like a drowning man. "no, wife," he groaned, "it is not merely grief for his loss! but since that man has gone to ruin, i seem a hypocrite whenever i turn to my prayers ..." "good god!" she cried, aghast. "i seem such, indeed," he continued, hastily; "it is more than i can bear, and i cannot help it! have i not been teaching and preaching the justice of god? and now to see this man gone to ruin--this man!" "but, husband, dear," she cried, anxiously, "have you not often tried to make us see that the true recompense is in the life to come? will you doubt it yourself now?" "in the life to come; yes, yes," he repeated in the same husky voice; "it is the one thing to hold by.... but why should it all go wrong in this world? i mean, so terribly wrong? this man!... his wife gone out of her mind, his children orphaned, and he himself making straight for the gallows, just because, in a wicked, self-seeking world, he has within him the heart of a child that will trust his god and believe in justice ... oh, it is awful ... awful!" she clung to him, but he freed himself from her embrace, and once more walked to and fro excitedly. the faithful wife could but retire to her corner, sharing his trouble apart. some minutes passed. and presently he stood still before her, lifting her tearful face, and stroking her hair gently. "fruzia," he said, with quivering voice, "i promise you to try and bear it. i shall battle it out; but it is a sore thing, and needs time.... go to bed now and be comforted.... i shall battle it out." the wife obeyed, but found little sleep, and her soul kept crying through the darkness of that night: "oh, god, pity my husband--he, the priest, to lose faith in thee!" many a wiser prayer may rise to the ear of the giver of all things; yet none, perhaps, ever was more touching. when daylight returned she felt comforted, and drew courage from her husband's quiet face on his bidding her good-bye for early service. she, too, left the house, but not to go to church, for a duty no less sacred directed her steps to anusia's house. poor anusia, indeed! it was not without reason that her friends sorrowed for her, for she was doubly stricken. the last articulate sound that had crossed her lips had been her husband's name--that cry of despair wrung from her as he departed. her grief since then had found vent in wild ravings only, night and day, day and night. not a prayer, not a complaint had she uttered, and her eyes were tearless; but she would give a shriek and continue moaning with parched lips. those that watched her believed her out of her mind, and no hope seemed left, save with father leo, who clung to it. "it will pass away," he said, well-nigh despairing himself; "hers is a more passionate nature than ours, and her grief is the wilder." her ravings, indeed, appeared to lessen, the feverish agony grew calmer, and she began to take food; but to her friends the supervening apathy seemed worse than what had gone before. there she lay in a kind of living death, uttering not a sound, large-eyed and white-faced, wearing the expression of a helpless agony. but when her friends or the children attempted to rouse her, she waved them off, or cried huskily: "leave me alone, i must think it over." and father leo would say: "no one can help her, she must battle through it; but the children must be seen to, having lost both father and mother." and he arranged with his wife that twice a day she should go over to the farm to see to the needs of the household; while outdoor matters found a willing helper in hritzko pomenko, the eldest of simeon's lads. "if i work for taras i shall perhaps bear it that he left me behind," said the honest youth. that had been on the thursday. anusia appeared to take no notice that things were seen to by friends and neighbours, and she continued the whole of good friday in the same dull stupor. but when the popadja entered the sick-chamber early on the saturday a happy change, evidently, had taken place. the bed was vacated, and a servant-girl came running in explaining: "the mistress is looking after the dairy, she is scolding poor hritzko grievously because he brought over his father's new churn." and, indeed, the startled popadja even now could hear the so-called scolding. "i know you meant kindly, hritzko," anusia was saying, in a voice both firm and clear; "but just take your things home with you, i can manage my own business." and the priest's lady herself presently received a similar greeting. "it is most kind of you"--anusia made haste to address her friend as soon as she beheld her--"i am pleased to see you any time; but leave me now. and this kerchief must be yours, i think; i found my tereska wearing it. but my children are no poor orphans, thank god, requiring friends to clothe them." the good lady was only too willing to be reproved. "say what you like," she cried, "i am happy to find you up again!" "yes," said anusia, with perfect composure, "i know you all thought i had gone mad. but my mind was right enough; only, you see, i had to satisfy my own judgment that my husband had done well. i had always looked upon him as the most perfect man on earth, so that the need was great to find an answer to my questioning, and everything besides had to give way." "then you arrived at the conclusion that nothing else was left for him?" broke in hritzko, vehemently. "i have," she assented. "i saw it was his heart that laid it upon him to act as he has done, and he is a man that cannot go against the behest of his own heart. i know that, and it must be enough for me. as to whether he is otherwise in the right or not, i, a woman, am unable to decide. my mind says 'yes,' but the heart keeps crying 'no.' i can but wait and see. if he is in the right the almighty will own him and let him be a helper to many. but if he is on the path of wrong, god will turn from him, and his end will be the gallows. be that as it may; he is lost to us, my children are fatherless, and henceforth i must be to them father and mother in one." "and we all will help you!" cried the popadja, warmly. "as far as i may need your help," returned anusia, "i shall accept it gratefully." and therewith she resumed issuing orders to the servants about the place. father leo did not learn the good news till about noon, when he returned from the parish, and, not waiting to eat his dinner, he hastened to the farm to see with his own eyes that anusia indeed had recovered. he found her very quiet and self-possessed, and there was nothing to make him doubt the soundness of her mind, save the occupation he found her engaged upon. she had had the great barn cleared and the floor was being spread with straw. "what for?" he inquired, wonderingly. "to sleep the soldiers," she replied, with a bitter smile. "the soldiers! what soldiers?" "i am surprised your reverence should require me to explain," she said. "is it unknown to you that he who but lately was master here has declared war against his emperor, and that the wife and children of that man are here unprotected? will it not be the most natural thing to take possession of this farm in order to make it impossible for him to visit his family secretly? and, moreover, it might be supposed that his wife could be so questioned that from her his whereabouts could be learned; at any rate, it might be useful to make sure of her and her children as hostages, in case ..." "no, no!" cried leo, "this latter, most certainly not. the emperor will never wage war upon women and children." "well, we shall see," she continued; "thus much is certain, that we shall have the whitecoats quartered here before long; that coward of a mandatar will take care we shall, if no one else will. did not taras inform him plainly that with him the beginning should be made? i am only sorry for the village. it is hard that the neighbours should suffer, and it will turn them against us. it will be but natural if they do, and i cannot help it." "they shall not, if i can prevent it," cried the pope, eagerly. "now i know what to preach about to-morrow!" "well, i shall be grateful to you, whether you succeed or not, but one thing you must promise me"--she held out her hand, drawing herself up proudly. "you shall not ask them to pity me or my children. we do not need it, please god, while i have health and am able to keep house and home together." he gave her his word, and kept it as far as his own compassion would let him. but his wife, in her own heart, was proudly happy, for never had she heard him preach with a fervour more tender and soul-stirring; not noticing in her wifely gladness that this sermon of his differed somewhat from his usual discourses, inasmuch as he never mentioned either the wisdom or the justice of the almighty, being taken up entirely with the one message to his hearers, the one exhortation of "loving our neighbour as ourselves!" and as he strove in his simple, yet impressive way to make it plain that an act of true love to one's neighbours, mistaken, even, though it might be, was none the less worthy of grateful acknowledgment, and that at all events it could never deserve the ill-will of those for whose sake it had been done, even though they might have to suffer in consequence--they all knew whom and what he meant, and felt moved accordingly. and emotion deepened when he spoke of the common sorrow making all men as brethren, since none was fully happy here below, and that there was no surer salvation from our own misery than being loving and good to other sufferers, especially to the weak and forsaken, the widows and orphans about us. and taking up an example to hand, he spoke of the sad lot of a poor woman, named josephka, whose husband they had lately buried. "do not let us imagine," he cried, "that we are doing more than our bounden duty if we remember her trouble, aiding her with our alms, which she hath need of sorely. yet, poor as josephka is, it is not she that is the most sorrow-stricken widow among us; there being a balm to her grief in the blessed thought that the husband she mourns has gained that rest to which we ourselves are journeying, that he has attained beyond the sorrow which remains with us still. there is another one among us, widowed, i say, and more grief-bowed than she, to whom this consolation is denied, and our most sacred duty is to her! our alms then to josephka, for she has need of them, but give ye your tenderest love, your most helpful sympathy, to that other most sorrowful widow in this village, whose children in their father's lifetime are as orphans in our midst!" there was a great sobbing among the women, and a stirring among the men. one only in all that congregation sat unmoved, even shaking her head in disapproval--anusia herself; and when the service was ended she quitted the building composedly. they all made room, and none dared address her, the popadja only joined her in silence and saw her home. and when the men had gathered in groups without, the one topic was taras, as, indeed, was the case all over the country that morning. some had heard that already more than a hundred men had joined his banner; others had been told that his native parish of ridowa had sent him word how, one and all, they were ready to rise in rebellion at his command; others again had certain information that the district governor at colomea had fainted right away on hearing of taras's now famous declaration of war ... all of which tidings were believed in as faithfully as though the pope himself had announced them as gospel truth from the pulpit. and not a soul present doubted but that taras would swoop down on the arch-villain in their midst to judge him. what difference of opinion there was concerned the time only when the avenger might be expected. "i say he will come to-night," said wassilj, the butcher; "for to-day he unfurls his banner, and he told us it would be his first deed." but others opposed this opinion. "taras is a god-fearing man," said the sexton, "i'll never believe he will thus spend the blessed easter." "nor should i think he would act foolishly," added red schymko; "why the mandatar is safe away at zablotow, hiding with the military. i know it for certain." "you know it for a falsehood then," retorted giorgi pomenko, "the coward is hiding in the iron closet he has had built for himself at the manor house. i rather think, therefore, we shall hear of taras this very night." "so do i," chimed in marko the smith, the giant with the infant voice; "what should he be waiting for? has he not men enough with the hundred about him, being sure also of every honest, brave one among us?" "ho! ho!" rejoined wassilj, the butcher, "am i not honest, or as brave as any? yet, would i lend a hand to the deed? i doubt if many will assist him!" "do you?" snarled the corporal. "can it be a matter of doubt, indeed, when it is a question of aiding your own great hero?" "hold your wicked tongue," burst in the sons of pomenko. "the time is gone when taras could be insulted with impunity. whoever would do so is a scoundrel--and a scoundrel is every one that will not stand by him against the mandatar!" at which jewgeni, the judge, grew alarmed. "hear me," he cried. "a scoundrel?" interrupted the butcher. "you had better hold your tongues, youngsters; this axe of mine has silenced many a bullock!" "hear me," pleaded jewgeni "a hajdamak----" and there he stopped. "nay, hear _me_," broke in red schymko; "i know what is best to do. i make no promises either way, but shall just wait and see! if the mandatar offers resistance, to the shedding of blood even, i were a fool to risk life in opposing him. is it my quarrel? have i prevented the parish from getting back the field by force? it was taras's doing. have i lost the law suit? no, but taras has. have i turned outlaw, calling myself an avenger, and having my praises sung by all the land? no, not i; but taras. then, i say, let him bear the brunt. but when the mandatar and his men are worsted, and there is a chance of repaying ourselves, let us not be such fools as to stand by and look on. as he robbed us, so let us rob him--that is what i think..." "for shame!" cried giorgi pomenko; and wassilj, the butcher, added: "yes, for shame! are you addressing a parcel of thieves?" "well, hear me then--a hajdamak--and i your judge----" but jewgeni again stopped short, the butcher being bent on a further hearing. "listen to me, you men, and i will show you that i am no scoundrel," he cried, lifting up his powerful voice, "i am all for taras, and whoever speaks ill of him shall answer for it to me. he is a grand hero, and far from being a hajdamak. he has undertaken the sacred duty of being an avenger, of righting the wrong. but in this great work we may not help him, because we have wife and child to consider. if he has risen above any such consideration it is in virtue of his own magnanimity. for my part, i am unable to equal it. whoever joins taras openly has to choose between going to prison or taking refuge in the mountains. i shall keep the peace, therefore, and so will every conscientious man here, for the sake of his family." "yes! yes!" cried the men, one after another, "wassilj has said well, taras has our best wishes. more is the pity that we cannot openly join him." "pity!" sneered the corporal; "but you may look on, at a safe distance!" "yes, indeed, and we will," was the unanimous retort. "it is you and schymko that disgrace the village. no honest man will go to sleep to-night." and therewith the consultation ended. not long after, halko, the servant lad of anusia's farm, rushed into his mistress's presence. "is it true"--he cried, "it is being spoken of all over the village--that taras, with a hundred men, will attack the manor to-night? the people mean to watch for it, but will not join him for fear of the law. is it true?" anusia stood trembling violently, a burning glow and a death-like pallor succeeding one another rapidly in her face. "how should i know?" she said presently, with a stony look. "i and my family belong to the village, and have nothing to do with the 'avenger.' and just because he has been the master of this house there is henceforth no communion between him and us! let the others watch for him; we shall retire as usual. let no one dare to disregard my orders!" chapter xii. flourishing like a bay-tree. "while the inhabitants of zulawce thus excitedly waited for the events of the coming night, their busy imagination beguiling the slow hours with various visions of the hapless mandatar, beholding him either hanged, or shot, or burnt alive, this gentleman himself was similarly engaged. that is to say, he also was waiting excitedly for the night, endeavouring to shorten the agony of delay by picturing to himself the approaching crisis. but the images he had in view were of a vastly different nature. for he was nowise hiding in an iron closet at zulawce, which, even if he had desired it, would have been impossible, for the simple reason that there was no such stronghold; but he was at that moment comfortably established in the snug little smoking-room of his chambers at colomea--his refuge, both for his pleasures and, perchance now, in trouble. he had just returned from a dinner which the district governor at this season was in the habit of giving to the officials of the place; and between the blue circles ascending from his expensive cheroot he now beheld visions--imagining the impending scenes at an evening party to which the richest man of the neighbourhood, herr bogdan von antoniewicz, an armenian, had invited a small but select company. these scenes presumably would be of a pleasant nature, for mr. hajek kept smiling--nay, he even skipped about his room the while he puffed his fragrant cloudlets with a sort of irrepressible delight. but if he was expecting some happy event it appeared to be a critical one also, to judge from the nervous action with which he kept pulling out his watch, and there was even an occasional shadow of seriousness gliding over his finely-cut but dissipated features. but this was like a noonday cloud, only darkening for a moment the brilliant sky, and the mandatar returned to his smiles. "pshaw," he said, stopping before his looking-glass and twirling his moustache, "as if i had not made sure of her virtues myself!... three of them! and for the rest of it----" he paused, bowing profoundly to his image in the glass; "for the rest of it, mr. hajek, please to bear in mind your history and your present dilemma. ha! ha!" he appeared immensely tickled with this pretence at honesty; it seemed quite a joke to ruminate over a bit of self-knowledge, and it kept him in the best of humour till the clock struck eight, when he rang for his valet, and, having completed his toilet, he drove to the villa of the armenian. it was early for an evening party of distinction, and mr. hajek, who had lived in paris, and therefore was looked upon as an oracle of good style by all who pretended to be fashionable at colomea, would under ordinary circumstances never have sinned so grievously against the laws he himself had established. but in the present case it was incumbent on him to be the first of the guests. for these were not ordinary circumstances, but, on the contrary, an event which as a rule comes but once in life; he was driving to the villa in order to celebrate his betrothal with the widowed countess wanda koninski, the armenian's only daughter. it was indeed an event! and the several actors in the little comedy had even drawn up a programme for the most suitable expression of their feelings. it has been maintained by people of experience that it is not so much fiery love which ensures the happiest marriages--since the flame too often is sadly transient--but rather an even share of mutual understanding and a certain sympathetic perception of each other's aims in life. if it be so, the mandatar and the young widow might fairly be congratulated. and again, if it be true that a man's relations with his parents-in-law, in order to be satisfactory, must preclude the possibility of a delusion on either side concerning each other's moral worth, not a shadow of a doubt could be entertained but that the mandatar and the parents of his bride elect would yield a spectacle of the most charming friendship--quite hand in glove, in fact. for, excepting mr. hajek himself, herr bogdan von antoniewicz certainly was the greatest rascal of the district. this prosperous man did not like to be reminded of his earlier years, nor was he ever heard to refer to his ancestors, although they had been honest cattle-drovers in moldavia. he himself had pursued this occupation in his youth: but possessing a kind of prudence which rendered his conscience easy and his money-bag close, he managed to make a little capital, establishing cattle trading on his own account. then it happened, as he would describe it, that a sore blow was experienced by the death of the best of uncles, a merchant at constantinople, who had made him his heir. the chief facts were correct, and the deceased had left his money to his nephew, only it was not bogdan who was that nephew, but a poor man of the name of mikita, who was in bogdan's service. the latter had received a ponderous document with seals and flourishes, announcing to him his uncle's bequest; and, being unable to read, he had taken it to his master. bogdan read it--there was a legacy of ten thousand ducats--and he was seized with a feeling of vast sympathy with the humble man. he remembered that mikita had nine ragged children, and that a shower of riches coming thus suddenly could be no blessing, since, no doubt, it would teach him to be thriftless. he said, therefore, to his labourer, "you're a lucky dog, to be sure, there's your uncle dead and left you ten ducats!" this, of course, was to try the man, to see if he were worthy of a great fortune; for what would become of his poor children, mused the philanthropic bogdan, if he made away with his ten thousand ducats, leading a riotous life and turning his back upon work! let him prove first how he will take the lesser luck. the poor man but ill stood the test. he had never known such wealth, and simply cried with delight, begging his master to lend him a ducat on the strength of his inheritance. bogdan did so, hoping the man would not waste so great a sum, but put it out at interest discreetly. but mikita, that spendthrift, knew no better investment than some new clothes for his little ones, also giving them a regular good meal for once. after awhile he presented himself again to his master, who, sadly grieving, handed him a second ducat; and so on till, after six months or so, the wretched father had actually spent the ten of them. and now the well-intentioned bogdan went through a severe conflict with himself, ending with the renewed conviction that it were an unpardonable want of foresight to let those children be ruined. so having given to mikita ten ill-spent ducats, he got him to put his mark to a receipt that the full amount of the legacy had been made over to him, and thereupon he went and presented himself as the required heir. thus bogdan, acting for the best for his humble neighbour, had laid the foundation of his fortune. but it is well known that one's noblest actions are often cruelly misjudged, and this matter somehow leaking out, made it impossible for the tenderhearted cattle-trader to continue in the neighbourhood. he resolved to shake off from his feet the very dust of his old life, departing stealthily, and making his way into austria, where, with his newly-acquired capital, he bought a large property, ostensibly bent on farming his land. the property, however, happened to be situated in the bukowina, a very central position, where austria, russia, and moldavia join. now the import duties in those days were particularly heavy, and a man of resources living on the frontiers could not but direct his faculties to studying their results. mr. bogdan was too clever not to see that free commerce naturally must spring from an overdone system of protection, and, experimenting upon his theory, he ended in siding with free trade altogether. his property was delightfully situated for smuggling purposes, and he flattered himself he would best serve his generation by introducing large quantities of tobacco from bessarabia into austria, to the detriment of the imperial monopoly, which was disgracefully selfish, he argued. he throve for awhile, but the eyes of the customs authorities were upon him. he escaped conviction just in time, selling his property advantageously and acquiring a larger one in eastern galicia. he was now forty years of age, rich and prosperous, but alone in his glory. his heart, such as it was, longed for a distinguished passion, and his buttonhole gaped for a decoration. he would marry into the aristocracy, and become the founder of a noble house. as for marrying a person of title, that is almost easier in those parts than insisting on the contrary; but on what grounds he could become ennobled, even his fertile brain was at a loss to suggest. fortune, however, had always smiled on him; and it so happened that the mysterious power which rules our hearts and destinies introduced to him a lady well qualified for becoming the stepping-stone of his aspirations. in the present instance that world-famed power elected to show itself in the person of a certain jew, who made his living by acting as go-between in the matrimonial market. this herald appeared one day, proposing to mr. bogdan a union with a certain aristocratic spinster, antonia von kulczika. there was no doubt as to her good birth, but she was not _very_ young, and not rich--possessed of influence, however, through having enjoyed the protection, hitherto, of one of the most powerful magnates of the land. wicked tongues, of course, delighted in a tale, for which reason aaron moses, in stating the lady's virtues, kept his hand cautiously on the door-handle. to his agreeable surprise, however, mr. bogdan listened quietly, owning even to a sort of partiality for the lady he had never seen, and that nothing was required but certain easily-defined conditions in order to rouse his ardent love, which conditions being stated, aaron moses entered them in his notebook. within a month the jew returned with a deed of gift, whereby the above-mentioned magnate, with brotherly generosity, settled on the lady the landed property of rossow. mr. bogdan, on making sure of this, laid his hand upon his heart, confessing to the jew his unmistakable devotion to the lady, to whom he was ready now to be introduced. but there was no talk of betrothal as yet. true love mostly is of the shyest, and mr. bogdan found no words for his feelings until aaron moses had brought him a letter wherein the magnate, under his own hand, had given his word of honour that he would procure a patent of nobility for mr. bogdan antoniewicz within a year of his marriage with miss antonia von kulczika. this settled, there was nothing left to hinder the flow of his feelings, and in due course the nuptials were solemnised. they were a pattern pair; and if those only can be happy in married life whose mutual love is equalled by their mutual respect, their happiness was assured, for the love of this couple could not easily have been less than the esteem they bore one another. the happy husband in due time found himself herr _von_ antoniewicz, his wife presenting him, moreover, with a fair-haired little girl. there appeared nothing to prevent their being received into society, for the lady was handsome, bogdan rich and prosperous. the officers of the neighbouring garrison were the first to get over their qualms, the rest of society following suit. as years went on the lady, of course, could not be said to grow in grace or beauty; but bogdan gained riches steadily, possessing three large estates now and plenty of money, which he continued to put to usury advantageously. such were the future parents-in-law of mr. hajek. those who knew them could not but own that all three were worthy of each other, and the same might be said of the bridal couple itself. bogdan von antoniewicz had his daughter educated after the style most approved of by the polish aristocracy. she had a parisian governess, who taught her french and the piano, the rest of the 'branches' being confided to a refugee from warsaw, in whose estimation there wad no science equal to polish patriotism, and in this he instructed her. wanda should be a true pole. it was not pleasant, therefore, when her parents one day made a sorrowful discovery, proving her austrian predilections. she had a lover in the imperial army, who, on being moved with his regiment, left it expedient for her father to find her a husband. it had better not be a rogue, if a fool was to be had, thought the latter; and a suitable youth was found in the person of one count agenor koninski. very suitable he was, being, in the first place, of the bluest aristocracy; moreover, in the second place, of such doubtful finances that bogdan's offer was a godsend to him; and, thirdly, he was an easy-going fellow, whose wife might be what she pleased. "koninski" might be correctly rendered by "horseman"--it was just the name for him. he spent his life with horses, and even came by his death through them, being thrown on a racecourse. the widowed wanda knew what she owed to her position; her sympathies were no longer with the imperial army, but no polish nobleman therefore cared for her hand. she and her belongings had thoroughly disgusted even that lenient body; and, at the time when mr. hajek was making friends at colomea, the armenian, in spite of his great wealth, was reduced to a select circle of visitors--respectable people refused his invitations. he and his wife had reached their threescore and ten, the countess wanda was thirty, and her boy eleven years old. it was high time to put an end to the scandal, and gain an able man who could manage the property. this state of things explains why bogdan, in spite of the pride of his acquired nobility, as well as the widowed countess herself, had turned their thoughts to the low-born mandatar, instructing their willing emissary, mr. thaddeus de bazanski, accordingly--he being no other than that refugee who, in her youth, had educated wanda in polish patriotism, and who still awaited the day when russia should suffer, glad meanwhile to act as the armenian's hanger-on. he had to take his time in making overtures to the mandatar, who did not seem open to his hints; but he was able at last to inform the countess that mr. hajek had discovered he loved her; and it was agreed to celebrate the betrothal forthwith, even on easter sunday. it had been no easy resolve on the part of the mandatar. to be sure, the widowed countess possessed three first-rate charms, nay, virtues, in his eyes, being heiress to the broad lands of rossow, horkowka, and drinkowce, and he himself was not a man given to prejudice. still he had managed somehow to acquire the position of a man of honour in the district, and was loth to part with this pleasant sensation, all the more valued, perhaps, for its novelty. but while he yet felt divided, the news reached him of taras's declaration, and the cowardly wretch was seized with a perfect frenzy of fear. indeed, the real match-maker, bringing together this pair of worthies, was not so much thaddeus as taras barabola. mr. hajek had not been in the village, and knew nothing of the great meeting. he had gone to a mess breakfast at zablotow, captain mihaly, of the palffy hussars, in garrison there, having invited him over. it was a merry gathering, comprising, besides the officers, several young nobles of the neighbourhood. but none so merry as hajek himself; and he kept up his spirits when, breakfast over, he was invited to preside at the gaming table. he was winning largely, and was a very fountain of fun to the dissipated party. they went on gambling for the best part of the day. but there was a strange interruption, the captain's man announcing, with a queer expression, that the under-steward, boleslaw, had arrived, bearing an important message to the mandatar--a certain peasant named barabola having that day declared war against the emperor. the news produced the greatest hilarity; the officers roared with laughter. but wenceslas hajek grew deadly pale, and, dropping the cards from his hands, he jumped from his seat shaking from head to foot. "gentlemen," he gasped, "you would not laugh if you knew the man ... this is a matter of life and death ... excuse me, i must have particulars...." he moved to the door, but the captain was before him. "no!" he cried, facetiously, "you shall not monopolise this declaration of war. _we_ are his majesty's officers, and ought to have our share--let the man enter!" the under-steward appeared, his gigantic frame positively limp with dismay, as he reported the chief contents of taras's speech. "you know what sort of man you have to deal with, sir," he said, in conclusion, turning to the mandatar. "this day week he means to make his beginning--make it upon you, sir! he has retired for the present in the direction of the red hollow. four men are with him to-day; there will be fifty before the week is out." the gentlemen ceased to be amused; somehow the giant's consternation had affected them. but when he had done, their laughter returned. "war!" they cried, "what fun! double pay and promotion for all of us!" the captain adding: "but he has given us a week's grace, so let us finish our rubber. mr. hajek, i think you were meditating a trump ... but, good heavens, man!" he interrupted himself, evidently alarmed, "what is the matter? ... he is fainting!" and, indeed, the mandatar's appearance was enough to startle his companions. he had sunk down on the nearest chair, the bloodless face distorted with terror; and as they gazed at him his head sank lower, till it rested on the table. "belshazzar!" cried a youthful lieutenant, "mene, tekel, upharsin! yes, yes, my dear mr. hajek, your conscience seems ill at ease concerning these peasants! why, you are crying!" the mandatar actually had begun to sob. "ah!" he moaned, "i must be off to the town...." he attempted to rise, but fell back on his chair. "no ... i must go back to the manor first ... my papers.... captain!" he shrieked, imploringly, "i entreat you, let your troop be mounted, and escort me to zulawce--i mean, stay with me till you can bring me away again in safety. i'm a dead man, and the manor will be in ruins, if you refuse!" "nonsense!" cried the captain, in disgust. "i should not have believed it of you! this sudden news has made a coward of you! don't you know that i am not at liberty to order my men about in that fashion?" "then you shall answer for the consequences!" screamed hajek, wildly. "but i shall not go home by myself!" and again he sobbed, but recovered himself presently. "i must take refuge at colomea. we are but three of us--the under-steward, myself, and the coachman, and those cut-throats are four or five! i trust you will, at least, set us up with arms, captain, and lend me some of your men to see us safely on our way." "certainly," replied captain mihaly, coldly. "i am quite able to grant you an escort." and within an hour mr. hajek was on the road to colomea, a hussar on either side of his vehicle, the under-steward besides having provided himself with a perfect arsenal of weapons. nevertheless, the mandatar was dying with fright at every turn, crying aloud with terror as often as a sound rose in the distance or some horseman appeared in view. in vain boleslaw tried to comfort him; all he could do was to remind him that taras had said with, his own lips another week would lapse before he should make his beginning, "and you know he always is true to his word!" the mandatar's answer to this was, perhaps, the finest praise ever awarded to taras. "ah!" he groaned, "you may not have heard it correctly"--for that taras should ever deviate from his word, in great things or little, even he did not doubt; but just this made all the rest so fearful!... the news had come to him quite unexpectedly, although he had been fully informed concerning taras's doings, his prolonged visits to the mountains, his growing despair, and lastly his cession of property. but he had misjudged these signs, believing in his own evil soul that taras intended to make away with himself, and would probably do so upon the emperor's refusal; indeed, he had even pitied the man, after a fashion, as a butcher may feel pity for a fine bullock whose carcase he intends to sell well. now that he had learned taras's intentions, he seemed suddenly to be aware what stuff the man was made of, and though but the barest outline of that memorable speech could have been reported to him, he had a clearer perception of its drift, no doubt, than most of those who had heard it with their own ears. "yes, yes," he groaned, "the angel has become a fiend, and none so black as those that were all light before!" at last the morning dawned. the mandatar ventured to dismiss his escort, and towards nine o'clock he reached the town, where he parted also from boleslaw, sending him back to zulawce. "do you believe the manor is endangered by my absence?" "no," said the giant, "only by your presence, sir. what taras wants is to punish _you_ in life and limb; he does not care for your property, save as far as it may serve to indemnify the people for their supposed loss. but i should say he will not touch anything till he has got hold of yourself." the mandatar shook. "i daresay you are right," he said. "nevertheless, i want you to bring me, without delay, the black casket you will find in my bedroom cupboard--this is the key. i shall not leave this place for the present, and shall do my best to have the wretch hanged, else----" "he will see you hanged," concluded boleslaw. "i am afraid you are right, sir." and with this parting benediction ringing in his ears, mr. hajek repaired at once to the district governor, to whom he represented the matter as a rebellion of gigantic dimensions, endangering the lives and property of thousands of helpless subjects, if a price were not set on taras's head forthwith and half a dozen regiments despatched against him. herr von bauer took refuge in his favourite growling. "pleasant! most pleasant!" he muttered, and took to pacing his office like a caged lion. "who on earth has to face such bothers but me? defend your enemy, not to say your friend, from being a district governor in galicia! i hoped we had done with these cut-throats since 'wild wassilj' had the good sense to shoot himself--now there is another of these rascals! but who would have believed it of taras barabola! i would have taken my oath that he was an honest man. to be sure, he understands nothing of justice--came to me once expecting _we_ should prosecute for the recovery of that field. he positively believed it was our duty--to prosecute, you understand! a man who has such notions may as well turn hajdamak! they are just savages here--i have always said so ... not a notion of how the law works!... well, i am much obliged for your news, sir, but it is not for us to proceed on it. things must be done in order. kindly send in your information in writing; it will cost you nothing. good morning!" "and may i ask how soon the matter will then be attended to?" "in due course--first come, first served!" "sir! why this is a most pressing case! i would propose, as a first step, to send for the hussars from zablotow----" "hussars? good gracious!" and the district governor grew as red as a turkey-cock. "who do you take me for, sir? am i a general to order about the military? i am governor of the district, sir--worse luck that i am!" the mandatar was abashed, but made another attempt. "sir," he said, rather pathetically, "my life is at stake, and what is more, the property of the count, my master. i venture to ask how the matter will be dealt with!" "in due course, to be sure! when your statement has been filed we shall despatch a commissary to zulawce to report to us; and if it is as you tell me, we have quite a complicated charge of felony: the man has insulted the emperor, not to say the almighty himself; he has libelled government, and is guilty of seditious proceedings. it will be an interesting case, to be sure; he'll have ten years of penal servitude for that speech alone. and if he should lay hands on you, as he seems fully to intend, we will have him hanged! will that satisfy you?" but strange to say, the mandatar was not satisfied. "sir," he stammered, "delay is most dangerous. will that commissary be starting to-morrow?" "to-morrow?" gasped the governor. "why not, rather, to-day? perhaps we ought to ask your pardon for not having sent him as early as yesterday!... _to-morrow!_ are you in your senses, sir?" and he paced his office more violently than ever. it took him some time to get over, this unheard-of suggestion, and then he said: "a commissioner will be sent as soon as feasible; in about a month's time, i should say; things must be done in due course! and now i have the honour of making my bow to you." the mandatar could but take his leave, standing still a moment outside. it was the very spot where his unhappy victim, and now his implacable enemy, had first felt the sore pain of disappointed hope and helpless wrath--these same sensations now having him for their prey. the fear of death, which he had been able to hold at bay awhile with the vain expectation that the all-powerful state would hedge him round with safety, seized upon him afresh, tearing his cowardly heart to pieces. with tottering knees, and almost beside himself with rage and terror, he slunk away. in one of the streets his eye was caught by a shop window exhibiting fire-arms. he entered and bought a double-barrelled pistol. "if i should have the misfortune of falling into his hands," he murmured, "i will at least save myself the worst of ignominy." but a voice in his heart gave him the lie directly. "coward!" it said; "you would never dare it--never!" retribution for this man's crimes had begun before taras lifted a finger against him, and his just terrors continued--nay, were added to hourly. the mandatar, even in his least cowardly moments, felt the situation to be most critical. while taras lived, his returning to zulawce was a movement in the direction of death; and there appeared to be every likelihood of taras's continuing in life, while the authorities were bent on dealing with him "in due course," as the district governor had taken pains to point out. it seemed highly advisable, then, for mr. hajek to keep at a safe distance from zulawce, and this was tantamount to his retiring from his stewardship, since the peasants, he knew, would never dream of rendering the slightest of their dues, be it tribute or labour, unless the mandatar were bodily present to make them. and if he got into arrears with the monthly payments to the count, in paris, this gentleman would not be long in dismissing him, without the least pity for his difficulties. it was preferable, then, to anticipate a dismissal. but how to make a living for the future? to be sure, he had improved the stewardship he was about to quit, putting by in that little black box of his a neat sum of several thousand florins in good austrian securities, although he had never stinted himself of any personal luxury. should he fall back upon these savings, leaving the country altogether and seeking a berth elsewhere? but in that case, not only this little capital would be endangered, but another and more precious one would also be lost, even the good name he had managed to acquire, and which he hoped to turn into a bait with which to land a fortune one of these days. nor was this a mere illusion. mr. hajek was too sharp-witted to fool himself, and he really had come to enjoy a certain position at colomea; for he was a man of the world and knew how to ingratiate himself with society, while even his worst enemy must admit he was an adept in the management of landed property. he knew, therefore, to what port he ought to run: he must look out for an heiress and become a landed proprietor himself. there were several eligible maidens, presumably willing to further his aims, with handsome sums in their pockets, if not polish coronets on their brows. but all these hopes had vanished now; the successful mandatar might have proffered his suit in such quarters, but never the luckless culprit whose misdeeds had found him out. the one question for him was how to gain time, in order to make the best of his miserable fate. thus, by a strange coincidence of circumstances, the mere announcement of taras's intentions had sufficed to ruin his enemy effectively; and the under-steward, returning on tuesday with the precious black casket, found his master deeply dejected. nor was his news calculated to rouse better hopes. "to tell the truth," said boleslaw, "i brought away the worst impressions concerning the peasantry. not an hour's further labour will they yield, and no tribute of any kind. taras is a hero and a liberator in their eyes; and as for you, sir--i beg your pardon, but it is a fact--they are all delighted at the bare idea that he is going to hang you. i spoke with several of the villagers, and they all said the same thing." "that will do," said the mandatar, faintly, and motioned him to go. left alone, he sank into a chair, and involuntarily put his fingers round his throat. "there must be an end to this!" he cried. "i must shake off this business; i will have nothing more to do with these wretches." and, going to his desk, he wrote a letter to the count--it was his resignation. he folded the sheet, and put it into an envelope, which he sealed. but there he stopped, dipping his pen again and again without addressing the missive. "it might be premature after all," he murmured at last, throwing down the quill and snatching up his hat. "i ought not to act rashly, at least not before finding out the opinion of the town." but if any one wished to know what the world thought at colomea, he could not do better than repair to a certain wine-cellar, where the "daily news" of the place was almost sure to be present, gossipping away from early morning sometimes till the closing hour at midnight. this worthy was none other than mr. thaddeus de bazanski, whose vicissitudes in life were a prolific source of entertainment to all the tipplers of the place. mr. thaddeus, by his own showing, was a man of consequence; but the jovial company listening to his tales somehow had agreed to call him thaddy. now thaddy's history--of which he was most liberal--was of a curious kind, and never the same for two days running. on a sunday he would have large possessions in volhynia; and, being the last of an honourable name, he had fought the russians gallantly, but was left for dead on the field of battle, after which he made his escape into galicia. on mondays he was the son of a polish officer in french service, who had enjoyed the close friendship of napoleon, and he had been a cadet at vincennes; but, turning his back upon his brilliant prospects, he had entered the polish army for love of his country--the rest being the same as on sunday. on a tuesday his name, de bazanski, was merely an alias for prudence' sake, and he was really the scion of a princely house of lithuania; but, having quarrelled with his family, who were of russian tendencies, he had entered the polish army--the rest the same as on monday. on wednesdays he had large possessions in the ukraine, and in fact all the revolution of had been carried on with his money. having been obliged to flee, he joined the carbonari in piedmont, and now lived in galicia in order to be at hand when the great day of revenge should have dawned. on thursdays, when the cellars would be specially well filled after the weekly meeting of the local board, thaddy's history had quite a romantic origin. he was a natural son of alexander i. and a polish countess, spending his youth at the court of st. petersburg, petted by all, until he did his duty as the son of his mother, standing up boldly before his half-brother nicolas and demanding of him a grant of liberty for poor poland. he was refused, and then--the same as on wednesday. on fridays, when the place was but indifferently visited, he was just a poor brave nobleman, who had spent the best years of his life for the good of his country, and was ready to do so again; while on the saturday his tale had an anti-semitic tinge. his father, on those days, having been one of the richest landowners of masovia, had been so foolish as to allow his jewish tenants to drop into arrears with their rents, till the family was nearly beggared. it was then that thaddeus showed the stuff he was made of, evicting "those rascally jews," and making front against the russians at the same time; and he was now at colomea endeavouring to work up those sad arrears. to be sure, he never had any success to tell of, but that might be because of his constantly changing his lawyer, who, it was observed, was mentioned by a different name every saturday. for the rest, if any visitor of the cellars ever had forgotten what day of the week it might be, he had but to listen for a moment to thaddy's tale in order to recover the lost thread of his time. these varying accounts were calculated to lend an air of distinction to the narrator, but there were some whose shrewdness believed his fame to be spurious, and one or two wicked tongues had even asserted that his features bore a suspicious likeness to a loquacious barber they had known at warsaw. thaddy denounced this as a libel, boldly; but it was not so easy to accuse people of calumny when they added that his appearance, somehow, was not of the aristocratic military type! that was true enough, for there was nothing of the heroic about his mean little figure, and those greenish eyes, half cunning, half cowardly, peering away over a coppery nose for any good luck in his way. of course he always appeared in the national costume; but the 'kantouche' was peculiarly long and ill-fitting, not because of any eccentric taste of his, but simply because nature had endowed mr. bogdan with a figure so utterly different from thaddy's. his 'confederatka,' however, was his own--one of the strangest head-gears ever worn by mortal man. it probably had been high, stiff, and square originally, but it had collapsed to utter flabbiness, and it could not now be said to be of any colour, having faded to a mixture of all. thaddy kept assuring his listeners that he wore this article on great anniversaries for the most patriotic of reasons, since it had covered his head at the famous battle of ostrolenka. it certainly looked ancient enough to have seen even the napoleonic wars; and if it had many holes, that no doubt was a proof of the many bullets which had threatened the head of its gallant wearer. as for the anniversaries, there were those who pretended to observe that the famous confederatka was seen rather often, in fact quite habitually, on thaddy's head--but then, the history of poland is so rich in events, that the year of the piously inclined is one long anniversary naturally. as for the present employment of this national martyr, it was twofold; he ostensibly waited for the better days of poland, gaining his livelihood meanwhile by entertaining the customers at the cellars with his gossip, and holding himself in readiness for any business in which an agent might be wanted who was not over squeamish in his views. when mr. hajek, on that tuesday afternoon, entered the cellars he found thaddy alone, in his usual corner, sadly occupied with counting the flies on the various pictures adorning the room. he looked up, a gleam of satisfaction shooting across his countenance, and held out his hand, which cordiality, however, the new comer appeared not to observe. "ha!" he cried, "what a strange coincidence; here i was just thinking of you, actually! there is a curious likeness between this excellent young man's fate--meaning yourself--and mine, i was saying." "indeed!" replied the mandatar, coldly, taking a seat and ordering a bottle of wine. "between you and me?" "yes, unmistakably," cried mr. de bazanski, coming nearer and taking his place opposite the mandatar. "a striking likeness in fact. it so occupied my mind that i quite forgot i was thirsty, and, indeed, for the matter of that, i am of too sociable a turn to have a glass by myself." this was true enough, for thaddy never had any drink except in company. they knew better at the cellars than to give him anything that was not ordered and paid for by his friends. mr. hajek smiled, requesting the waiter to bring a second glass. "a striking likeness, you were saying?" "most striking, sir, and unmistakable! just look at me--what is it i have come to? i am an old officer, to be sure, who will give proof yet of the stuff he is made of. but what of this? i was thinking of my happy youth, and how from the battlements of our princely castle in lithuania i, with a telescope, would scan our broad domain; forty-nine villages i could count, and they all were situated on our lands. yes, ours was a princely family, and now, alas, i may not even confess to the name i was born to, i----" "yes, yes, i know," interrupted the mandatar; "besides, i was aware that this is tuesday." but thaddy was not the man to be disconcerted. "of course, this is tuesday," he assented, smilingly. "i was going to add--who is to blame that i am a stranger now to my princely heritage, if not my wicked relatives? and who is it that, at the present moment, is a sore trouble to you, if not this wicked peasantry of zulawce? is it not a strange and striking similarity?" "very striking," said hajek. "then you have heard about affairs at zulawce?" "of course i have," cried bazanski; "why the town is full of it." and the ex-officer waxed hot with excitement. "you would scarcely believe it," he cried, "but there are those, actually, who take this cut-throat's part against you--respectable people--nay, even poles, i am ashamed to say!" "who, for instance?" inquired the mandatar, apparently unconcerned, but his heart was beating in spite of him. "well, there is that old demagogue, who ought to know better, being a lawyer--dr. starkowski, i mean--to begin with. this very morning we were sitting here, some twenty of us, and some one started the matter. my stars, you should have heard him! 'gentlemen,' he said, quite solemnly, as though he were on his oath, 'i know this taras; he is the most unselfish, the noblest man i have ever met, and filled with a passion for justice which would grace a king. and that this man, with the views he holds, had nothing left but to turn hajdamak, must make every honest man blush for our country. it is my opinion that this noble-hearted fellow has been morally murdered, and his murderer is the mandatar of zulawce.' and the others, so far from contradicting him, clamoured for more. 'tell us, doctor, tell us all about it,' they cried. and he gave them a long rigmarole of a story about a field, and perjury, and what not; and when he had finished--'humph,' said the others, 'why, if it is so, mr. hajek is just a blackguard.' 'he is,' affirmed the brazen-faced lawyer. such is the world!" "such--is--- the world!" repeated hajek, absently, and white as a ghost. it was plain there was nothing left for him now but to make his speedy escape. the laborious edifice of his wickedness was tottering, and threatening to bury him in its ruins. but whither should he turn? he gazed into his future helplessly.... "such, indeed, is the world," repeated bazanski, eagerly; "and there were those present who said--'dear, dear, it is a mercy to learn that before it is too late!' those, you understand, who hitherto would have considered you an eligible son-in-law--conceited fools!--as if you ever would have looked at any of their daughters--you, whose heart is adamant even to a countess." hajek turned to him with a start, his face flushing crimson. he had racked his brain for a way out of his plight, but had forgotten all about this possibility, in his very grasp if he chose! three different estates in the lowlands, beyond the reach of taras--what a splendid match to be sure! if he married the countess he need not give another thought to his master in paris, nor to that wretch of an "avenger," nor yet to all the respectable folk at colomea. and this grandest of chances had almost escaped him! "well," cried the wily thaddeus, "i do like your pretending to be taken by surprise; as if you did not know how desperately the amiable countess wanda is in love with you." and he began to describe the secret passion of that lady with such glowing colours, that any writer of love sonnets might have envied him. "and there is her great fortune besides," he said, in conclusion; "but that is a mere accessory. first love, and then the practical advantages." mr. hajek had recovered himself. "don't talk rubbish," he said, sharply. "the countess is not likely to love me, being too--too experienced to make a fool of herself; and, besides, i am an utter stranger to her. if she intends to marry me it is simply because she is in want of a husband, and if i take her it will be because it happens to suit me. so it is a clear case of the practical advantage first and foremost; that settled, there may be love, for all i care. what about the property and the settlement? i daresay you have been instructed.... i don't want any flourishes; just let me know the facts." thaddeus de bazanski was of an adaptable nature. "just the facts! yes, certainly," he said. "there are three estates, as you know--horkowka, drinkowce, and rossow--quite unencumbered--will fetch in the market half a million florins any day; the personal property, besides, amounting to one hundred thousand florins in first-rate securities." "very well; and now for the conditions." "the rossow estate, on your marriage, will be settled on the countess, of course, but you will have equal rights to the revenues for your life; horkowka, in reversion, on the countess alone; while drinkowce and the floating capital will be settled on--on---" bazanski stammered and blushed. "on the lady's child by her first marriage--i understand," said hajek quietly. "but now for my conditions! i am quite agreed concerning rossow and horkowka; but the boy has to be provided for out of the personal property solely, while drinkowce must be settled on me absolutely. it shall be mine, whether there be any offspring of the marriage or not; and it is to remain mine even in the event of a dissolution." "humph! old bogdan is no fool!" "quite sure of that; but neither am i! when shall i look for an answer?" "to-morrow at noon. shall we have another bottle now on the strength of the prospects?" "no, not now; go and make sure of the prospects. good evening to you." bazanski gazed after the retreating figure with positive awe. "ugh!" he said at length, with a deep breath of admiration, "they were not far wrong this morning. what a villain! what an incomparable villain!" and, having thus unburdened his mind, he hastened away to the villa antoniewicz.... at noon punctually the following day he presented himself again to mr. hajek. "i have come to congratulate you!" he cried on the threshold. "well, has your patron accepted my conditions?" "entirely--excepting only drinkowce. he is very sorry, but his little grandson----" "very well, that settles it. excuse me, but i am busy, intending to start to-night." "start! whereto?" "to--anywhere, so long as it is far enough from here." "then do not be in such a hurry! let me have another word with the family." "very well. i will give you till to-morrow, but i cannot be detained beyond that." thaddy departed on his errand sadly, there was little hope of earning his pay. he was almost certain that herr von antoniewicz would prove unyielding; but it turned out differently. the countess, in the first place, chose to pronounce in the intended bridegroom's favour. "he is good-looking; tolerably young, of good manners, and sufficiently a man of the world not to annoy me with any prejudice!" her father arrived at a similar conclusion. "the fellow is of suitable stuff to manage the estates; whether drinkowce be his or not, it will be his interest to pull along with us. i am old now, and cannot wait till as great a booby as your first husband may chance to turn up as a suitor for your hand. i would prefer an honest booby, of course; but a clever villain meanwhile must not be despised. he shall not do _me_. i'll take care of that!" and the following morning, thaddeus, with a beaming face, burst into the mandatar's presence. "now i may congratulate you really," he cried. "drinkowce is yours!" "very well," responded hajek. "i am off on the spot to pay my respects to my future father-in-law, and to my bride-elect. one thing, though, before i leave, you will hold your tongue for the present. i might find it useful to be believed in as a man of honour by some of the folk here yet awhile!" "what a delightful joke!" cried thaddy, full of laughter, and brandishing the famous confederatka as he made his bow. but when the door had closed upon him, an expression of admiring awe once more settled on his features. "what a villain!" he murmured, "what an incomparable villain!" mr. hajek's visit at the villa proved highly touching; that supreme moment especially, when, in his capacity of accepted lover, he imprinted a delicate kiss on the fair one's brow, a proceeding at which herr and frau von antoniewicz tossed their handkerchiefs before their tearless eyes, whimpering affectedly, "be happy, children; as happy as we ourselves have been!" when the mandatar returned to his chambers he found on his table a note from the district governor. "favour me with a call at my private residence at once," it said; "i have a communication of importance to make to you." hajek was surprised, and slightly fluttered. the die was cast, his future secured, and if he stayed prudently at colomea he had scarcely anything to fear from taras. and yet he trembled. what if taras had been caught, and he had sacrificed himself in vain--allowing a lady of the countess's antecedents to address him as her promised husband? well, never mind, it was impossible to go back now, considering the manner of his courting. he had cast in his lot with these creatures and must abide by it. with a sense of expectation he went his way to the governor's. herr von bauer received him politely. he was one of those officials, rather numerous at that time, who considered abruptness a sort of armour to be worn during office hours, but not required when off duty. the district governor was quite genial within the precincts of his own fireside, and all the more courteous now for remembering that he had put forth some special bristles along with that armour in his previous interview with the mandatar. "a pleasure to see you," he assured mr. hajek, shaking hands vigorously. "i have some important news which will please you," he said, winking mysteriously--"please you particularly." "has taras been caught?" inquired the mandatar. "caught? dear me, no! why, who should have caught him? ... this is what i wanted to tell you: you know the court sat to-day. we had an unusual influx of landed proprietors and mandatars, and there was much talking concerning taras; in fact he seems the one topic all over the country. they all agreed that his rising was most dangerous, because the peasantry everywhere are devoted to him. there could be no doubt, they assured me, but that the manor house at zulawce would be attacked on sunday, and if he got hold of you, your life was not worth two straws--not two straws, they said!" "well," said the mandatar, with affected composure, "this may be important to know, but i fail to see why it should please me." "no, no, of course, the pleasant part is coming--for yourself i mean, not for me. i hate having things done in an irregular way. but i suppose this is an exception." a groan escaped him. "well, sir, i called a meeting of the board--a special meeting, and it was resolved to treat the case as a matter of unusual importance, attending to it, therefore, on the spot--an example of despatch quite unprecedented in my experience, i assure you. a commissioner will be sent to zulawce as early as next tuesday--we must, if possible, have an exact report of that speech--and a courier went off this very afternoon to inform the brigadier-general at stanislaw of the state of affairs, submitting to him the necessity of ordering a company of infantry to zulawce. this i am sure----" "is pleasant to know! so it is," interrupted the mandatar. "but might i suggest----" "yes, certainly; suggest away, sir," said the governor, waxing impatient. there had been a sound of teacups from the adjoining apartment. "it appears to be a general conviction that the manor house at zulawce is to be attacked on the night of easter sunday. in that case the military, in order to be of any use should arrive at the place on sunday afternoon. but this is scarcely possible if it be infantry. this is thursday. the courier, at the earliest, will reach stanislaw at daybreak to-morrow. now, supposing even the general attended to the matter at once, and made out his order to the soldiers by ten----" "or a quarter past," interrupted the governor, rushing into his office armour evidently. "what are you driving at, sir?" "you will see presently," retorted the mandatar, nettled in his turn. "supposing the general made out his order to the nearest regiment of infantry by ten o'clock, a detachment could not be off under four-and-twenty hours, for they are quartered at czortkow, and it will be a two days' march for them to reach their destination--by monday morning at the earliest, that is. so, you see, the village could only be protected against sunday by means of the palffy hussars, who are at zablotow, close at hand." "sir," growled the governor, "are you fooling me? am i the brigadier-general? i am governor of this district, and my business is to apply for military intervention if need be, but not to ask for cavalry or artillery when there are no means of stabling the horses. there are no large stables at zulawce, so it must be infantry. they shall be there when they can; or do you expect us to introduce new regulations into the country just to suit _your_ need? what do you mean by directing my attention to the distance, or to the length of time a detachment will be on the march? am i supposed to know that? am i in the general's coat to give his orders?" "no--in your own smoking cap and slippers," replied the mandatar quietly, the words acting like magic. the old growler suddenly remembered that he was not in his office, but at home, where civility was due to a caller. and he put off his armour hastily. "well--a case of unusual importance, i was saying...." the poor old gentleman felt guilty, however, and was anxious to make reparation. "it is a trouble altogether--this taras--but i was going to add, i have invited some of our people to dine with us on sunday, and if you will do me the honour, we shall be charmed, sir." he held out his hand to mr. hajek who put his fingers into it eagerly. an invitation to the district governor's annual dinner when all the elite of the place was assembled would have flattered him at any time; but to a man who had just become engaged to a lady of the countess wanda's reputation this was simply invaluable.... "so far he has not heard of it, evidently," the bridegroom elect said to himself as he descended the stairs. "i daresay it will be no secret by sunday, and it will be as well for me to be seen then at the governor's dinner! however, i need not care now for anybody's opinion, any more than i need for taras himself. it was foolish of me to excite myself at all about the military movements. what does it matter to me whether the count's manor house be burnt or not, so long as myself and my cash-box are safe out of it?" he was still pursuing this high-minded strain of thought, when, at the end of the street, he came into collision with a figure rushing round the corner in the opposite direction. but he saw at a glance that apologies were needless, for it was only thaddy whom he had sent flying against the wall. "oh, to be sure," cried the latter, rubbing his shoulder, "what eagerness in a lover! romeo going to visit juliet, i'll be bound." "oh no, i am going home; but you, i daresay, are making for the cellars?" "alas! i am not in the vein. i was lost in meditation, remembering a certain conversation i once had with my illustrious half-brother, nicolas i., and how my life since----" "nicolas i.! you don't mean to say that this is thursday? i really was forgetting.... but let me tell you, if you _do_ go to the cellars and should not find any of your friends in the mood to treat you to a glass of moldavian for your story about nicolas, i'll not have you try your luck by publishing my engagement with the countess! if you breathe a word of it, i shall deduct fifty florins from your expected pay. just bear that in mind. good morning!" the czar's half-brother stood stock still, overtaken by an evident conflict. for bogdan had just told him, "if by this time to-morrow the whole town is not aware of the engagement, i'll have you kicked downstairs when next you show your face here." a sore dilemma for the nobly-born thaddy--to be kicked downstairs or forego fifty of his hard-earned florins! he would have submitted to the kicking willingly, so long as it left him at liberty to remount those stairs after the performance.... in a distracted state of mind, thaddy entered the cellars, but the company there was in good humour, greeting him uproariously. "good heavens," they cried, "are we to stand treat for hearing your romances about nicolas--this is thursday!" he could not, of course, submit to this taunt, and resolved, therefore, for once to keep to realities, giving them an account of the mandatar's latest achievement, the plain truth of it, with some exceedingly daring interpolations. but when he added: "this mr. hajek is a villain ingrained, sirs!" there was not one to dissent from the statement. towards noon the following day the mandatar set out to repeat his call at the villa, saying to himself as he crossed his threshold: "i shall know within ten minutes whether thaddy has kept the matter close or not." and he did know before he had gone the length of the street! the secretary of the local board, mr. wroblewski, was the first acquaintance he met; but this gentleman appeared to have made a sudden discovery upon the roof of the town hall, which required his intentest gaze in that direction, whilst the chief postmaster, nossek, another of his acquaintances coming along, was lost in a contemplation of the paving-stones, quite overlooking the mandatar in consequence. this was a cut to the heart; but hajek recovered himself very soon, holding his head erect and stepping out courageously. "once settled at drinkowce," he consoled himself, "these things will show in a different light." he was met in the armenian's ante-chamber by the chosen bride herself; she walked slowly, not for sweet modesty's sake, but only because she was rather fat. that was a drawback to her charms; for the rest she had sparkling eyes and a rare wig of golden hair, slightly reddish though. she was in her ripest prime, like a cabbage-rose in september, when the perfume of spring has fled and the petals have expanded, the season of sweetness being gone. he kissed her hands, she offered him her face. "come," she whispered, "my parents await you, to settle the programme for sunday." they were soon agreed that since the engagement was certain not to remain a secret even till then, it behoved them to act a little drama of innocence before the eyes of their guests. "we shall not ask many people; just a select few," said frau von antoniewicz, mr. hajek agreeing to this fervently, well knowing that not a dozen visitors would be found forthcoming, if pressed ever so hard. "and now the programme for the evening," resumed the lady--"a select few; we shall talk and have some music, but no dancing. when the clock strikes ten my daughter will take her place by the piano to give us an air of cherubini's, after which you move up to her, complimenting her on her exquisite voice; and, giving her your arm, you will lead her into the smaller drawing-room, where the illumination will be appropriately subdued. i shall have some things up from the conservatory--palms and things, to represent a bower; a fauteuil will be placed conveniently, and a low stool beside it. wanda will sink gracefully into the fauteuil; you will be at her feet on the stool--it will be quite a picture, and there will be a whispering among the company. this will be the moment when you must kneel, gazing at her adoringly; she will start up, endeavouring to escape.--it will be pretty if you can manage a blush, my dear; it is easy, you know, if you hold your breath.--i shall be crossing the room accidentally, and shall give a startled cry; whereupon you will take my daughter by the hand, leading her up to me, saying, 'best of mothers, give us your blessing,' or some such suitable words. i shall be greatly touched, and shall say something appropriate. so will bogdan. then we shall have supper; a few toasts will have to be managed: long life to the lovers, and you must reply, lifting your glass to bogdan and me." "and then the curtain will fall," said hajek, at which the wrinkled dame lifted her finger saucily. "my dear mr. hajek," she said, "the whole of life is but a comedy; who thinks differently is a fool. then why should i not arrange this little scene before the closing act of my own life as merrily as i please, and you just be satisfied!" "certainly," he said; "but i will stipulate for a comfortable hassock to kneel upon." they laughed and went to the dining-room.... considering how he was being cut by every one in the streets, the mandatar would not have been in the least surprised to receive some excuse from the district governor cancelling the invitation to his dinner. but no message came, for the simple reason that herr von bauer had quite forgotten he had asked the mandatar, and had not even told his wife. the governor, therefore, was disagreeably surprised when, at the appointed hour, mr. hajek presented himself among his guests, while the 'district governess'--as his wife, on account of her overbearing ways, was often called by her jocose acquaintances--flared up crimson with annoyance. it seemed to her as if the eyes of all present were filled with angry reproaches. the fact was, the mandatar had arrived at the very moment when the company was enjoying the newest bit of scandal, having learned by this time how he and the countess wanda, with the help of thaddy, had discovered their secret flame. it was an awkward interruption; not the least so for hajek himself. but he was the only one who showed any presence of mind. he made his bow to the company, some staring back at him utterly surprised, some completely disgusted; and having kissed the unwilling hand of the lady of the house, he seized the paralysed fingers of her lord, shaking hands with a fine pretence of unconcern. herr von bauer, of course, submitted, greeting him with a smile even--"a smile, upon my word," said the witty wroblewski, "like that of a convict being tickled." the governor was endeavouring to do his duty. "ah," he said, "i am surprised.... ahem, delighted to see you.... very.... ah!" and then he recovered himself, perceiving that he owed it to his wife to take upon himself the onus of this man's presence, and that he could not expect any of his guests to entertain him. "dearest cornelia," he was heard to say, "i am sure it slipped my memory, but i invited mr. hajek--i asked him on thursday--on _thursday_, you know," he added, pointedly, "and i am afraid i am going to monopolise him on account of important business"--the mandatar keeping up his most amiable smile. he drew him into a corner. "i have heard this morning from the brigadier-general by special messenger. a detachment of infantry has been despatched to zulawce, and will arrive there on monday as you calculated. but the general, besides this, has thought well to order the hussars to be there by this evening, just as you proposed. he thinks it is as well to be on the safe side." "very commendable prudence, no doubt, since taras seems determined----" "determined? what is that to us! who ever heard of cavalry being ordered to a place where they find no stabling! it is no joke to disregard established rules--none whatever! but i wash my hands of any consequences--i do, indeed!" "and may i ask who will be sent on tuesday, as you said, as your commissioner?" "kapronski. well! what is that grimace for? we do things in proper order. he conducted the inquiry there on the former occasion, he may therefore be expected to be the man for it now. but--a happy thought!--i am sure you could give him a hint or two." the governor rubbed his hands; it seemed a bright idea to set the two least welcome of his guests at each other, thus rendering them harmless for the rest of the company. and he gave a sign to kapronski, who obeyed with alacrity; for if it was an honour to be invited to the governor's official dinner, it had, so far, not yielded him any pleasure. the company was apt to overlook him, and people would appear to labour under deafness when he addressed them. but being called upon to enter into conversation with mr. hajek was like being lifted on to a pedestal; for certainly this man stood lower now in the public estimation than even kapronski himself. so he approached him accordingly, drawing up his fawning figure and assuming an expression of patronage ludicrous to behold. "you have a favour to ask of me?" he began pompously. the mandatar gave him a look of cutting sarcasm. "you are mistaken, sir!" "i--i misunderstood--a request to make?" kapronski could not stand being looked at boldly, and was slipping down from his pedestal rapidly. "nor yet a request, that i am aware," returned hajek. "the governor asked my opinion, or any advice i could give, concerning the personal safety of the commissioner about to be despatched to zulawce, and i am ready to advise you." the mandatar had some trouble in keeping serious, for kapronski's features, besides recovering their wonted humility at a stroke as it were, presented a ludicrous picture of most doleful dismay. "personal safety," lie stammered, "why, is there any danger?" "a great deal," said hajek, confidently. kapronski's face turned white, and red, and ashy grey. "i shall have an escort," he faltered; "but if taras should attack us on the road, i am a dead man! there is no help----" his voice positively failed him. "none whatever," assented the mandatar. "stop--yes, there is," he added, a sudden thought having flashed through him--indeed a capital thought, so simple and so clever withal that he was surprised it should not have presented itself before. "there is!" he said. "is there?" returned kapronski, eagerly. "yes, indeed! a sure means of saving yourself and me, and all honest folks from this cut-throat. let me remind you that his wife and children are still at his farm. it will be natural, then, to billet most of the soldiers upon her. but this is not enough! you must tell her that she will have to answer for it on the gallows if her husband hurts a hair of the mandatar's head--be sure and say the mandatar's! she is in communication with him, no doubt, and----" "but this would be illegal!" "well, that is for you to judge. i only give you a hint or two, out of kindness. it is you who have to go to zulawce, not i!" "ah!" groaned kapronski, "if it should get known, it would cost me my place." "well, tell her without witnesses, then you can give her the lie, if need be. for the rest do as you please--_i_ am safe enough here." the conversation was interrupted! the governor inviting his guests to move to the dining-room. "i have thought," he said, addressing the pair, "it might be most agreeable for each of you if we put you together." kapronski bowed more humbly than ever, hajek smiling blandly. he had made up his mind to let everybody feel mortified, but not himself--he was not going to be annoyed, not he! and he carried out his resolution; easier for him, no doubt, than for a man of higher mettle. he drove home in the best of humours, and how he whiled away the rest of his time, attuning his mind for the events of the evening, we have had a glimpse of already. we need not describe the solemnities at the villa, touching as they were, for we know the programme, which was minutely followed. there were not many to witness the scene; but the old dame had set her heart on the play-acting, and the mandatar, to please her, fell in with her fancy. the manner of his kneeling to wanda was quite classical, and supper was consumed amid charming hilarity, not forgetting some wonderful verses with which thaddy astonished the company. but when the guests had departed, a final and real surprise was in store for the happy bridegroom. he was cooling his brow at the open window, when suddenly he perceived his coachman, jasko, in conversation with a horseman a little way up the road. he could see that the stranger wore the huzul garb. the night was dark, and a faint gleam only from the lighted house fell on the road, but hajek nevertheless recognised the horseman. "good heavens!" he shrieked, "stop him! seize him!" bogdan and the countess rushed up terrified; but the stranger also had heard the alarm, and spurring his horse, he dashed away and was lost to sight. "my coachman! i entreat you send for my coachman!" cried hajek, beside himself. jasko was called in. "that was wassilj soklewicz you were talking with just now?" said the mandatar, quaking. "yes, sir," replied the man, wonderingly. "don't you know he is one of the outlaws--one of taras's band?" "mercy on us!" cried the coachman, aghast. "he assured me he had taken service with the mandatar at prinkowce, and i believed him, telling him all about ourselves on tuesday and thursday and this evening. i told him: 'we need not fear taras now, for we are going to marry a rich lady, and shall live at drinkowce. in the meantime, we are quite safe at colomea.' at which he laughed, telling me there was no saying what might happen between now and the wedding; indeed soon----" "soon! soon!" groaned the mandatar, falling back on a chair. it chanced to be the fauteuil near the palms and things. the comedy was being changed into tragedy. bogdan recovered himself first. "i do not believe," he said, "that taras is in the neighbourhood and likely to attack you in your chambers or on your way back to the town; but we will hold ourselves prepared for the worst. stay here for the night. i'll have the gates closed, my men can be armed, and i will send for assistance to the main guardhouse." and so he did, but the protection he was able to hold out to his worthy son-in-law proved of the poorest nevertheless. the officer on duty sent back orders not to trouble him with idle tales; and, concerning his own servants, bogdan knew that they would throw down their arms at the first sight of danger. "if taras indeed were to come, _i_ cannot protect you," he confessed to the mandatar. "we are not without neighbours, but none of them would stir to help us." and with this agreeable assurance they kept watching through the night. chapter xiii. the banner unfurled. the excitement of the people of zulawce rose steadily as the easter sun was sinking to its rest. the cottages stood forsaken; the community had gathered beneath the linden. the men were fully armed and many a fierce threat was uttered against the "villain in the iron closet"; but the peasants seemed fully resolved to take no part whatever in the coming work of revenge. none of the inmates or dependents of the manor-house were present. the under-steward, boleslaw, had ordered the gates to be closed, addressing his men in the courtyard. "let us not act foolishly," he said. "there is no doubt but that taras will come, since the report of the iron closet is so fully believed in; but he will not harm us, if we open the doors to him to let him see that there is no such thing as an iron closet in the place, and that the mandatar is not with us. our only fear is that the peasantry may grow revengeful, and attack us when he is gone. let us be ready to resist them, but we will not fight taras." nor had any of anusia's people joined the public gathering; her orders had been sufficient. she herself was sitting in the large family-room, holding little tereska on her lap, while her boys pressed close to her with an indefinable fear. the children dared not speak, for the mother seemed sunk in that strange stupor which had kept her to the bed of sickness but lately. father leo and the little popadja found her thus. a greeting was exchanged, but conversation would not flow. it was impossible to talk of indifferent matters, and they shrank from touching upon that which filled their hearts. so they sat silent, a red light streaming in through the windows; for the sun, like a glowing ball of fire, was sinking behind the fir-covered uplands. "how red it looks," whispered little wassilj, pointing to the parting glory. "it forbodes blood," said halko, under his breath. "blood," echoed the poor mother with staring eyes, pressing her children closer. father leo could bear it no longer. he went near to her, taking her hand gently. "anusia," he said, "do _you_ believe----?" "what do i know," she interrupted him, sharply. "am i of the avenger's band? i am a widow, anxious to keep the peace for my children's sake." leo paced the room. "that is well," he said, presently. "i wish all the people were like you. they say they will not join him, but i fear their own wild disposition will be too much for them." anusia made no answer, and he sat down again in silence. thus they continued, amid the sinking shadows, in the darkening room. but suddenly they started, and the children gave a cry of alarm. there had been a tapping at the window which overlooked the garden. it was the window to the west catching the last glimmer of light; no one outside was visible, but as they gazed a hand was lifted cautiously from below, once more tapping the pane. "it is father!" cried the children, and the pope rose. "hush, children," said anusia, in a whisper, but so impressively that they forthwith obeyed. "please keep quiet, father leo. it is not taras, but his messenger ... sit still ... i am his wife and must answer when he calls." another tap, and anusia glided from the room. they heard the outer door creak on its hinges, and knew she was in the garden. the children fell to sobbing, but the popadja put her arms round them, beginning to say her prayers, good soul. leo had risen, listening intently; but not a sound was heard till the firm footstep of the returning woman fell on their ear. she entered, carrying a lamp in her hand. they could see her face; the old look of icy calm had once more settled on it. "is it good news?" questioned leo, eagerly. "yes--that is to say in some respects." she smiled bitterly. "anyhow, pope, you will be able to do a good service to your parishioners." "i am most willing--what is it?" "go and tell them to go home quietly, for their own sakes." "i have told them, and tried my best already. will you tell me what taras----?" "no," she said, fiercely; "i must have intercourse with him--i am his wife; but no one else shall, if i can prevent it. try yet again, pope; for god's sake, do!" father leo saw his wife home, and hastened to join his expectant parishioners. but the people insisted they must see taras storm the castle; he was doing it as their own avenger; how should they forbear? the long hours of waiting, and the quantity of spirits which had been consumed, had but added to their excitement; exhortation availed not, and with a sigh the pope desisted. it was between ten and eleven in the evening. away in the district town the mandatar was about to undergo the graceful process of kneeling to the countess wanda. the night lay deep and still on mountain and plain. a strange sound broke on the stillness, indistinct at first, but gaining in force. it was as though a mighty waterfall somewhere in the distance had suddenly begun to roar. "hark!" cried a hundred voices, "what is it?" "he is coming!" exclaimed the butcher. "no; listen!" said another. the noise grew perceptibly, as though volumes of water were being added to that far-off cataract. the upland echoes awoke in response, and it was difficult to say whence the sound proceeded. "a host of them coming from the mountains!" decided one, presently. "no, from the plains--listen!" cried another. it was like a low rumble of thunder, in the direction of the river unmistakably. the very ground began to vibrate, and the dull noise ever and anon was broken by the quick, sharp sound of a trumpet. "horsemen!" a voice cried suddenly. "the hussars! save yourselves." "no, stay," burst in another; "who should forbid our standing here quietly? save yourselves!" and the cry was taken up repeatedly; "these hussars are worse than the devil!" but the people seemed nailed to the spot, some pushing this way, some that; the enclosing darkness, the state of semi-drunkenness most were in, and a knowledge that a squadron of soldiers was bursting upon them, robbed them of all self-possession. "go to your homes," the pope kept crying, despairingly. he had caught hold of the torch which served to illumine the inn, and wildly urged the people. but it seemed too late. already the first of the soldiers, four horsemen in advance of the troop, had reached the place, pulling up their steeds at the near sight of the heaving, howling mass of villagers. two of the hussars lifted their pistols, firing into the air. the shots hit no one, but took full effect on the excited minds, producing a wild panic in some, rousing rage and defiance in others. "save yourselves," was heard again. "we are not going to be killed like sheep; take to your guns, men!" roared others, and bloodshed appeared unavoidable. the imminent danger inspired father leo with an unwonted power. he forced a way through the people with his right arm, some falling back before the blazing torch in his left, and thus he got to the head of the crowd just as the body of soldiers galloped up the street, led by an officer, sword in hand. it was captain mihaly; and at the sight of the pale man in priestly dress, standing with a flaring torch between the approaching horse and the overtaken crowd, he called to his men to stop. the troop halted almost face to face with the people. "surrender!" exclaimed the officer. but father leo lifted his hands. "sir captain," he cried in german, his voice rising above the turmoil behind him, "this is not the band of taras, but only the people of this village; they will disperse at once." "then the bandit is not among you?" "no!" "but your people seem to be waiting for him--to assist him, i daresay." "no; it is their curiosity only." "i'll teach them better, then! tell them i give them five minutes' grace, after which time my men will have leave to cut down any one about the streets at this late hour." the pope repeated the orders in the people's own language; shrieks and curses were the answer. but, even though they might have been willing, most of the people could not at once free themselves from the struggling crowd, and some refused to stir, in sheer defiance if not for love of fight. the pope kept urging, but in vain. a few only escaped; the confusion was no wise diminished. the captain's patience appeared exhausted. the word was given, the trumpet sounded, and, brandishing their sabres, the hussars charged the crowd, which fell back amid a deafening tumult of shrieks and groans and efforts of resistance. father leo was flung against the inn, his head striking the door-post so violently that he staggered bleeding and stunned with the blow. he was unable to see what happened, for the darkness seemed denser than before, but the sounds which fell on his ear filled him with dismay. he had suffered much of late, but trouble seemed culminating now. he could not quite tell how long it lasted; the noise decreased, the hussars making their way towards the farms; presently there was silence, save for the groans of some who evidently had been hurt in the fray. his own head was bleeding and his limbs felt heavy, but he shook off the lethargy, and pushing open the door of the inn called for help. there was no answer. some few had taken refuge in the parlour, and the innkeeper's family were hiding in corners; the pope had to repeat his calling, and then only a lad appeared with a rushlight in his trembling hand. the pope made his way into the house, conjuring the frightened people to lend him their assistance. a couple of torches were lighted and reluctant help was given. matters outside were not quite so bad as father leo had anticipated. five only were lying there, more or less severely wounded: four villagers and one of the hussars. the latter evidently was in the worst plight, a bullet, in an almost hand-to-hand encounter, had gone through his shoulder. father leo saw to him first, ordering him to be moved into the inn. an old man was attended to next, he had a sabre-cut on his forehead. the other three were women who had fallen beneath the hoofs of the horses, but were not badly hurt. leo set himself to bind up the wounds as well as he could, aided by avrumko and maxym bobra, a soldier on furlough; and while they were thus occupied the troop of horsemen were heard returning. a trumpet sounded. "the signal for dismounting," whispered maxym to the pope, and almost immediately the door of the inn parlour was flung open. the officer entered, followed by some half-dozen of his men. "bring out torches and some faggots!" he cried to the innkeeper, turning to give a look at the wounded. the pope met him. "captain," he said modestly, "it might be well to send a messenger to zablotow, the doctor is badly needed." "got our own surgeon," was the gruff reply; and, having given orders for the military esculapius to attend, the officer stood over the wounded soldier. "nice sort of 'curiosity' this on the part of your peaceful sheep," he said, presently. but father leo forbore answering, busying himself about the sufferers. the surgeon entered, examined the wounds, and prepared to dress them. "the peasant will get over it," he said; "but this man of ours will hardly do so, a bullet having pierced his lung." "then the churls shall pay for it, by jove!" returned the officer with rising passion; "and so shall you, sir pope--you have deceived me!" leo looked him in the face quietly. "i shall be ready to answer for anything to-morrow," he said; "i will now go along the village street--there may be other sufferers." the captain somehow felt disarmed. "you are bleeding yourself, your reverence," he said more gently, almost abashed. but father leo turned away in silence, leaving the inn with maxym bobra and one or two other men. the village, which but lately had been the scene of so wild an uproar, lay still as death; a number of soldiers had settled round a watch fire outside the inn, a similar guard being stationed in front of the manor house. the lurid flames rising from these two spots were the only lights visible. the sentries patrolling the village with cocked pistols found no cause of alarm. neither did good father leo, for no one seemed to require his aid except a woman lying terror-stricken at her own cottage door. he went home, poor fruzia receiving him with a cry of horror at the sight of his pale, blood-stained countenance. but she, whom lesser troubles would readily overpower, now recovered herself, courageously. "i will not murmur," the faithful wife was saying, with trembling lips, hastening to dress his wound, "you have but done your duty." nor did she raise the slightest objection on his declaring he would sit up through the night. "i must indeed," he added, "i sadly fear we shell hear of farther trouble; some wounded or dying man may send for me." and so it proved. in the small hours of the morning a messenger arrived begging him to take the sacrament to the smithy, since marko had not many minutes to live. he made all possible speed, but death was before him; the towering giant who but a few hours before had spoken so manfully, would never lift his chirping voice again. he had been foremost among those who opposed the soldiers, a sabre-cut had disabled him, and as he endeavoured to drag himself home after the fray a bullet caught him in the back, inflicting his death-wound. he reached the smithy, but only to die. father leo offered what consolation he could to the bereaved widow, who in tearless grief held fast the dead man's hand. "peace!" she replied, gloomily: "there is but one comfort left; i shall know how to use his gun, and the hour of reckoning will come." such, indeed, was the frame of mind of most of the people when the good pope in the early morning went his round of the cottages. few of the villagers had been wounded or hurt, but one and all were burning with resentment. and the strange quiet, blending with their wrath, appeared to him more alarming than the turbulent anger he was accustomed to. "we have suffered wrong," they said, "and we shall pay it back. we cannot do so without a leader, but we may trust taras. if we waited for him in vain last night, it was no doubt because the mandatar evidently is not at the house--he would have shown his cowardly face under the protection of the military if he were hiding in the place! but no matter, taras will now be coming for our sakes." on the afternoon of easter monday a body of infantry relieved the hussars, the officer in command proving himself both judicious and kind. on learning from the pope how matters stood, he readily promised to spare the villagers as much as possible; and since the manor house, the protection of which was the main object, offered plenty of room, he would have the men quartered there--all but a few, at least, he added, whom, according to special instructions, he would have to billet on taras's farm. "i am sorry," he said, "to make acquaintance of this man's family in so unpleasant a way, for it went to one's heart to hear him speak of them." "do you know taras?" inquired father leo, wonderingly. "yes. i am captain stanczuk, and acted as interpreter when he was admitted to the emperor's presence at vienna." the peasants looked on with a savage gloom as the "whitecoats" made themselves at home in the village, their anger blazing forth when they learned that the officer actually was the son of a podolian pope. anusia received her uninvited guests after a similar fashion, treating the officer, first to a withering look, and then to her utmost contempt. the captain had come in person, hoping to smooth matters, but the woman seemed beyond conciliation. yet she trembled visibly when father leo whispered to her that her visitor was the same captain who had assisted taras at vienna, and a deep flush overspread her face. "what is it?" inquired the pope, surprised. "he is not likely to harm you, seeing he was kind to taras." "yes, yes," she groaned; "i am all the more sorry for him." but her lips closed, and the old stony expression settled on her face. that same evening the two who on the previous day had opposed each other so strenuously concerning the attitude to be adopted by the village--wassilj, the butcher, and hritzko pomenko--went from farm to farm, from cottage to cottage, evidently of one mind. "on account of the whitecoats there can be no general meeting," they said; "but we ask you individually, are you satisfied that tomorrow morning we should start for the mountains, to call hither taras in the name of the community, for the avenging of this wrong? and do you pledge yourselves to help him?" every one of the peasants assented, most of them readily, and some for very fear of the prevailing opinion. the horizon hung heavy with bursting clouds. but the pope only heard of it when the two had started on the tuesday, and the good man found himself in a painful plight. should he inform the captain, causing more stringent measures to be adopted against the village, besides being the means of bringing two honest men to grievous punishment? should he keep silence and let the mischief be done? he came to see that, of the two evils, this latter certainly was the worst, and therefore imparted to the officer what was brewing, but without mentioning names. the captain smiled. "i know all about it," he said, "and more than you tell me. that corporal, constantino turenko, has been before you, embellishing his report, no doubt, with even more than the truth. but let me assure your reverence that my measures have been taken with the utmost circumspection; i hardly needed such information to be prepared for any exigency. i shall not have recourse to harsh treatment; and though that corporal has taken it upon himself so to advise me, i shall not prohibit the public funeral of the smith to-day." but this mournful occasion brought no cause of disturbance. nearly all the village attended, and father leo would fain have poured out his heart had the widow not begged him to forego the usual discourse. "my husband shall indeed have a funeral sermon by and by," she said, "not in words, but in gun-shots." on the evening of this day, also, two men went the round of the village, alexa sembrow and wilko sembratowicz. "it has been announced," they said, "that to-morrow we have to expect a man of the law to take our deposition with regard to taras's speech. now taras himself has desired us to make it known, but we consider the transactions of the general assembly are no lawyer's business, and we propose to refuse information. do you agree?" which they all did, none having the slightest compunction on this point. whilst the inhabitants of zulawce were thus preparing to circumvent the law after their own fashion, mr. ladislas kapronski, the district commissioner, with his office-clerk behind him, was being driven towards the contumacious parish. he was seated in an open car, an armed constable on either side of him, but nowise at his ease; indeed, so harassed was his appearance, that the simple country folk by the roadside, unable to guess at his position by his looks, kept wondering what so respectable an individual could have done to be taken to prison for! a coward every inch of him, he certainly did not show to advantage with an escort of constables about him. nor did the rising sun of another day enhance his spirits; for was he not approaching that desperate village? his craven imagination conjuring up the most lively scenes of the regiment being murdered to a man by that awful taras. he quite gasped with relief on beholding some of the soldiers patrolling by the pruth, and their leader, a sergeant, assured him, somewhat surprised, that the regiment, so far, was alive and the people tolerably quiet. this account seemed cheering, and he fell to determining his mode of action. he would try, in the first place, to bully anusia; for if the mandatar's advice in this respect was illegal, it was nevertheless useful, and this was not a case to stickle for technical correctness, when positively one's life was in danger, the amiable man said to himself. he instructed his driver, therefore, to put him down near taras's farm; and, to the astonishment of the constables, he went on his errand alone. the beating of his heart was known to himself only. "no doubt she is a termagant of a woman," he murmured, but face her he must. he was fortunate in finding her alone in the common sitting-room. she gave a searching look at the man, who entered her presence with an uncertain step. "i am the district commissioner," kapronski stammered. "i am aware of the fact," said anusia. "what may be your pleasure?" her manner was not exactly calculated to rouse any latent courage; nevertheless he gathered himself up with an effort, saying hastily: "i am the bearer of a message from the board of magistrates. your husband is a miscreant. unfortunately we cannot just lay our hands on him; but you and your children and this farm are within our reach. if taras dares hurt a hair of my head--of my head, do you hear?--or anybody else's, your property will be confiscated, and you shall answer for him to the law. we know you have communication with him; so just send him word!" the woman had listened quietly--almost with indifference. "yes, yes," she muttered, when he had finished, "i understand you! all right," she added aloud, "your message shall be delivered." "soon?" "at once." with this comfortable assurance kapronski made all possible speed to regain his car. "so far, so good," he said, rejoicing, "a reasonable woman after all! i wonder if i had better have the place watched to find out how taras is being communicated with; it might be an easy mode of discovering his whereabouts, and a feather in my cap with the board. but perhaps i had better not disturb the woman in sending so sensible a message!" and therewith he ordered his driver to take him to the judge's next. but jewgeni, unequal to the mental conflict of deciding whether his valiant brother or the will of the parish should prevail, had settled the question by beating his retreat to the public house at zablotow. constantine, however, was at home, and readily dictated to the commissioner's clerk a towering heap of invectives against all authority, whether in heaven or on earth, declaring such to be a faithful report of taras's speech. but he was the only witness forthcoming; what further deposition kapronski could procure was more amusing than valuable. red schymko, for instance, invited him politely to be seated, and then harangued him for an hour concerning taras's personal appearance; but when desired to give his version of the speech in question, he protested with voluble regrets that his memory had failed him from the day he was born, and never a word could he remember. most of the peasants, however, spurned the idea of thus humbugging the commissioner, flatly declaring they were no tell-tales. the day passed, and although kapronski had obtained nothing beyond the corporal's deposition, he decided, with the approach of evening, that he had better return now to those who had sent him. there was no time to be lost, if he meant to pass the most dangerous part of the way before nightfall. the road from zulawce to zablotow runs at first along the pruth, in a northerly direction, making a sudden bend eastward and traversing the plain. the commissioner's car had reached this bend, and daylight was fast vanishing, when one of the constables suddenly rose from his seat, giving a searching look across the river. "what is it?" cried kapronski, clutching the man's arm; he was short-sighted, and could not see for himself. "some dozen horsemen," replied the constable, "huzuls by the look of them--just bursting from yonder cover and making for the ford." the commissioner could now distinguish the dark figures approaching. "let us return," he gasped. "impossible," declared the constables. "they will have crossed the river before we could out-flank them." then to the driver: "make what speed you can to zablotow." and the car shot on quick as lightning, passing the fields of debeslawce. but the sound of hoofs was carried after them; the horsemen had crossed the ford and were coming on in a quick gallop. the distance between them was fast lessening, and voices could be distinguished. the commissioner had closed his eyes, well-nigh swooning. "stop!" cried the men in pursuit. "stop, or we shall fire!" "drive on!" urged the constables. but the car stopped, the coachman dropping the reins. "i have not undertaken to be killed like a dog," he muttered. "besides, there is no escaping this taras!" another moment and the horsemen were on the spot, surrounding the commissioner's party with pointed pistols. a dark-complexioned fellow, lithe and graceful, with the look of an eagle, appeared to be the leader. "hand over your muskets," he ordered the constables, and they obeyed. "you may take yourselves off, then; it is not you we want, only this gentleman of the quill. be so good as to descend, mr. commissioner." "for pity's sake," whined kapronski. "we are not going to kill you," said the eagle-eyed leader, with a look of disdain. "our orders are to take you to our captain, taras, who wishes to speak to you. he would have come himself had it been worth his while. have the goodness, then, to descend." seeing a pistol pointed at him, the commissioner could not but rise, yet his feet would not carry him, and he had to be lifted to the ground. "are you able to ride?" inquired the leader of the troop, beckoning at the same time to one of his men, who was holding a small, shaggy horse by the bridle. "taras is sure to regret that he cannot place a carriage at your disposal, but this animal won't throw you." the commissioner groaned. "lift him into the saddle," commanded the leader, "and strap him fast. two of you take him between you." it was done. the eagle-eyed chief nodded approvingly, and, turning to the constables and the clerk, he wished them good evening and a happy journey. they drove on gladly enough, and, looking back presently, could see the mounted huzuls disappearing in the shadows, the wretched commissioner in their midst. chapter xiv. gathering strength. the steep, narrow path which from zulawce winds westward into the uplands, is not without danger to the pedestrian, but safe enough to the small, sure-footed mountain pony of the huzuls. here and there it takes you into one of those cool, dusky clefts which separate the terraced heights, leading for the most part straight across the mountains, so that each sudden rise is succeeded by an equally precipitous descent, and the traveller would hardly imagine he were nearing the very top of the chain, if every successive ridge he gained did not show him a wider and more glorious expanse of the plain left behind. for the view is open from every summit where the growing copse wood is swept away or kept low by the terrific eastern gales which burst upon these elevated regions from the broad level between the dniester and the don; tall bracken and giant trees closing in the path elsewhere, one particular spot excepted, where it winds between bare rocks of a brownish yellow and strangely shaped. this is the red hollow, some half-day's journey from zulawce. traversing it, you would most likely follow the main path, westward still, to the black water and into the marmaros beyond; indeed, few travellers, on reaching the centre of this rocky glen, where beneath a stunted fir a small red cross is to be seen, would strike off at right angles on what could scarcely be called a path. it is the poorest of tracks, now ascending boldly, now descending abruptly amid boulders and crumbling stones; and the traveller who loves his life, having ventured so far, would do well to surrender himself to the safer instincts of his pony. it is a desperate attempt at best; but whoever has dared it will remember it with rapture. for having traversed a wilderness of nature's _débris_, you pass a rocky entrance overlooking a valley, the very home of beauty bright and still, wondrously fair, and its like hardly to be found even amid the glories of the carpathians. lovely beech woods enclose a small lake of clearest blue; the sheltered slopes around are covered with wild flowers, in a profusion which is rare even in the lower valleys; and between bright leaves, in due season, the luscious, deep-coloured strawberries abound. eastward the lake has an outlet, a tumbling brook making its way through a narrow cleft towards the pruth, while all around from the slopes silvery rills come down, just ruffling the blue mirror which receives them. above and beyond, this gem of mountain scenery is overhung with rugged peaks and solemn fir woods, looking down in proud protection upon this most favoured spot. the people round about have learned to call it again by its ancient name, "the crystal springs;" but in the days we write of it came to be known as "the waters of taras." here was his camp--hither he brought his men on that palm sunday of . the place was well chosen, secluded enough for safety, except in case of treason; a natural fastness, too, which could be held against almost any attack, and yet not far from the lowlands, for in following that outlet of the lake the sedgy banks of the pruth might be reached in three hours. moreover, the red hollow and its neighbourhood is the best-stocked hunting ground in these game-haunts; a fact not to be overlooked by a captain of outlaws, determined to make honest provision for his men. for the matter of that, however, it seemed at first as though taras, apart from this, need never be at a loss how to feed his men. the news of his arrival by the crystal springs had scarcely had time to spread before the dwellers in the glens round about arrived with a friendly greeting of bread, sheep's flesh, butter, and milk for the new neighbour. taras knew what such hospitality cost these people, and he had money enough and to spare; but he could not refuse their gifts, well aware that they would look upon it as an insult to be resented. nor was he pleased that their young men should offer to join him, bold and fearless as they were, huntsmen and shepherds of the mountain wilds, accustomed to any hardship, and seasoned to any storm. their sympathy with the avenger was more the love of fighting than anything else; but they were honest, and taras knew they would not forsake him in any plight, still less play him false in trouble. nevertheless, to most of them he turned a deaf ear. he knew that these half-savage hordes were strangers to common obedience; he could never have trained them to the discipline he intended to uphold, and though he might perchance have taught them to respect property, he knew there was no trusting them with defenceless women anywhere. three of them, however, he admitted, because he believed himself certain of their inmost souls. these were a couple of huntsmen who had acted as his guides on his former visits, and the "royal eagle," julko rosenko, youngest son of hilarion the just, who dwelt by the black water. his handsome presence, rare strength and activity, together with a courage so dauntless and daring that it was conspicuous even among that reckless tribe, had gained him the proud name he bore. and of the huzuls who offered themselves to taras he was the only one actuated not solely by a spirit of defiant adventurousness, but by a deep longing to take vengeance for violence he had suffered. when a mere youth, he had, by order of a military captain, been dragged from a fair to the barracks at wiznitz, and declared fit for service, against all show of right. his fine figure had thus brought him to grief. in vain he remonstrated, assuring his captors he was not even near the legal age for conscription; their answer was: "we have no wings, young eagle, to fetch you from your eyry when you may have reached the age. you had better submit; be reasonable, and you will enjoy the life." but the young man refused to be "reasonable;" no punishment, no bullying, could force him to take the military oath. for eight months he held out, when the visit of a higher officer brought sharp censure to the captain and liberation to the youth. he returned to the mountains thirsting for revenge; but julko loved his father, hilarion the just, too dearly to grieve him by joining those who were looked upon as the refuse of the plains; he did not become a hajdamak, the repressed fury eating the deeper into his passionate heart. now, at last, the longed-for hour of retribution seemed to have come: to join the avenger was no shame, but a glory. at first then taras's band consisted of seven in all--the three huzuls, his own two men, and the youths, lazarko and wassilj, the latter of whom was almost always absent reconnoitring. old jemilian would shake his faithful head sadly, because the expected reinforcements were slow in appearing; and when wassilj, after his first day's scouting, made a glowing description of the enthusiasm he had met with, the old man laughed grimly, saying: "i doubt not but they will find us worthy of song, even when we have come to the gallows." taras was unmoved; his heart having gone through the heaving waters, seemed to have gained the shore of a mysterious calm. he was silent, solemn, and though a rare smile might come to his lips, it never reached his eyes; but that expression of brooding thought, of agonised conflict, had left him. when the news was brought that anusia had gone out of her mind he shook his head. "i do not believe it," he said to jemilian; "i know what one can bear and not go mad. i know it from my own experience, but now the worst is over. i have lost much, but i have recovered myself." and he would cheer his followers: "never fear, we shall lack neither work, nor fit hands to do it." whereupon he ordered the construction of a storehouse, a shelter for horses, and barracks to lodge thirty men. nor was his confidence mistaken; not a week passed before helpers poured in, one of the very first being a man whom neither taras nor any one else in that country would have expected to volunteer for such service. it was early in the morning, the rocky heights and the firs above them stood forth against a background of brilliant light; but the lake below and the meadows on the gentle slopes had just caught the first rosy glimmer of day. taras had relieved the "royal eagle," who had done sentry duty through the night, and was sitting with his gun between his knees on the solitary rock against which the barracks were to be erected. he sat motionless, his eye commanding the fair valley from the rocky entrance on the one side to the shrubby cleft on the other, through which the lake found its outlet. the dewy stillness of early morning hung on bush and brae. but suddenly he bent forward, listening. there were steps approaching from the red hollow, distant yet, but falling heavily on the rocky soil, as of a traveller unused to such rough descent. the dark outline of a human figure grew visible presently amid the yellowish rocks, and taras scanned the new comer. "a jew!" he exclaimed, with great surprise; "and he carries a firelock! what on earth can he want?" well might taras wonder, for a jew bearing arms had never crossed his vision. men of that persuasion in the east have a horror of weapons of any kind, and any humble israelite who may be met with occasionally in the mountain-wilds is but a pedlar, trudging with his bundle of stuffs from homestead to homestead with no ground of safety but the goodness of the god of abraham or the knowledge of his own abject poverty. but the son of jacob now coming hither carried his head high, and his back was bowed by no other burden than the musket, the barrel of which caught sparkles from the rising sun. he was young, tall, and broad-shouldered; and if his ample caftan gave sorry proof of the difficult path he had come by, there was no weariness in his movements. with undaunted step he approached the hetman. "i greet you, taras." he said. "i recognised you at first sight, although i daresay you have forgotten me; you used to be kind to me when i was a boy." taras gave a searching glance at the face before him, sharp-featured, gloomy, and furrowed as with terrible experience. "nashko!" he cried, "is it you? little nashko, the son of the innkeeper at ridowa?" he held out both his hands, and the jew caught them, his face trembling with delight. "i could hardly be sure of such a welcome," he said. "it is i indeed--your old friend nashko, son of berish!" "but how is it?" cried taras, making him sit beside him. "when i left my own village, twelve years ago, i cut you a reed-pipe to console you, and now----" "now," continued the jew, with a dark smile, "it is a wonder i am not grey-haired, to judge from this face of mine. i am but four-and-twenty, taras, but an old man through sorrow and despair." "things have gone ill with you? you have suffered wrong, and come to me to redress it?" nashko shook his head, yet added quickly, with a scrutinising look in taras's face. "and if it were so, would you help me, though i am a jew?" "can you doubt it?" exclaimed taras, warmly. "does the wrong-doer inquire into his victim's faith? how, then, should i? as they inflict wrong where they list, it is for me to right it wherever i find it. and i would help you, even if i hated the jews. but i do not hate you, because, from a child upward, i have striven to be just. and whenever i heard people speak ill of them, i thought of you, nashko, and of your father. old berish lived among us honestly and like one of ourselves. he drew a modest livelihood from his tavern, and tilled his fields with diligence. the people of ridowa respected him, therefore, as they would any other good man among them. and were not you as merry-hearted and plucky a boy as any in the village? the only difference was that you wore no cross, but the jewish fringe.[ ] and i always thought, it is not the difference of race; but the jews behave to us just as we behave to them. say on, then; what can i do for you?" "thank you, heartily," said the jew, again seizing his hand. "but i have not come to beg for your help. it is too late for that, both as regards myself and my sister. and if there were a chance of revenge i would do the deed alone! i have come with another prayer, and the words you have just spoken give me courage to ask it. let me join your band, taras!" "you!" cried the outlaw, starting from his seat in sheer amazement. "a jew fighting for the right in the mountains. this has never been heard of since the beginning of days. to be sure, you have grown up like one of ourselves, as i have just been saying; still it is unheard-of. poor fellow, what grievous wrong you must have suffered!" "grievous, indeed; but after all it is only what has happened to others before and will happen again," replied the jew, his voice quivering with the deep trouble of his soul. "but while some can rise from their shame and forget it, others are undone for ever.... you will scarcely remember my sister jutta?" "o! yes," returned taras, eagerly, "a dear little golden-haired thing--the prettiest child of the village." "well, she grew but the fairer as she grew in years. my father and i guarded her as the apple of our eye; my mother having died early, he and i brought her up, and she was the joy and pride of our life. several respectable men had asked her in marriage, although we were poor, but my father would not give her to any of them; none seemed good enough for our sweet girl. he regretted it sorely in his dying hour, and could only take comfort in the sacred promise i made him, henceforth to watch over her with double care and let my own happiness in life be subordinate to hers. i kept my promise. our farm brought in little, and the tavern still less, because the lord of the manor increased the rent from year to year; nevertheless, i remained at ridowa, because my going forth to look for a living elsewhere would have obliged jutta to seek service with strangers. for her sake also i remained unmarried, that she might remain mistress of the house and my only care. for both these reasons the jews of barnow were dissatisfied with me, for, in the judgment of my people, it is well-nigh a wrong to remain unwedded, and nearly as bad to live apart from one's fellows in the faith without forcible reason. but i had other trouble to think of than the displeasure of the jews of barnow! a young nephew of our count, a certain baron kaminski, was visiting at the manor. he saw my sister, and fell in love with her--after the fashion, taras, in which a young polish noble will play at love with a poor jewish maiden! he often came riding by, annoying her with his addresses whenever he knew i was out of the way. she kept it from me as long as she could, knowing my passionate temper, but the poor child at last could not help telling me. she had judged me aright--i was furious; and had i met the youngster in that hour, with these hands of mine i would have strangled him. but, growing calmer, i judged it best to appeal to our count, begging him to interfere. he promised to speak to his nephew, and we seemed to be left at peace, the young baron never coming near the place, and even condescending to make some sort of apology on meeting me accidentally elsewhere." "i know their tricks," said taras, darkly; "it was his cunning to throw you off your guard." "yes," cried nashko, drawing himself up and pacing to and fro wildly; "it was! i had business at the distillery one day, which kept me away over night. on returning, i found that the baron had been with his lackeys and creatures. i barely listened to the poor girl's piteous story, but snatched up my gun and forced my way into the manor-house. the wretch had left the place, thinking himself safer in poland. my unhappy sister was seized with a burning fever, and, lest she should die without help, there being no doctor near us, i took her to barnow. the people there had nursed their anger against us, and perhaps not without some reason, as they viewed matters; but pity was strong, and they stood by us in that time of sorrow. my sister was kindly taken care of, and when she had recovered i made over to her all i possessed, and went my way to seek the baron. i knew what awaited me if i did the deed my heart demanded, but go i must. again i missed him; he had left for paris. thither i could not follow. i returned to barnow, but my sister was gone ..." he covered his face, his bosom heaving. "gone after him?" cried taras, wondering. "what do you mean!" retorted poor nashko, with a proud look of disdain. "was she not an honest jewish maiden? no; but the sereth is a deep river and holds fast its prey. i never learned why she did it; whether for maidenly shame only, or because of any evil scorn, repressed while she was ill, but flung at her when she was about again--i cannot tell. but what is now left for me i know; and therefore your call to every wronged one has found an echo in my heart i shook off the lethargy of grief and despair, and i have come to ask you, judge and avenger as you claim to be, will you let me join your band?" taras went up to him, laying his hand upon his shoulder. "nashko," he said, solemnly, "if i still hesitate, it is not because of your being a jew. a man who has gone through what i have gone through would not deserve a ray of sunlight on his path if he could make any difference between his brethren. and who is my brother but he who has suffered wrong? my doubts, therefore, do not concern your faith, but yourself. let me ask you, have you really lost all hope that your heart can ever grow still again and capable of being happy?" "certainly not," replied the jew, firmly, and the fire of his eye spoke of terrible possibilities; "such hope, on the contrary, is ever present with me. my heart will grow calm again, and i shall be happy on the day when i shall cleave the head of him who ruined my sister.... spare yourself any further trouble, taras; the men of my race are wont to consider before they act. and i have considered. will you accept me as one of yours?" "yes," said taras, briefly, and called his men, who were not a little taken aback on beholding their new comrade, a scornful remark hovering on the lips of the "royal eagle," and shrinking back only at the captain's look of command. julko rosenko, the first volunteer of the mountain wilds, and the jew, the first one from the lowlands--or as, to this day, they are known in song, the "royal eagle" and "black nashko"--are the only two of taras's band who strike the imagination either by their originality or by the motives inspiring their action. all the others, whom a lawless or revengeful disposition brought to his standard, may have been the victims of tyranny, indeed, but they were men of a lower type, and their history is but the outcome of the troublous confusion of oppressors and oppressed struggling for mastery. thus there was with him a peasant from the bukowina, one thodika synkow, who to his fortieth year had lived quietly on his bit of land, till the harshness of a tax-gatherer selling the very pillow from under the head of his sick wife drove him to a deed of murder. there was an under-steward from near the frontier, stas barilko, who after years of faithful service had been cruelly flogged for having shot a hare without his master's leave. there was a certain sophron hlinkowski, the leader of a church choir, who in a dispute between the priest and the parish concerning tithes had sided with the people, and, when the angry pastor, with the approval of his superiors, suspended the church services, had yielded to the entreaty of the peasants, reading prayers when there was a funeral. that was his crime; the priest denounced him, and the unfortunate precentor was sent to prison, finding himself a beggar when his two years had expired. his only child had died, and his wife had gone off with another man. so he joined taras to "lift his voice now after another fashion, and make the ears tingle of those who used him so cruelly;" and taras admitted him, as, indeed, he admitted any one whom honest resentment brought to his standard, and who, having nothing to lose, was possessed of the three requisites he looked for--obedience, courage, and frugality. for taras held strictly by the words he had spoken beneath the linden: "let none come to me who seeks for pleasure in life, and no happy man shall join me." many offered themselves, setting aside this primary condition, but the hetman subjected every one to the most rigid examination; and any one hoping to find refuge with him from just punishment was rejected as mercilessly as were the mere ruffians looking for booty. yet, in spite of such strict investigation, taras's band on easter morning consisted of thirty well-armed and resolute men. but he had to give audience to a host of people besides, peaceful men coming to tell him of their troubles, or delegates pleading for a wronged community. some of their complaints were worthless enough, but the greater number were well founded, strengthening him in his conviction that this "unhappy land in which justice is not to be found" was sorely in need of an "avenger." the wisdom he had gained at the cost of his life's happiness made him sufficiently cautious not to believe blindly any reports that might reach him, and the only promise any of his suppliants got out of him was to the effect that he would make inquiry, and "woe to you if you have lied to me, but woe to your oppressors if you speak the truth!" and if they grew urgent, protesting their honesty, and entreating for speedy redress, he would answer: "you may look for me soon, but the hour shall not be fixed; for how can i be sure there are no tell-tales among you, enabling the whitecoats to meet me? and, moreover, i have undertaken, first of all, to settle accounts with the mandatar of zulawce. not that i long for his punishment before that of any other evil-doer in the land, but a man must be true to his word." but, to judge from the intelligence brought to him by wassilj, who on the saturday had returned from a reconnoitring expedition to colomea, it promised to be a desperate venture to get hold of the mandatar, and taras shrank from the risk of leading his faithful men to the well-garrisoned district town merely to carry out to the letter an assurance given. if, however, his spirits failed him for a moment, his energy and confidence soon rose uppermost. wassilj was ordered back to colomea to procure farther information, whilst sefko and the royal eagle were despatched to inquire into the complaints made by two parishes on the plain, and jemilian was sent off to announce to anusia, and through her to the village, the impending arrival of the whitecoats. "master," said the faithful old servant, hesitatingly, "have you forgotten that the mistress----" "is gone out of her mind?" interrupted taras. "she never did, and by this time is as collected as you or i, jemilian. she was stunned for a moment, but she knows what is laid upon her, and will never flinch." "have you had farther news?" inquired the man, wondering. "no, but i know my wife. my own heart tells me." and taras continued making his preparations. "i have promised to be ready by easter day; that much, at least, i will keep." he assigned to each man his place in the barracks, which, a light wooden structure, had been run up already; he gave orders concerning the daily rations and appointed the regulation of sentries. he also divided his band into two distinct companies, setting a sub-captain over each. the royal eagle should command the one, black nashko the other. in naming the latter, taras, with an imperious look, scanned the faces of his followers as they were drawn up before him. a flush of anger was plainly evident, and one of them, stas barilko, was about to speak. but that look of the hetman's silenced him, taras repeating, "our brother nashko shall command these." not a sound of dissent--and the sign for dispersing was given. the jew then came forward. "taras," he exclaimed, "why did you not take me into your counsel? i fear this will be neither to your advantage, nor to mine. as for me it matters little, but you and your cause must not suffer. you should not have braved needlessly the prejudice in which they have grown up, and which is next to religion with them." "needlessly?" exclaimed taras. "i have appointed you, because after due consideration i take you to be the most earnest and best qualified of my followers. these others--well they will soon see for themselves that you are worthy of my confidence; till then they will just obey." "yes, resentfully and under protest," urged the jew, "and you should avoid that, unless the most sacred principle were at stake. remember that your influence rests upon their free will alone." "no!" cried taras. "they could come to me or stay away of their own free will. but having come, they are what i am, instruments towards the gaining of a common and most holy end." ... the following morning--it was easter sunday--rose with all the wondrous fragrance of spring. taras had caused a plain wooden cross to be erected, and the wild outlaws, bareheaded, gathered beneath the sacred sign. nashko only held aloof. and, taking his place beside the cross, taras spoke to his men. "my brothers," he said, "we have neither priest nor altar to help us to keep this day. but god is to be found wherever the heart of man will turn to him, and he will listen to the humble prayer we would offer up--a homeless flock, having left all that men count dear for the sake of his own holy justice." he crossed himself and repeated the lord's prayer slowly and solemnly, the men saying it after him; and after that sophron, of the church choir, stood up beside him, once more to do his duty in leading the ancient easter hymn; and all their voices joined in the fine old chorale:-- "christ, the lord, is risen to-day!" thus the homeless ones kept easter in the mountains. they were yet singing when jemilian returned; and, service over, he informed his master he had found anusia exactly as taras had predicted. "she has even made ready for the soldiers," the man said. "the rest of the people seem utterly confident, firmly believing that this night you will storm the manor-house; and they are all preparing to witness it, for anusia refused to give them your message." "what!" cried taras, staggering. "refused point-blank," repeated jemilian. "this is her answer--i took care to remember it: 'tell him,' she said, 'i shall be grateful for any news of my lord and master, but i entreat him to send me word about himself only, not concerning his plans or the movements of those against him; for i will not speak an untruth when the men of the law ask me, and i will keep a clean heart. that is my prayer, let him grant it or not, as he pleases; but one thing i will never do, however urgently he may demand it--i refuse to be the go-between, carrying his messages to the village. i shall not do so in the present instance, although his news is for the good of the people entirely, and i will not do it in any case whatever. i will not share his guilt, nor his punishment in the end--tell him so, he will understand. he has made our children fatherless, he shall not make them motherless as well.' this is her message!" taras grew white as death; but before he could answer another messenger arrived, a lad whom the royal eagle had despatched from zablotow, his news being that the hussars were due at zulawce by nightfall, to anticipate taras's expected attempt on the manor. the hetman looked anxious, jemilian lending words to his fear. "there will be trouble," he said "if the soldiers come upon the excited villagers in the night." "there will!" cried taras, "they must be warned at any risk. you must go back directly, as fast as your horse will carry you. and if my wife still refuses, you must get father leo to tell them." jemilian promised his best, but taras continued anxious, growing even more so with the setting sun, "all the misery of my life, so far, has struck me unawares," he said to his friend nashko, "and i doubt whether a presaging voice is given to the heart of man; yet there is something within me making me sore afraid for my wife and children this night." on waking in the morning from restless slumbers, he found jemilian by his side. the old man looked wan, and his brow was clouded. "they have been killed?" cried taras, starting up. "not the mistress or the children," said jemilian; "but blood has flowed." he was already on his way back when the tumult arose, and, returning cautiously, he learned what had happened, and that the smith had received his death-wound. "do not take it to heart so much, dear master," said the man, interrupting his report, for taras was groaning pitifully. "the blood which has been shed lies neither at your door nor at your wife's. she did manage to have the people warned through father leo." "at _my_ door!" cried taras, wildly. but, checking himself, he requested to be left alone. it was some time before he showed himself to his men, and then, with a silent nod only to their greeting, he departed into the lonely wood. the rough men were at a loss to understand him. "why, this is excellent news," they said. "such butchery would rouse the most law-abiding people in the land!" the jew alone guessed what moved the captain's heart, and took courage to go after him. he found him lying beneath a fir-tree, with a gloomy face and evidently suffering. "taras!" he said, taking his hand, "i understand your grief; but the comfort remains that you did your best to avert this trouble." but the captain shook his head. "a man must reap what he sows," he said. "do you repent of the step you have taken?" "no!" he cried, vehemently. "oh! how little you understand me! if i had not done so already, i would this day declare war against those that are in power. i have but done what i _must_ do. but _what_ that means--all the fearful scope of my undertaking--has only now grown plain to me.... and more," he added, hoarsely ... "there is another thing! i used to think at times that possibly i might come to an evil end through this work of mine. now i know it; i see now that my end can not, must not, be a good one...." "what has come to you, taras?" cried the jew, alarmed. "i cannot explain it," said the captain, with a wistful look; "it is a voice within me, not of the mind, but of the heart. i know it now!" the following morning the deputies of the village, wassilj, the butcher, and hritzko pomenko, appeared before taras, delivering their message. "we are convinced that you will stand by us," they said, "and only wish to know what time you fix for the revenge." he had listened quietly, but then made answer with a terrible sternness: "hearken!" he said, "if you had asked me to help you in attacking the hussars, i would have refused, both for your sakes, since it would harm you in the end, and for the sake of justice itself; for these soldiers have only obeyed those they are bound to obey. i would have reasoned with you, advising you to keep quiet, and if nevertheless you had suffered wrong i would have made those responsible who ordered it. but now you actually ask me to lift the arm of murder against the whitecoats, who have done you no injury. i have but one answer, therefore--'get ye gone from the camp of the avenger!' how could i have anything to do with men capable of the thought even of assassination?" "taras!" exclaimed wassilj, staggering as though he had received a blow; but young hritzko stood rooted to the ground, his eyes wide open with amazement. taras's men, on the contrary, looked sullenly before them in plain disapproval. "yes," continued taras; "let me repeat it. what you are thinking of is not an act of sacred vengeance, but of revengeful murder. if i were not sure you would never dare an attack without me, god knows i would send word of your intention to the officer on the spot." "taras," now cried hritzko, in his turn. "how is it? have we not heard your solemn declaration of war against the emperor, and now you will not rid us of his soldiers, the instruments of tyranny?" "no," replied taras, firmly, "i will not, because i am not an assassin, but a champion of justice." "a champion afraid of shedding blood?" interposed the butcher, scornfully. "a champion who will not shed innocent blood, unless it be the only way of making justice victorious," returned taras, solemnly. "if the mandatar were at zablotow under the protection of these soldiers, and i had a force sufficient to risk an attack, i would do so this very night. for he has sinned against the law of god, and must be brought to judgment; and since right is the most sacred thing upon earth, it is better to shed blood than let this holy thing be dragged low. but except for such reason, i will never consent to endanger an innocent life, lest the deed rise against me and mine in the day of judgment." "but, taras," pleaded hritzko, "this is all very well as regards ourselves or the soldiers, but what of yourself? do you think they would have the slightest compunction in slaying you, wherever they find you?" "we will take care of ourselves," said taras, quietly. "i trust you may," rejoined the butcher. "come, hritzko, let us be gone." but the young man went up closer to taras. "what answer would you have us take back to our people?" said he, clasping taras's hand. "they are in the worst of moods, bitterly resenting the military interference, but they have full confidence in your coming. all their fury will be turned against you if we tell them how you judge of their purpose. have you no other message, taras, which we might take back to them?" "no," replied the captain, sternly. "thank you for your good intentions; but i have put off the fear of man, since i serve god. tell them the plain truth." this happened about noon on the tuesday. towards evening taras assembled his men, some forty in number by this time, to hold his first council of war, laying before them the two most important points of his latest information. wassilj soklewicz had come back with the news of the mandatar's matrimonial intentions, and that he was in the habit of spending his evenings at the armenian's villa. the royal eagle also had returned from kossowince, reporting that the complaints of that parish against their avaricious and hard-hearted priest were but too well founded; he had suspended all church functions, and was distraining for tithes pitilessly. "the measure of iniquity, both of the mandatar and of the priest, is full to overflowing," taras said. "let us, then, hesitate no longer to do the work, ridding the fair earth of these scoundrels. there is danger in both undertakings, for soldiers are quartered at the manse of kossowince, and the villa which harbours the mandatar of an evening is near the well-garrisoned district town. but we will rest our courage in the almighty, and do the deed. to-morrow, wednesday, afternoon we start, reaching kossowince by night, to bring the evil-doer there to his doom, and before the midnight of thursday we must be ready for passing judgment on the mandatar. will you follow me?" "urrahah!" was the wild answer of delight, and as the men gathered round their watch-fires the excitement of action was among them. nashko only had retired by himself, musing sadly. "poor taras!" he said, sighing. "these fellows understand his meaning no better than any brute cattle could follow a sunday's sermon. they think him a misguided fool for trusting me, and they resented his refusal to the people of zulawce. but for his resolve to fall to work he might have found himself obliged to begin his judgments upon his own followers in the first place. their meanness is forced back now within their own hearts, but it will break out again sooner or later. he will hold his own against the men of the law, but who shall keep his soul undefiled from the breath of these lawless ones?" with the earliest dawn the men began getting themselves ready for the intended raid, polishing their arms and grooming their horses, whilst taras held farther counsel with nashko and the royal eagle, giving to each his special orders. the morning passed in high excitement. but suddenly--the sun was just nearing the zenith--the alarm was given from the direction of the red hollow, and all eyes turned thither; the figure of a horseman was seen coming at full speed down the steep declivity. "the fellow is mad," was the general outcry, "he will break his neck in a moment." taras also was straining his eyes, and grew white with apprehension, having recognised his young servant, halko. "there is trouble at home!" he cried, rushing to meet the messenger. but in spite of the headlong career to which the bold rider forced his helpless steed, he reached the rocky entrance of the valley safely, and then, just at the last reckless plunge, the poor animal rolled over, the young man, in a flying leap, coming to the ground. a cry of horror burst from the expectant band, but the horse only lay gasping; the youth jumping up from his fall like a wild-cat, hastened onward with quickening steps, stopping in front of taras. "the chestnut is done for," he panted, "but i have kept my promise, to reach you by noon. this is the mistress's message!" and he reported how the commissioner had threatened anusia. all the band had assembled round him, listening eagerly. "the cowards!" they cried when he had done, "being afraid of us, they are going to wage war upon women!" taras alone seemed calm. "it is well," he said to the youth; "did you not say the commissioner intends to return in the evening? we will have a word with him, then. julko, i will ask you to bring him hither, not harming him, but blindfolding his eyes.... you, halko, go back to my wife, and tell her to be of good cheer." the royal eagle forthwith led off his men in the direction of the pruth, taras quietly setting himself to inspect the preparations of the others, seeing to the needful ammunition, the necessary rations, and holding everything in readiness for the night's expedition. watching him thus calmly engaged, one would scarcely have guessed that such a message had just reached him, and that he was expecting a meeting that must stir his troubled heart to its depth. at dusk all was in readiness, the men standing by their horses, listening impatiently for any sign of julko's return. but the last glimmer of daylight faded, the stars shone forth, and night spread her mantle over the mountains; not a sound yet, save the murmuring whispers in the tall firs and, far off, the hooting of an owl. "the bird of ill omen!" said the men, with bated breath; "who can tell what may have happened to julko?" but taras heeded them not, lost in thought. the bird's dismal cry had wakened another voice within him; or, rather, it appeared like an echo of his own inner consciousness, which, rising from the depths of his being, quivered through him in awful agony. and then it seemed as though the bird kept crying: "you are about to shed the blood of man--you! you!" jemilian went up to him. "they keep us waiting here rather long!" he said anxiously. taras shivered and stared at him. the man had to repeat his remark. "never mind," he now made answer, his voice rising as though to silence that other voice within; and he drew himself up. "julko may have had to wait before catching him, and the way up the ravine is difficult even in daylight.... but is it that you are afraid of the dark, children that you are! well, then, light a fire; it will serve at the same time to show off that coward of a commissioner when he does arrive." the captain's words acted like magic, freeing the souls of these men as from a nightmare; and when, a few minutes later, a great pile of firwood sent up shoots of ruddy flame, spreading light and warmth, their spirits rose mightily. they formed a circle round the welcome fire, and one of their number produced a bagpipe, to the plaintive droning of which they fell to dancing that strangest of reels known throughout the carpathians, and which, executed by these men and in such circumstances, once more assumed what was, no doubt, its original character--that of a war-dance. taras did not interfere, but looked for nashko, who once more kept aloof with his own saddened thoughts. "what is the time?" he inquired. the jew was the only one of all these men who possessed a watch, and only taras and sophron, besides himself, understood the art of telling the hour by such means. "eleven. are you beginning to be anxious?" "no! what should have happened? but hark! listen!" "i hear nothing." "but i do.... hark!" and taras turned to the merrymakers with an imperious "silence!" they stood still like statues, and the bagpipe ceased wailing. they could all hear it now--a peculiar, whirring sound, not unlike that of an arrow cutting the air. it came from afar, through the stillness of the night. "it is julko signalling," the men cried, delightedly; and taras, taking his own whistle, signalled back. a moment's silence, and again the sound reached them--longdrawn, and thrice repeated. "you understand its meaning," said taras to his men. "they have missed the track in the dark. away with you, stas and jemilian; take torches and go to meet them, and keep signalling as you go." the two obeyed, while the rest of the men, at his word, took their places by their horses. but the minutes passed, and nothing was heard save the signalling and counter-signalling in the wood, till at last the sounds seemed blending, and presently the sign was given that the seekers and the sought had met. ere long their voices could be distinguished, together with the tramping of their steeds. first of all the royal eagle burst upon the waiting band. "we were sadly detained," he reported to the captain; "two full hours we had to lie in ambush by the pruth, and when the night overtook us we missed our way. but we have caught him all right." "not injuring him, i hope!" "no--that is to say, he suffered no harm at our hands, but fear may have killed him, for all i know." and, indeed, there was no saying whether it was a living man or a dead body that was being brought before the captain. julko, not satisfied with lashing the commissioner to the saddle, had ordered a man to mount behind him that he might be supported and saved from striking his head against the low-hanging branches, blindfolded as he was. a cloak also had been thrown round his shivering shoulders. thus the poor wretch clung helplessly to the neck of the horse that carried him, the men shouting with laughter on beholding his abject figure; but a look of taras's silenced them. "has he fainted?" inquired he of the man whose brawny arm enfolded the commissioner. "no, captain," was the answer, "it is just his pretence; only a few minutes ago he implored me to let him make his escape, promising me a hundred florins if he got away safely. i felt sorely tempted to pitch into him, but i remembered your injunctions." and the man looked so disappointed, that even taras could not but smile. "untie him," he said. it was done. when the bandage was taken from his eyes kapronski staggered and fell, his head striking the ground. that was no play-acting, for the scene thus suddenly presented to his vision might well have confounded a more courageous and less guilty man: first and foremost the towering figure of taras, and behind him the band of outlaws armed to the teeth and leaning against their horses, all of them lit up by the lurid glare of their watchfire. "put him on his feet," exclaimed the captain, impatiently, two men endeavouring to do so, but they only got him to his knees. "for pity's sake," he whimpered, lifting his folded hands to taras. the latter came a step nearer. "ah!" he cried scornfully, "is it you, friend ladislas kapronski? get up, man; you need not shake like that." the commissioner now managed to stand on his legs, but his head hung on his bosom, and his clasped hands continued in entreaty. "i am not going to say a word concerning the matter at issue," began taras, "you men of the law will just go on murdering justice--well, continue in your ways, but...." at the mention of justice, kapronski gasped, apparently recovering himself. "yes," he said, with an obsequious bow, "i always told them at the board it was no use arraigning _you_, who are as daring as you are just; and you have got the people to back you, honoured--much honoured, mr. taras." "be silent," cried the latter, "i am ashamed of you, for after all you are a man!... it is not on account of these matters, or concerning myself, that i wanted to see you, but because of your having threatened my wife." "for pity's sake! i did but as i was told!" "indeed," said taras, with so searching a look that the commissioner, unable to meet it, shook afresh. "indeed! then why are you trembling like that? was it not rather an invention of your own cowardly brain?" "no!" exclaimed kapronski, "i swear by all the saints----" "i will take your word for what it may be worth. i might well doubt you; you are fully capable of a lie--but the thing in itself is preposterous. that you, who call yourselves guardians of the law, should think even of such a glaring wrong! and how cowardly--how cowardly it is! you, with all the military at your command, are you not able to protect yourselves against me save by attacking my wife and children?" "oh, indeed," pleaded kapronski, "did i not do my best to warn them? but my advice was not taken. i assure you----" "no need of farther words; but listen to what i have to say, and take back my message to the board.... no amount of threatening will prevent my carrying out the sacred duty i have undertaken. and if my wife and my poor children were indeed at your mercy, and i knew they would meet death at your hands for any act of mine, laid upon me by that duty, i would carry out such act unflinchingly. do you take that in?" "ah!--yes--oh!" "well, then, listen again. i cannot hinder you from taking my wife and my children to prison, or even from taking their lives. but i tell you this: on the day you make good those threats, it will become my first and highest and most sacred duty to rid the land of the worst of evil-doers--of you, the so-called guardians of the law. woe to any of you, then, who may fall into my hands! i shall have you hanged, every one, on these trees of ours...." "oh, no, not me--for pity's sake! i was always trying----" "well, hanging might be too good for you," said taras, sternly. "i knew you were an abject coward, but this is worse even than the name you bear.... i regret to send you with an honest man's message. for there is yet another matter to speak about--and you shall tell them i have sworn to you a sacred oath that there is no deceit nor cunning in my request, but pity for the people alone. i earnestly pray the authorities to withdraw the soldiers from zulawce. the hussars have done mischief enough already, and the infantry may do worse if they stay. there is no need of military occupation, for i give you my word that i shall not enter the village, not even if i knew the mandatar to be at the manor. i should bide my time to get hold of him elsewhere. let me repeat it. i shall never set foot within the parish of zulawce if my request be granted; and since the man lives not who could say that taras ever broke his word, perhaps even you will believe me." "oh!--certainly--yes. i myself----" "stop your talking! this, then, is the message you shall bear; but i have a word for yourself also. see that you keep from lying in delivering my message, for the truth sooner or later will come to be known; and if ever i find that you altered one single word of what i have told you, i shall----" "for pity's sake! i'll never alter a single letter!" "well, we shall see. i said i would not harm you in limb or life; but since you have shown yourself such a mean, craven coward, it is meet you should suffer punishment--that punishment which within these mountains is reserved for such meanness;" and, turning to his men, "cut off his hair!" he said. "ah--pity!" groaned kapronski, but it availed him not. he found himself held fast with a merciless grip, while sophron made short work of the commissioner's well-oiled locks, leaving his head like a field of stubble in the dreary autumn. "now tie him to his horse again," said taras, "blindfolding him as before." it was done. "light the torches! mount, and let us be off! by the pruth we will leave him to his own devices." the signals sounded, the procession formed, vanishing in the deeper shadows of the cleft which leads to the river in the direction of kossowince.... chapter xv. an eye for an eye. starting from the little wooden bridge which spans the pruth near zulawce, and following the river, about an hour's ride will bring you to the village of kossowince. it is a well-favoured spot, the fertile wheat-fields of the plain spreading round about; yet the village is near enough to the rich green slopes of the rising uplands to obtain considerable returns from cattle-rearing as well. this flourishing place in our own days is known again as the "rich village," its much-envied inhabitants going by the name of the "wheat lords," but there have been times when the poorest cottager of the heath-country would not have exchanged his miserable cabin for the finest homestead at kossowince. for rivers of tears and streams of blood have flowed here for religion's sake. in the days when poland held sway, nearly all the inhabitants of the district had forsaken the byzantine orthodox creed, turning catholics, if not of their own free will, yet under the combined influence of romish jesuits and tyrannical waywodes; very few of the peasantry had courage enough to withstand such persuasion, but of these few were the people of kossowince. trusting in their numbers and wealth, the "wheat lords" clung to their ancient faith, although every decade brought them a bitter experience of persecution. the austrian supremacy eventually put an end to these troubles, and in the days of the good emperor joseph the people of kossowince might cross themselves from the right to the left, or from the left to the right, as they pleased. but when that monarch had been gathered to his fathers, this important difference once more appeared to trouble the ruling powers, most of all his grace of lemberg, and the villagers soon had proof that their heresy was being dealt with. doubtfully they looked into the threatening future, and their horizon grew darker still when they learned that all of a sudden they had fallen under spiritual sway. the lady of the manor, a widowed countess, had seen fit to bequeath the "rich village" for purposes of romish endowment, and their new mandatar proved to be a secular priest, a certain victor von sanecki, sent thither to collect the revenues. he was received with unbounded hatred; yet within the space of a few months he had known how to gain the confidence, even the goodwill, of the people. for this ghostly steward was thoroughly conversant with agriculture; he proved a good counsellor, and appeared not to take the slightest notice of the heretical tendency of the village. so tolerant was he, that when the elders one day uttered complaints against their pope, miron aganowicz, describing him as a worse drunkard than need be, he did his best to find excuses for his reverend brother, the result, of course, being that miron, who so far had stood in some awe of spiritual censure, drank worse than ever, providing the means by various methods of extortion. but the parish was possessed of some spirit, and the sheep turned against the shepherd; whereupon the pope complained to the civil authorities and was victorious in the contest. the aggrieved peasantry carried their trouble to the ghostly mandatar, but he pointed out to them that the courtesy of his sacred calling did not permit him to interfere, making a similar statement to his brother miron, who, on the strength of it, oppressed the people more than ever. matters grew to such a pass that the parish petitioned for another pope, and, being refused, declared themselves willing to be rid of miron at any price, assuring the authorities that they had come to see how foolishly prejudiced they had been in opposing the ruling faith, and that they were quite ready now to profess themselves roman catholics, provided that the reverend sanecki, that excellent man, might be their priest and mandatar in one. this offer was accepted speedily, and on easter sunday, in the year of grace , the greek church of kosso wince was solemnly dedicated to the romish rite, sanecki entering on his functions as the pastor of this converted people. the event made a stir far and wide; it was evident that the benign wisdom of an amiable priest, within the space of two short years, had succeeded in overcoming the stubborn resistance which had braved the tyranny of centuries. not many had the clear-headed judgment, or, indeed, sufficient acquaintance with sanecki himself, to temper their surprise, seeing he was as unprincipled as he was clever. victor von sanecki was the scion of a decayed family of rank, a native of posen. as a mere youth, iron-willed and indefatigable, sharp-witted and full of ambition, he had striven hard to reclaim his hopelessly mortgaged inheritance. but no saving and no diligence of his could make up for the failings of his spendthrift ancestry. he gave it up, and, entering the prussian civil service, turned protestant for the sake of advancement; nor was he without prospect of gaining his end, and he might have risen to power had not his over-zealous chase after prosperity overstepped the lines of rectitude marked out in that country for a servant of the state. he was dismissed; upon which, repairing to cracow, he resolved to read for holy orders. he was barely thirty when he thus entered the church, and upon his consecration was appointed to the somewhat anomalous charge at kossowince. his wondrous success there failed not to strike the archbishop, who meditated work for him at lemberg itself, but sanecki submitted his earnest request "that he might be left to lead the converted flock in the way they should go"; for he believed that he could gather wealth while so engaged. his ambition sated, he was anxious now to satisfy that other craving of his debased soul, the love of riches. and success appeared to attend his efforts; but the means he had recourse to were appalling. not many weeks passed before the people of kossowince discovered that the shepherd they had chosen was not nearly so gentle as they supposed, and before the year was out they had come to the conviction that a very fiend was addressing them from the pulpit and lording it over them at the manor. for it is a fact that the fate of every galician village in those days was in the hands of two men--viz.: the mandatar and the parish priest. and here this power was vested in one and the same--victor von sanecki literally could do what he pleased. if a peasant refused an unjust tithe he as mandatar could send to prison; if he refused an oppressive tribute to the mandatar it was the priest that could inflict the lash of ecclesiastical punishment. the people naturally struggled hard against the injustice, appealing to the law; but it was no less in the nature of things that they found no redress, since before the civil authorities sanecki claimed the privileges of the clergy, while to his spiritual superiors he pleaded his position as mandatar and steward of the revenues. moreover, the stubborn character borne previously by the converted parish was remembered, and sanecki was not slow to point out that having adopted the catholic faith for outward reasons merely, they naturally were unwilling to meet the demands of the church. so everything went against them, for the romish creed was in the ascendant, and fines were imposed to teach them submission. a military detachment was quartered upon the refractory parish to enforce payment, and when the uttermost farthing had been wrested from them their goods were seized; not till a man had been brought to hopeless penury was he left alone by the priest. it seemed as though sanecki could commit the vilest wrongs with impunity; but he cared to inflict punishment on those only who could offer money or money's worth to evade it, and his direst means of extortion, the refusal of church burial, always fell on the wealthy. such was the man against whom taras in the first instance lifted the avenger's arm. as it was close upon midnight when he with his followers started from the crystal springs, the pruth was not reached till after two o'clock. and when the river had been forded, and the shivering kapronski left to himself, the band in headlong gallop dashed onward through the plain. kossowince was reached, and in spite of the surrounding darkness taras perceived a horseman stationed at the entrance. he was appointed by the villagers to act as the avenger's guide. taras and his men drew up. "how many soldiers are there in the place?" he inquired; "and how are they quartered?" "there is an officer with fifty men," reported the peasant; "whitecoats from lombardy with green facings. thirty of them are at the parsonage, for the fiend himself lives at the manor, allowing the manse to be used as a barracks, for which we must pay him a rental of five hundred florins....." "and where are the others?" "here and there about the cottages, one or two in each, all over the village. the officer and his man only are lodged at the manor. there are five or six retainers there besides, that is all. but have a care; the parsonage is not a hundred yards distant." "any sentries?" "yes, one--outside the manse. but these fellows feel the cold here; they are generally found cuddled up in their cloaks." "and the villagers understand that they keep quiet?" "yes, much as they long to take part. but they see it is best so. it is different with me, who have nothing to lose. i am jacek borodenko, and the fiend has beggared me and mine entirely. what better can i do but join you for good?" "we shall see," said taras, and turned to his men. "the soldiery about the village need not troublous; it is the parsonage and the manse that require our attention. we will divide our force i shall want the royal eagle, jemilian and sefko, wassilj and sophron, stas barilko and karol wygoda, to come with me; we shall carry out the avenger's part at the manor. you others, all of you, shall follow nashko. and to you," he added, turning to the jew, "i leave it to deal with the sentry and make sure that no whitecoat shall leave the manse. i rely on it that i shall not be hindered in my business while there is breath left in any of you!... but let every man here remember my injunction: he that shads blood for the mere thirst of it shall meet with his deserts in due time; but if any of you lay his hand on any property whatsoever, i shall shoot him on the spot.... now let us be gone, keeping silence." and cautiously they moved toward the scene of their ghastly labour. the night yet curtained the plain, but on the eastern horizon a faint streak betokened the approach of day. by the church they separated. taras and his seven men, led by jacek, proceeded towards the manor, the others halting by the church, while some of their number slid from their horses and moved away stealthily to seize the sentry. "do you know the ins and outs of the house?" taras inquired of the guide. "yes; as well as of my own pocket," replied the man. "i was in service there in the days of the late countess." "then i daresay you can show us some back door that will yield readily." "hardly," said the guide, "for the fiend is on his guard; he has iron-barred every door of the place. but michalko, the groom, has a sweetheart in the village, and if we are lucky we may find the postern ajar." their very horses trod with noiseless footfall, carrying them to their destination unobserved. jacek tried the latch, the door moved on its hinges, and the little band dismounted. wassilj was left to guard the entrance, while the rest of the men followed their stern captain through a vaulted passage into the building. it was their first aim to make sure of the half-dozen retainers who slept in a large room in the basement. jacek approached on tiptoe. "the key is in the lock," he whispered, and turned it forthwith. nothing was heard from within but the snoring of the occupants. "it is as well to be prudent," said taras; "they are sure to wake up with the commotion, and, forcing the door, might give us trouble. this is your place, then, sophron and karol," and the two men took their position accordingly. "now for the officer. where shall we find him?" "on the first floor," reported the guide; "not far from the fiend's lair." the man, in common with all the villagers, thus habitually designated their shepherd, as though victor von sanecki had never been known by any other name. they ascended the stairs. on reaching the landing the report of a firelock was heard, a second, and a third in quick succession; a din of voices rose in the distance; the garrison at the manse evidently was showing fight. at this moment a door opened, the officer bursting upon the scene, his pistol in one hand and his sword in the other. but quick as lightning taras had closed with him, disarming him, and with powerful grasp holding him helpless on the ground, his servant and a lackey or two speedily sharing the same fate at the hands of the others. "there is no time to be lost," said taras. one of the bedrooms was standing open, its window was iron-barred, and there was no other outlet. "push them in!" the door was locked upon the overpowered men, sefko being ordered to guard it while the others now made for the priest's chamber. they found it secured, but taras, with the weight of his gigantic frame, had no trouble in making the door yield, his men, with the butt-ends of their muskets finishing the operation. they entered a spacious apartment, modestly furnished; a lamp expired, not at the breath of any man, but in consequence of a sharp draught from an open window, as the invaders perceived by the light of their torches. the room was empty, the bed to all appearance recently forsaken, and the casement wide open. julko rushed to the window. "look here!" he cried, pulling up a sheet that was tied to the sash; "the wretch has escaped us!" "impossible!" exclaimed jacek; "the moat is at its deepest below; he would have broken every limb in the attempt." "but the room has no other exit." "it has, though! i know there is a secret closet joined to this room by an invisible door. in the countess's time it used to be connected with the back-stairs as well; but the fiend, thinking it a good hiding-place for his ill-gotten gains, had that communication walled up. i have not a doubt but that he is within, caught in his own trap and no escaping." "then have you an idea where to look for the invisible door?" "yes, in this wall," he pointed to the side where the bed stood. the broad surface was covered with an antique hanging which, quaintly enough, appeared fastened to the wall at regular intervals with large metal buttons, forming a kind of pattern. "it is one of these buttons that opens the door," said jacek, "if you press down the right one. i have seen it done once; but there are many, and i cannot tell which it is." "that is a pity," said taras. he stood listening to the confused voices of the fighting without. "well, if it is the only way, we must just find the button. are you sure the other outlet is walled up?" "quite certain." "then let us try." several minutes passed while the men were thus endeavouring to discover the secret spring by which to move the hidden door, the din outside continuing unabated. julko gave an exultant cry. he was kneeling on the bed, passing his fingers over the buttons in the centre when one of them yielding discovered a narrow chink in the wall. the door as yet did not open, but its outline was plainly marked; it was evidently made fast from within. taras snatched at jemilian's axe, and, pushing aside the bed, he belaboured the wall with all his might. the door had begun to split, when a bolt was withdrawn inside, and before them stood the man they were seeking. so sudden was his appearance that those without fell back a step. the "fiend" in person seemed utterly different from the name he bore--a well-grown, still youthful man, in the black robe of a priest, with a face both grave and handsome, and singularly dignified. the pallor of his countenance only showed his inward disturbance, his features wearing an expression of proudest self-confidence, and his eyes flashed imperiously. "what is this?" he demanded. "who are you?" "i am taras, the avenger," replied the latter, facing him. "your time of reckoning has come! your stronghold could not protect you; and neither the bold front of courage nor any cowardly whimpering will avail you now." "do i look like one given to whimpering?" said sanecki, drawing himself up. "i am not a coward, though i endeavoured to hide from you. what else is there left for a peaceful priest when a horde of murderers enter his dwelling at night and he hears the tumult of bloodshed without? ... your name and your purpose, taras, are known to me, but i should scarcely have thought that you could think it needful to visit me. my conscience accuses me of nothing." "hold your lying tongue, you blackest of fiends," cried jacek, beside himself, and he would have fallen upon the priest had not taras held him back, continuing calmly: "then you absolutely deny the charge of having committed the most inhuman wrongs against the villagers, robbing them of their property, and of the peace of their souls as well?" "it is they who speak falsely in accusing me. i have taken from them what belongs to the church and to me by right--not a whit beyond. in my case, taras, you cannot be an avenger, but only a murderer, if your conscience will let you. but i think better of you, and i demand that you shall confront me with my accusers, with respectable, trustworthy men, not with a good-for-nothing like this jacek, and i shall know how to answer them." there appeared to be a lull in the fighting without--the firing had ceased, and the general tumult was hushed. but within the manor at that moment bloodshed was imminent. jacek, quite unable to master his fury, had snatched a pistol from his belt, and was pointing it at the priest. "stop, jacek," commanded taras, wresting the weapon from him. "and you, priest, utter no slander!... say on jacek in what has this man offended against you and yours. say it with the fewest words, and speak the truth." the peasant strove to conquer his feelings. "my father," he began, speaking with difficulty, "was obliged last year to remain on the upland pasture late into the spring. it was an unavoidable necessity, for the live stock was all we possessed. when he returned, this fiend of a man fined him a hundred florins, because he had been absent from confession and from the sacrament at easter. it was our ruin, and brought us to beggary." a voice was heard through the open window. "hetman! hetman!" was the cry. taras stepped to the casement. "it is i, milko, the hunter. the jew sends you word that we have done our part. the whitecoats have laid down their arms." an exultant cry broke from the men, but sanecki grew ashy. however, he recovered himself quickly. "it is a lie," he cried, reverting to the charge against him, "a false accusation. i call the almighty to witness who is my only refuge in this hour of need, unless you deal righteous judgment!" again jacek was making a plunge at him, and once more taras interfered. "i am ready to prove to you that i judge righteously," he said. "so far everything is against you save your own statement; the character you bear, the complaints which have reached me, and this man's solemn oath are your accusers. but you shall not be judged without being fully convicted. you shall choose for yourself two inhabitants of this village to speak for you." sanecki considered a moment. "well, then," he said, "let it be hawrilo bumbak and iwon serecki." "captain," broke in jacek, "do not be outwitted by this scoundrel. he has named these men because they live at the furthest end of the parish. he hopes to gain time." "never mind, we are in no such hurry. you also shall name two men to be called as witnesses against him." "let it be those whom you know already," decided jacek, without a moment's hesitation. "harassim, the judge, and stephen, one of the elders, since they carried our complaints to you." "very well," said taras. "these four witnesses shall be called. follow him, julko, stas, and jemilian; mount your horses below, and get some of nashko's men, if possible, in case of any hindrance from the soldiers about the village; i want those four witnesses with the least delay." "and will you stay here by yourself?" inquired the royal eagle, doubtfully. "yes; he shall not escape me." and drawing his pistol he took his position in front of the priest. the men went on their errand. "now listen," said taras, when left alone with the culprit. "the slightest movement on your part, and i shall lodge this bullet in your brain. for the rest you may spend the time as you please. it might be as well to say your prayers, since i may not be able to allow you much time presently. i have little hope that you will see the rising sun yonder in his full-day glory." sanecki gazed in the direction pointed at with unsteady eyes. the window opened upon the vast plain, a ridge of cloud in the far east burning with a crimson glow. but somehow he appeared to draw strength from the sight, the growing light kindling his courage. "it is well i should offer up prayer," he said; "less for myself than for you, who are in danger of dipping your hands into innocent blood." taras made no answer, continuing motionless with uplifted pistol. the priest folded his hands, saying prayers with a loud voice. for the space of about ten minutes they were thus left alone, after which stas returned with stephen, the elder, and almost immediately after jemilian with harassim, the judge. "take your oath that you will speak the truth," said taras; and the aged witnesses lifted their right hands, swearing. "speak, judge; what is your accusation against this man?" "i went to him at all saints'," said the old man, trembling with the memory of it, "to arrange with him for the rendering of the tithes we owe him. he demanded more than his due, i refused and left him; no unbecoming word had been spoken. but that same evening i was taken up by his orders and cast into a miserable dungeon, where i spent a week in complete darkness, and all the food he allowed me was mouldy bread and rank water. my sons implored him to release me, but he said in his capacity as mandatar he must punish me because i had offended the priest. for a fine of two hundred florins, however, he would release me. now considering my age--i am more than seventy--and because i should have perished in the damp prison, they raised the money; he took it, charging me an extra twenty florins, to refund his expenses of keeping me for a week." "and you, stephen?" "my wife lay dying at the epiphany," said the elder. "i called upon the priest to prepare her for the great change, by administering the blessed sacrament. he refused until i should have atoned for a grave offence with the payment of a hundred florins. i could not find the sum, and my poor wife had to die unaneled, and was buried like a dog outside the churchyard ... my poor wife!" sobbed the old man, hiding his face in his bands, "my good, pious wife!" "what was the offence he charged you with?" "i had crossed myself inadvertently after the old style, and he happened to see it." the hetman flushed purple with indignation. "is this the truth, old man?" "the truth indeed, the almighty is my witness." "have you anything to say for yourself?" he now inquired of the priest. "only this, that they speak falsely," returned sanecki, with choking voice. "falsely!" cried stephen, horrified. "man, think of the judge above!" "yes," said taras quietly, "it were well he did so. however, let us hear his own witnesses." there was a pause of silence in the chamber, the twilight of which was slowly but steadily yielding to the ruddy glow from the east, a broad stream of light flowing in through the window when julko and jacek returned with the other two witnesses, whom the priest had called for himself. the men in question entered diffidently--they had not been told why they were wanted--looking aghast on learning that the priest had seen fit to appeal to them. "to us," they cried, "what could we say in his favour?" taras put them on their oath. "now," he said, "what have you to affirm concerning this man?" they were silent for a moment, but then iwon burst out with--"just this, that he _is_ a fiend!" "yes, a very fiend," reiterated hawrilo. "have you anything to say for yourself?" taras once more inquired of sanecki. "no, nothing," he made answer calmly. the self-command of this man was astounding. his face was corpse-like, but his lips, even at this extremity, had a smile, though it was an appalling, a ghastly smile. "i have miscalculated my chances," he said, half to himself--"miscalculated, it is a pity!" taras now addressed the men present. "it is my opinion that this man has forfeited his life. is there any here to say i am wrong?" not a sound in the chamber--death seemed counting the grains. but in the fair world without the beauty of morning had conquered the shadows, the larks meeting the sun with a jubilant song. there was a clock in the room, the hands pointing to six minutes before five. "these minutes i will give you," said taras, addressing the doomed priest, "that you may recommend your sinful soul to its maker." even now the man quaked not, standing proud and erect. "miscalculated!" he repeated. with a quick movement his hand dived into his ample garment, and withdrawing it as quickly, he carried a phial to his lips. the men caught his arm, but it was too late, they were in time only to support the dead man's frame. "what a pity," cried jacek; "i would have given anything to see him swing." "for shame!" returned taras, sternly. "he was an evil-doer, but he had the courage of a man! lay him on his bed!... he has at least shown us that a man can die, if need be." there was a solemn pause, after which he addressed the judge. "one thing yet before our work is complete. the village has suffered at the hands of this man. you shall take what money there is found here, to be divided justly among the people.... stas and jemilian, search the place." "may we not offer you a part for yourself?" returned the judge; "it were but right and fair." "no," said taras, curtly. "but you will let us give some of it to your men?" "no, they are no paid assassins, but serving justice." "but you must live!" "i have enough for the present to provide for our needs, and when my own means fail, others, no doubt, will be forthcoming." stas and jemilian at this moment returned from the adjoining apartment. "this appears to be money," said the former, placing a cash box upon the table. "force the lid," said taras to the judge, "i would rather not touch it." but the old man could not succeed with his trembling fingers, until jacek came to his assistance. the box burst open with a jerk, revealing, however, only a moderate bundle of banknotes, beneath which lay a number of securities of considerable value. "the notes only are of use to us," said the judge, counting them. "not much over a thousand florins," he stated presently; "the loss we have suffered is about twenty-fold." old jemilian was standing aside, pale and trembling, and trying to come to a conclusion. now he stepped up to his master, saying, with faltering voice, "i hoped to tell you some other time, but i see now you must know at once. there was more where we found the casket--a purse, i saw it plainly, which stas put into his own pocket." taras grew deadly white, staggering as though he had received a blow. "is--is it--true?" he said, stammering with the shock of it. but stas fell to the ground at his feet. "forgive it--this once," he faltered. "the money tempted me. ah, mercy!" taras passed his hand across his brow. "where is the purse?" he said, hollow-voiced. the man, still kneeling, produced it. "take it, judge ... count it." "seventeen florins," reported the old man. "well, put it with the rest." he spoke hoarsely, a fearful agitation convulsing his frame. "stas," he said, presently, with the same choking voice, "i grieve for you with all my heart. you have known much trouble, it is hard to see you end so ignominiously. but i cannot save you--say your prayers, stas!" "ah, mercy!" groaned the unhappy man, the others joining: "yes, hetman, forgive him this once!" "i cannot--dare not," said taras, breathing hard and wiping the dews from his forehead. "i would--ah, how gladly would i forgive him!--but this sacred cause!... say your prayers, man." "mercy!" moaned stas once more, and fell in a swoon. taras stepped back, and, pointing his pistol, lodged a bullet in the motionless head. the man was dead on the spot. a cry of horror went round the room, and silence settled, the larks outside continuing their song of praise. "he was unable to commend his soul to god, let us do so for him," said taras, with the same husky voice. he crossed himself, and with quivering lips spoke a prayer for the dead, the others repeating it after him, awe-struck. "let us be gone now!" they left the chamber of death, calling together their men, and mounted their horses. but the captain's face continued white and fearfully rigid. "how shall we thank you!" said the judge. "not at all," returned taras, sternly. "for if i had done it for your own sakes merely, i could but turn the pistol against myself now!" he spurred his horse, making for the manse, where nashko and his men stood ready to mount. "three of us have fallen," reported the jew, "and we killed fourteen of the soldiers. i used every precaution, but----" "have we any wounded?" interrupted the captain. "no--that is, one man is slightly hurt; but able to mount horse." "let us start, then; the people here will see to our dead." and away they went in a sharp gallop in the direction of colomea. they followed the high-road at first, but, turning off at right angles, presently plunged into the pathless heath which they traversed at a furious pace, reaching the village nazurna just as the thin-voiced church bell was tinkling out the hour of noon. it is but a poor place, amid all the characteristics of heath-country; there are a few farms at great distances one from another, and not greatly thriving, for the soil is unproductive, forming part of the sterile table-land between the valleys of the pruth and the czerniawa. a couple of miles beyond the village there is a large moor called the wallachian bog, where, according to tradition, in the frontier wars between poland and roumania a regiment on the march was sucked down and suffocated in broad daylight. and nothing is more likely, for it is treacherous ground indeed, and even the experienced eye is at a loss to distinguish where the firm land ceases and marshy soil begins, since not only the latter, but the safe earth as well, is covered with sedge grass and willows far and wide. the waters nowhere rise to the surface, and tall trees growing on little islets complete the deception; a larger island covered with beech wood forms the centre of the moor, and is to be reached only by a narrow strip of solid soil which connects it with the firmer land. thither taras led his band; he was acquainted with the bog and the island, with its overgrown and all but secret entrance, from the days when he had been in service at hankowce, not far distant. it was an admirable place for his purpose, and not the most experienced military engineer could easily have secured a better position for a troop of horsemen in constant danger of being attacked by numerically superior forces, and in need of a safe resting-place to which they might retire after their raids, than this spot formed, not by the art of man, but by a freak of nature. the extreme loneliness of the neighbourhood lessened every chance of discovery; while even a body of men under hot pursuit could vanish thither as though disappearing by magic, and the narrow entrance at the worst could be held against almost any odds. it was natural then that the "avenger" should have taken his men to this place of refuge on many an occasion, so that to this day it goes by the popular name of "taras's retreat." cautiously, and not without trouble could the men in the first instance take the horses across the shrub-grown neck of land to the island, where they might rest and take food after that grim night and the hard ride since. yet sleep came to very few of them, an unusual agitation counteracting even the inviting shade of the kindly beeches. a strange humour, something between the madness of utter recklessness and the dejection of inward disapproval, filled the minds of some. for there were those among them that had never shed blood, nor stood in danger of death themselves, and who seemed to understand all at once that the outlaw's business was desperate work; they grew thoughtful and somewhat penitent, endeavouring to conquer these sensations by breaking into noisy song, or by assuring each other that no doubt the coming night would be "jollier" still. but others, whose past experience had fortified them against the proceedings at kossowince, felt regretful on a different score. it had not surprised them that taras should have forbidden plunder under pain of death, for that was the way of every new hetman forming a band of hajdamaks; but that he should go to the length of refusing an offering of gratitude for service rendered, and that he should have found it necessary to shoot that poor devil of a stas for the sake of a handful of florins, was beyond their comprehension. and thus they came to inquire what bound them to this man, who by sheer strength of will had forced them to acknowledge a wretched jew as one fit to lead them; whose foolish notions had offended the people of zulawce, and who actually appeared to expect his followers to risk their lives for his ideas, and for no earthly gain beyond the barest daily bread. but the power which taras exercised even over these low natures was such that they hardly dared breathe these thoughts to themselves, far less to each other. they lay, gloomy and silent, in the tall sedge-grass, till one of them, suddenly jumping up, started a request for karol wygoda's bagpipe, at the squeaks and screams of which their darker thoughts receded. one apprehension, however, that might or might not yield to their merriment, was common to all--the near prospect of death. the band which had started so full of spirits from the crystal springs had already lost every tenth man of its numbers, and if the attack of a mere ill-defended country place required such sacrifice, what might not be the result of the coming night, when they would enter the well-garrisoned district town? it was for this reason that more than one among them, now joining madly in the dance, would turn aside suddenly with a strange tremor, to conquer which they would halloo the more wildly on resuming the measured pace. taras alone appeared unmoved. with the greatest composure he made his arrangements for the night, his bearing and his voice showing as little of emotion as if he had stood in his own farmyard giving orders for the cutting of the wheat. it quite distressed nashko, for he felt certain that the carnage of the past night had left a fearful burden on the heart of his friend. he was anxious to lessen it, and when taras beckoned to him to receive his instructions he did his utmost to show that neither the orders given nor their execution could be blamed for the sad results. "seventeen lives," he said, regretfully; "it is terrible, indeed! but i think i may say i did my very best to carry out your desire that bloodshed if possible should be avoided. it was the watchfulness of the sentry that frustrated our intention; the man gave the alarm at once, rousing the others, and since i could not leave them time to arm themselves fully, i was obliged to dash into action within the manse itself, in order to overpower them before they had a chance of benefiting by their numbers and superior equipment. it was the close encounter in rooms and passages--in all but darkness, moreover--which resulted in so many slain. there were no wounded, simply because in this desperate fray neither they nor we could have offered or accepted quarter. it was only when the torches were lit--and you may be sure this was done as quickly as possible--only when the soldiers could see that further resistance was madness, the sparing of life became possible; and you may believe me that from that moment not a single life----" "all right," interrupted taras, preparing to move away. the jew looked at him bewildered. "you are impatient of listening!" he said. "i thought your heart was breaking because of----" "all right," repeated taras, quietly. "you have done your duty. and for the rest--what does it matter? ten lives more or less--what can it matter, since things are what they are?" but the smile playing about his lips alarmed nashko even more than the calm he understood not. "taras," he cried, "this is not your own true feeling!" "do you think so?" returned the hetman coldly, the same terrible smile distorting the solemn and yet gentle beauty of his face. "i am not so sure." he turned away abruptly to appoint the order of sentries until nightfall; when all was settled he expressed his desire to be left undisturbed. "i am going to have a few hours' sleep now," he said, and retiring to the other side of the island, he threw himself into the waving grass, where he lay motionless. a good many eyes followed him enviously. "humph!" said one of the men, "one would think he is as little used to butchering as ourselves, and he has set this business going, with his own hand even killing a man who could not defend himself; yet look at him, sleeping like an innocent babe, while conscience with us is a wakeful trouble!" only nashko and old jemilian knew how it was ... not till towards eight o'clock, when night was falling, did taras once more mingle with his men. the command was given, and cautiously as before the horses were led through the tangled growth of the slip of land. on reaching the other side the procession formed. their way would shortly bring them into more densely-peopled districts, and there was every likelihood that the news from kossowince by this time had reached the district town, so that caution was doubly needful. taras divided his men into three separate troops, himself heading the vanguard; to the royal eagle he entrusted the leadership of the second and strongest division, while nashko should bring up the rear. they were to keep within earshot of each other. the signal was given, and the vanguard set off at a quick trot, followed in due order by julko and the jew. they rode on well through the dark and silent night, due west at first over the desolate heath, till they reached the track between nazurna and kornicz, which they took. the heavens were veiled with low-hanging clouds; the air was heavy and sultry; the darkness appeared to grow deeper, and the path at length could hardly be distinguished. taras kept whistling distrustfully at short intervals; the counter-signals from the two other leaders at first were given in return almost immediately and in due order, but one of the whistlers behind appeared to fall back, and presently his signal showed him in a wrong direction altogether. much as delay was undesirable, taras had to stop, and even to turn back. he soon came upon the main body, but not without trouble could the straying rear guard be brought up. nashko had missed the path on the heath, following a northerly track, and when the captain's signals sounded more and more faintly, he believed the divisions in front to have quickened their pace, and ordered his men to spur on their horses, thus, of course, falling away all the further. upon this taras resolved to keep his forces together, as the least dangerous plan in the circumstances. recovering their direction, they passed several homesteads, and presently heard the roaring of the wilchowec, which carries the waters of the dobrowa forest in a succession of cataracts to the pruth. there a new mishap awaited them. they had missed the only bridge spanning the turbulent stream, and were at a loss to decide whether they ought to seek it above or below them. "let some of us ride up the river and some down, and those that find the bridge can signal for the others," proposed julko. "no," said taras, "that were losing time. the wilchowec must be fordable somewhere. i saw a light burning in the cottage we just passed. i will go for a guide." and, followed by two or three of his men, he galloped back and halted in front of a lighted window. in a low-ceiled room a peasant was seen sitting beside his wife, showing her delightedly a handful of silver coin. it was an elderly man, white-haired, and with a rubicund countenance. "hail, old fellow!" cried taras, tapping at the window. the peasant started, extinguishing the torchlight inside the room, while the woman screamed, and then all was still. "there is no cause for alarm!" cried taras, "we beg a kindness of you, that is all." "what, so late at night," said the peasant within. "have the goodness to let us sleep in peace." "you have not been asleep yet," taras called back, growing impatient. "you were counting your earnings. there is no fear of our robbing you; indeed, i will add to your gains if you show us the place where the river can be forded." "why should you want to ford it, when there is a bridge not more than a mile distant, down stream? you cannot miss it, since the hussars there are keeping a good watch fire." "the hussars!" cried taras, startled. "yes, the hussars," repeated the peasant. "you don't seem to like it. and i must say it would not be advisable for highwaymen to try to cross the bridge to-night." "listen," said taras, who had recovered himself. "i am not a highwayman, and i take you to be an honest peasant. so i will ask you to guide us. i want you--i am taras, the avenger." "taras!" exclaimed the man, with a tone of the greatest surprise. "taras!" he repeated, leaning out from his window as far as he could. "is it you, indeed? ah! it is too much almost to believe. what happiness--what honour!... light the torch, wife, quickly, that i may see his face!... but no, you want me to come"--and he drew back his head; "i am coming--coming at once." "no, stay. tell me first--are you sure there is a body of hussars by the bridge?" "yes, certainly; some thirty of them. are you in ignorance of their resolves against you at colomea? i know all about it, having been to market to-day. and there is no need to hide it now, i made fifteen florins--out of my sheep, that is. and i have not told you my name--i am stenko worobka." "yes, yes, stenko; tell me quickly." "ah, yes; i am an old fool! it is just this: with the early morning to-day the car returned, and the two constables safe enough, but no commissioner. the town was aghast; that is, the people said it was no great loss if taras had a fancy for keeping mr. kapronski; but it seemed certain that if he meant to carry out his threats at all he would come first to colomea to strangle the mandatar. and so they dispatched a courier to zablotow to call the hussars that brought such trouble to your own village, and i saw them arrive before night. but the magistrates did not approve that you and the soldiers should fight it out beneath their own eyes--dear me, that i should be able to tell you all this; what happiness! what rare good luck! what was i going to say?--yes, they resolved to catch you on the road, and so they ordered the hussars and such whitecoats as were quartered in the city to station themselves in a half-circle between the town and the mountains, making sure thus to cut off your approach. the soldiers are all at their posts by this time; a body of hussars, as i told you, keeping the bridge yonder." "and where are the rest of them?" "well, some guard the road towards horodenka, others keeping a look-out in the direction of cieniawa; others again are by st. mary's cross. they think not a mouse could thus pass their vigilance, for they keep patrolling diligently." "well, we have not met a soul so far." "i daresay--ha! ha! what a joke!--don't you see, this is just the one loophole in their net. they make sure that so long as they hold the bridge no one could cross this boisterous river." "_is_ it fordable?" "yes, to be sure--not very comfortably, but we can manage it--close by here.... so you are really bent on going to colomea? there is no reason why you should not do so; why, they did not--ha! ha! how delightful!--they did not keep back a dozen soldiers." taras was revolving the situation in his mind. "we will do it," he said, after some cogitation; "it is a venture for life and death, but we will risk it. but there is not a moment to be lost." the peasant was ready to guide them, and mounting behind one of the men, they dashed back to the others. taras reported to them what he had just learned, "let us venture," he said. "yes, yes, let us try it," cried julko and nashko, in high spirits, all the others assenting. under the peasant's guidance they forthwith set about fording the river; the current was wild and strong, the deep darkness of the night adding to the danger; but they crossed in safety. "we have managed it, thanks to you," said taras to the peasant; "and here is your florin." but stenko refused, quite hurt at the offer. "do you think i should take pay," he cried; "are you not our own avenger? nay, i am more than rewarded, and you must let me come with you, for this night is darker than the inside of a cow--you would scarcely reach the town; besides, you will want to ford the river again as you return." "but you have a wife and your property to think of. i must warn you," said taras, "it would go ill with you if they caught you thus aiding us." "they won't then," decided the peasant, confidently. "and don't you know that a man cannot escape his destiny? if it is my fate to come by an evil end i shall have to face it whether i guide you or not." after which philosophical remark two of taras's men had to be satisfied with being mounted one behind the other, leaving a horse free for the peasant who rode beside taras at the head of the band. at a sharp pace they traversed the fields and meadows of korolowka, and presently found themselves on the high road leading to the district town. the country appeared desolate; but close by the town they met some peasants who so late in the night had set out to return from their week's marketing. not that important business had detained them to this hour, but the public-house had, as might be judged by their unsteady gait. yet the vapours of drink were at once dispelled when they found themselves suddenly surrounded and questioned by an armed band on horseback; and though trembling with fright they were able to confirm the news that all the garrison of the place as well as the hussars had been sent to waylay the avenger, and only a handful of soldiers now were within, at the main guard-house, for the sake of sentry duty in the prisons. they left the high road, wassilj soklewicz now acting as guide, for he alone knew the villa where they hoped to find hajek. it lay on the road towards st. mary's cross, a german colony; it was a spacious building, but low, situated in its own grounds, which were guarded in front by a strong iron railing. orchards stretched away at the back of it, and meadows on both sides. the nearest habitation was a quarter of a mile distant, the town fully a mile. just as they came in sight of the place, a clear sound cut the air, the clock in the little belfry was announcing the first hour after midnight. and close upon it--already they could see the lighted windows of the house--a sharp whistle was given, followed by another.... the men started. "an ambush!" they cried. "fall back!" "no; forward," ordered taras, spurring his horse. "the wretch has set spies to be warned of our approach.... he is here! there, look!..." he was pointing towards the house, the lighted windows of which one after another were darkening rapidly. the gate, just as they reached it, closed with a bang, and retreating footsteps were heard. "try your axes!" cried taras; and some of the men, jumping from their horses, belaboured the gate with powerful blows. the strong bars were bending, and some already giving way. but suddenly the door of the villa opened, and between two torchbearers an aged man came forth, bareheaded, and carrying a key--it was herr von antoniewicz. "my good people," he began, "why are you ruining my gate like this? was there no better way of asking for admittance? there is no reason why you should not come in, if you tell me who you are and what brings you hither at this late hour." "you know that well enough!" cried taras; "the wretch is in hiding here." "yes," said the old man, continuing slowly and distinctly, "i am afraid we know that he cannot escape you, and i am ready to let you in, on your word of honour that you will harm no one else, and that you will not kill him here, but take him away with you. you see i am anxious to spare my daughter's feelings, who was going to be his wife." "he seems to have found a worthy father-in-law, anyhow," said taras, scornfully. "however, you have my word; now open on the spot." the armenian did so unhesitatingly. julko and nashko with the main body taking up their position by the gate, while taras and some dozen of the men entered the grounds. about half of them were ordered to watch the exits of the house, the others following their captain inside. "where is the mandatar?" inquired taras of antoniewicz. "somewhere about the sitting-rooms," replied that worthy man, as quietly as though he were directing a casual visitor to his guest. "at least i left him there. he fell in a dead faint when i explained to him that i had no intention, nor indeed the power, to save him from your hands. i daresay he has recovered by this time, and is hiding in some corner." taras traversed the ante-hall, where frau von antoniewicz and the countess wanda awaited him kneeling. they were in floods of tears, trembling with emotion as they caught hold of his feet to stop his progress. "mercy!" they moaned. "for pity's sake forgive him!" taras endeavoured to free himself from their grasp, but they clung to him, and he was too much of a man to use force with women. "let me go," he said; "it is quite useless to waste a word about him." but they clung all the faster, "what, shall i have to see it with my own eyes?" cried the amiable wanda with dishevelled locks and rolling her eyes--a very picture of despair. "you need not--you are free to leave the house. i have nothing to do with women." "alas!" whined the mother, "how should we, helpless women, venture to face all your men?" "they won't harm you. moreover, your husband is welcome to go with you. of course you will keep in the grounds for the present." he sent an order to this effect to the men keeping the front door, and thereupon, with jemilian, sefko, wassilj, and one or two others of his most trustworthy followers, he set himself to search the rooms. their torches flared brightly, but the spacious apartments appeared untenanted. they looked into every chimney, beneath every couch, and behind the hangings with rising impatience, making such careful examination that not a kitten could have escaped, far less a man. but not a creature did they find. they had reached the last room on this floor--the dining room. it was locked. "ah!" said taras, with a sigh of relief. the door soon yielded. the table showed the remains of dessert, empty champagne bottles and glasses half filled. there appeared to have been five covers. "who may have been the fifth at this feast?" said jemilian, wondering. "caught him!" cried wassilj at this moment from the further corner of the room. "here he is!" and sure enough something like a man it seemed, but in the strangest hiding place. the large fuel basket had been turned upside down, and emptied of its contents of firewood, and some one had squeezed himself in as best he might. but success was not equal to the effort, a pair of coattails showing treacherously; on wassilj giving the basket a kick it capsized, but the man inside stuck fast, yelling, however, vociferously. "that is not hajek's voice!" cried taras, wassilj and sefko dragging its owner from the basket. and, indeed, it was not the mandatar, but only the fifth at the late banquet, the ere-while champion of poland's honour--mr. thaddeus de bazanski. but how little he that was half-brother of nicolas i. at this moment showed worthy of his august descent! his head and shoulders covered with wood chips, his garments torn, his knees trembling, and his face so white with terror that the nose itself had only the faintest flush left of its usual redness. thus he stood before them, clutching the immortal confederatka to his bosom, and so overpowered with fear that he could only shiver and quake in speechless agony. "who on earth are you?" inquired taras, peremptorily. "i ... oh!... a visitor ... mercy! i could not help it!" "where is the mandatar?" "he got away--made his escape while old bogdan kept you talking ..." taras stamped furiously. "ah, mercy, i will tell you everything!" faltered the whilom conqueror of ostrolenka, sinking to his knees. "they did not think there was much fear of your coming, on account of the soldiers, but mr. hajek insisted on setting spies, that he might be warned of any possible danger. we were still at table--and a fine banquet it was--when suddenly the signal was given; there was barely time left to lock the outer gate and drag the mandatar from the house. he could not stand on his own legs for fear of meeting you; but since there was a chance of his getting away safely through the orchards, and gaining the town, old bogdan and his womenfolk undertook to lead you off the scent. they expected me to take a part also, but i stoutly refused. 'how should i deceive this taras, this noble avenger,' i said; 'i shall do no such thing; for taras is a brave man, an honourable man, a generous----'" which eulogy was not even heard by taras. "follow me!" he called out to his men, bursting from the house. "i want to have a word with that pack of deceivers; where are they?" "made their escape, hetman," reported the men at the door. "their escape? i will hold every one of you answerable!" the two men in charge of the grounds now came up. "hetman," they said; "we can hardly be blamed. these three deceitful serpents would have got round an archangel, not to say the devil himself. we had asked them to keep near the house, and there they stood awhile, when the old woman suddenly gave a cry with all the antics of swooning; upon which the young one implored us to assist in carrying her mother into the arbour yonder. and then she fell a-shrieking, 'water! water! for pity's sake, get some water!' well, as they were women after all, and the old man, who kept wringing his hands, assured us she would die unless we complied, what else could we do? we went for water, and returning quickly enough, we found they had gone--disappeared in the darkness. we searched the orchard, but they have escaped us, much to our disgust." taras looked gloomy. "i may come back to that presently," he said, sternly; "the next thing to be done is this--the house which has given shelter to the mandatar, and whose owners have deceived me so shamefully, shall disappear from the earth.... set fire to it, in the basement, beneath the roof, everywhere--let it flare up quickly ... but "--and he drew his pistol--"if any of you value his life, let him beware of plundering!" the men gave a wild halloo, brandishing their torches, and burst into the house. "and what is to be done with this man?" said wassilj, dragging the polish champion behind him. "who are you, then?" now asked taras. "what is your name?" "thaddeus bazanski, and--and----" "i can tell you all about him," interrupted wassilj; "one of the mandatar's men has just told me. he is a miserable wretch, living on his betters, and making money in all sorts of mean ways. it is he that brought about the engagement between the mandatar and that fair, fat creature of a countess!" "i don't deny it," cried the would-be nobleman, eagerly. "but i am sure, if you knew all about her, and what bliss awaits your enemy in wedlock, you would say 'thank you' to me!" taras could not repress a smile, the man spoke with such utter assurance; but his brow clouded again as wassilj continued: "he is a polish nobleman by his own showing. true, he is nothing but a beggar now; but he keeps telling his listeners how _he_ got money out of his peasants before he lost his vast possessions." "indeed?" said taras, frowningly. "ah, no," whined thaddy; "i never owned any possessions. how, indeed, should i have come by any land?" "well, captain, these are his tales whenever he can get a man to drink with." "that much is true," said the imperial offspring, with woe-begone countenance. "a man must live--i mean, one gets thirsty and is bound to drink. and no one will stand me a glass unless i give him a fine story in return. they don't mind the lying, so i go on inventing. but i am not noble at all--never was, or fought any battles either. my father was a poor cobbler, and i--i----" "well, out with it!" "i am nothing particular, at present. how i manage to live, most honoured avenger, i have just confessed to you--this young man in that has spoken the truth. in my younger days i was a--a--well, something of an artist." "indeed! what sort of an artist?" thaddy smiled bashfully, and since the word was not forthcoming, he took refuge in signs, passing his hands over his jaws and under his chin, at which he blushed and smiled afresh. "what, a cut-throat?" "oh, dear, no; only a barber!" cried thaddy. "as sure as i hope for better days, you may believe me--just nothing but a barber! and i think i could give you proof of my craft still. might i perhaps have the honour----" "no, thank you," said taras, and turning to wassilj, he added, "let him off!" the hero of ostrolenka bowed to the ground in gratitude, and still clasping the famous confederatka, he vanished into the night as quickly as his legs would carry him. the men returned. "we have done it, hetman," they reported. "we have set fire to all the rooms not facing the town, so that it may not be perceived there too soon." the signal to mount was given; and the band was ready to start. "we will yet gain our end," cried taras. "we will seek the wretch in his own dwelling within the town." but he had scarcely done speaking, when the tocsin broke upon the night with its own lugubrious notes of warning. taras looked at the villa, smoke was rising, but no flame as yet. "this is not the alarm of fire," he exclaimed, "but rather in warning of our coming! they must have received information. well, never mind! the townsfolk will not harm us, and the few soldiers we shall get the better of. i suppose we must make straight for the main guard-house, and i should not wonder if we found our man there--he will not feel safe in his own dwelling. are you ready?" "urrahah!" responded the men, and away they went. the rest of it happened more quickly than it can be told. the band made for the town at full gallop, every moment swelling the tumult ahead of them. all the bells of the place by this time had joined with the tocsin, filling the air with dismal, deafening sound. the citizens had all awaked. "fire!" cried some; "the avenger--save yourselves!" shouted others. meanwhile the night was lit up suddenly behind the riders, volumes of lurid flames rising to the heavens. the villa in a moment stood lapt in fire. the band of horsemen was nearing the marketplace, the streets were heaving. everywhere the people burst from their dwellings, some barely clad; and from hundreds of horror-struck voices the news rang through the air, "the avenger is upon us!" some returned to their houses, endeavouring to barricade the doors, others in senseless terror rushed to the market-place. "urrahah!" was the war-cry resounding ever and anon through all the wild commotion. like a mountain stream the cavalcade dashed onward, over the heads and limbs of any in their way. they reached the market-place. the main guardhouse was full of light, torches everywhere. in front of it the handful of soldiers drawn up with their corporal, muskets levelled. taras and his men burst upon the scene. the people, shrieking, ran hither and thither. the corporal gave the word, "fire!" milko fell from his horse, shot to the heart, and nashko reeled in his saddle. another moment and the soldiers were disarmed and cut down to a man. some of the band were left to guard the door, the others, following taras, rushed into the building to seek the mandatar. the first-floor was utterly deserted, but at the top of the stairs two venerable figures awaited them, the burgomaster and the senior priest, falling on their knees. "have mercy!" they pleaded, "the mandatar is not in the place." "where is he, then?" "we cannot tell. if we knew, we would give him up to you, that other lives might be spared. he fainted in the fields, and maybe is lying there still. the groom who was to accompany him ran on alone to warn us of your coming." "can you swear it is so?" they affirmed it on their oath. "then all the night's work has been for nothing!" cried taras. "to seek him in the open fields would be useless, and the hussars may be back at any moment." the signal was given, the outlaws mounted and dashed away with the same amazing rapidity with which they had come. chapter xvi. the avenger to the rescue. the terrible night was over, the garrison had returned; but an agony of fear was uppermost in the district town. what taras had dared seemed well-nigh incredible, and greater than the horror of what was past was the direful apprehension of what the future might bring. he might return any night; nay, in broad daylight even. thoughts like these also occupied the magistrates, who held a special meeting the following morning at the district board office. the captain of the hussars, and one or two other officers had been invited to attend, but they had no comfort to offer; it seemed nothing short of a miracle that the raid should have succeeded, and more incomprehensible still that the band should have made good its retreat. as to its numbers, opinions differed greatly. the commotion raised by their flying entrance into the town, and the rapidity with which they had overpowered the soldiers, tended naturally to an over-estimation of their strength. there was one witness, however, who swore that taras had fully a thousand men under his command. "a thousand, i tell you, for a certainty, on the honour of a nobleman!" it was thaddeus de bazanski who averred this. for having got over his fright, the experience he had undergone appeared to him rather lucky than otherwise. and well it might, considering the bottles of fine moldavian the tale would be worth, not to mention the halo of importance it cast around him! "a thousand men, i say, at the very least," he reiterated. "you will believe an old officer, who for years has ridden at the head of a regiment, and allow his fitness for estimating numbers. but concerning this avenger, if i may judge by my own experience, i should say a manly denunciation would suffice to cow him. if you show pluck, he knocks under--he did so, at least, with me. 'where is the mandatar?' he stormed, as we met. 'taras,' said i, undaunted, 'i am a guest under this roof, and a nobleman born. i am not going to turn informer!' i said this quietly, with all the sang-froid i am in the habit of preserving in a desperate situation, and, for the matter of that, i have known worse dangers in my time. as for him--well he bit his lip, and, turning on his heel, said to his men, 'comrades, it is no use to think of intimidating an officer of such standing----'" but the board never learned what further the frightened taras had to say concerning that officer, for a loud tumult was rising in the market-place, coming nearer and nearer. the magistrates jumped from their seats, crowding the windows, and an unlooked-for spectacle met their eyes below. in the centre of a moving crowd there appeared an open car, and upon it the lost kapronski. he seemed unhurt, and even in good spirits, for he kept smiling to the right and to the left in acknowledgment of the people's salutation; but he waved his hands only, never touching his travelling cap, which was pulled low over his ears. the excitement of the board was such that it passed unnoticed when the commissioner did not even bare his head on entering their presence. they grew aware of it only when, having bowed low, he began with somewhat uncertain accents: "i venture to crave permission of the worshipful board to keep my head covered. i am anxious to save your feelings, for i--i got wounded--a bad cut." "wounded!" cried the old town surgeon, who served on the board, and unable to restrain his professional eagerness, he caught at the cap. but the sight of kapronski, minus his head-gear, was so tragi-comical that, with all their anxieties, the magistrates could not but smile. "what on earth is the meaning of this," cried the district governor. "it is the punishment which, among the huzuls, is reserved for cowards," mr. wroblewski, the secretary of the board, hastened to explain. kapronski rewarded him with a vicious glance. "the secretary speaks the truth," said he, putting on a bold front; "but it is not more than is reserved for himself and all this worshipful board if you have the misfortune of falling into taras's hands. he has inflicted this infamy on me for no other reason but that i did my duty in carrying out your orders." the smiles had vanished. "tell us all about it," cried the magistrates, eagerly. the commissioner bowed, and began with a minute description of how he was carried to the crystal springs, and of what he saw there. "how many men should you say he has with him?" interrupted the captain of the hussars, who naturally considered this the most important point. "well, i should say about a thousand," replied the commissioner, unblushingly. "then this seems to be a fact," murmured the captain, with evident concern; "that looks bad!" "i have not a doubt," kapronski continued, "that his one reason for waylaying me was his desire to make an example, just to show what awaited any servant of the law who dared lift a finger against him. in fact, he was going to hang me, and said so plainly. but, fortunately, i had prepared an answer. 'so you may,' i said, 'if you dare, for i am one against your thousand. but know that if you touch me your wife and your children will rue it.'" "why, that was illegal," broke in the district governor. "i wonder what paragraph of the penal code warrants this!" kapronski bowed deeply. he had expected this objection, and, indeed, had shaped his story so far with the one intention of bringing his dastardly falsehood, which had caused him plenty of trouble already, in the best possible guise to the knowledge of his superiors. "illegal," he replied, humbly, "no doubt; but i venture to think i was justified by the extremity of the situation." a murmur, not altogether of disapproval, went round the board, and even the district governor could only shake his old head, grumbling to himself as the commissioner continued. "the words i had spoken produced an immediate effect. taras looked concerned. 'stuff!' he said, pretending to be careless; 'it is no use trying to frighten me with that sort of thing; _your_ hands are bound by the law,' however, he gave up the idea of hanging me, saying he would use me as his messenger instead. two things he charged me to bring to your knowledge, most worshipful governor of this district; firstly, that he expects you on the spot to withdraw the soldiers from the parishes of zablotow and zulawce, and to forbear instituting against him any action whatsoever. and he wishes you to understand that you are not to dream of stopping his intentions by military interference." "well, i never!" cried the governor. "what impudence!" echoed the board. "secondly, that within four-and-twenty hours you are to deliver up the mandatar to his men at that particular spot where the pruth is fordable between zulawce and debeslawce. he will let you know who else is to be given up to him." the board sat mute with indignant consternation. "and suppose i don't?" gasped the governor. "in that case," returned kapronski, with his deepest bow, "in that case--i can hardly frame my lips to the rest of his message, but he said: 'tell him, if he does not comply, i shall set fire to the district town and give it up to my men to plunder; and the magistrates, nay, every servant of the law, shall be hanged on these trees of ours--the governor first and foremost. i look upon them as a set of infamous cowards, and to show them how we deal with such, i'll visit on your head the ignominy which i consider is theirs.' and having treated me as you see, he had me put down by the river that i might find my way back as best i could." a series of groans went round the room, captain mihaly recovering himself first. "well, gentlemen, it's no use to hang our heads," he cried. "orders for reinforcements must be despatched at once." "certainly," assented the burgomaster, "it is best to declare war against this man on the spot. but," he added cautiously, "i suppose the town itself is sufficiently protected by the garrison; you, captain, i daresay, will guarantee its safety?" "we shall fight to the last man if need be," replied the gallant soldier; "but i can guarantee nothing beyond. if this bandit has really a thousand cut-throats to do his bidding, my squadron and the handful of infantry stationed here cannot make any stand against him." the old man fell back in his chair white as death. "then," he groaned, "the mandatar must leave this town at once, even if we must get rid of him by force; and it might be well to let it be known as widely as possible, perhaps send a messenger to taras." but the brave governor by this time had recovered himself. rising, he put forth his hand, as if to silence the burgomaster. "this shall not be while i live," he said earnestly. "it is indeed a terrible matter we have to face, but let us face it like men; let us rather die than act meanly--let no act of ours cast a slur upon the dignity of legal justice! this mr. wenceslas hajek has done nothing, so far as i am aware, to justify us in refusing him protection; let him stay here as long as he pleases. if he will leave us of his own accord, all the better; but if he chooses to stay, beware of annoying him." "well, and will you undertake the fearful responsibility of it all?" cried the burgomaster, excitedly. "i will," said the governor, solemnly; "i will be answerable both to the emperor and to god." "but i daresay it would need only a hint to hajek," interposed the captain. "i know what stuff the man is made of. if he is told that all of us are in danger of our lives here, he'll be ready to leave us with post-horses even." "well, and where is he to be found, if that is the case?" inquired the governor, open to this reasoning. "i can tell you," cried dr. starkowski, "in no less a place than the town gaol. on my way hither i was told so by the chief constable. hajek, it appears, came to him at daybreak this morning, imploring him to have him shut up, since prison was the only place of safety. he is quite beside himself with terror, i hear--an object to behold." "well, the mandatar may consider his movements by and by," said the governor. "our chief care for the present is the question of reinforcements, as the captain has pointed out. and considering the urgency of the case, i will forthwith despatch letters to the nearest military stations at stanislaw and czernowitz. and i will also have matters reported to the provincial governor--i mean i will not do so by writing only, but will despatch one of the commissioners to lemberg, to add every information by word of mouth." at which kapronski gave a jerk, craning his neck eagerly. "wait till you are asked!" cried the irritated governor. "on consideration i have hardly any choice but to send you! it will be as well to get rid of that cropped head of yours for a while--the people here are frightened enough already, without keeping before their eyes such a lively reminder of taras's visit as you present. besides, i daresay you will prove an interesting sight to the gentlemen at lemberg. i shall expect you to be ready within half-an-hour." kapronski bowed as deeply as before, hardly knowing how to hide his satisfaction. he had succeeded in making his own confession of the falsehood he had been guilty of; and had not only, as he believed, revenged himself on taras, but on his colleagues as well. he had paid them out, he thought, for the slights with which they were apt to treat him, and it delighted him to see them all afraid for their lives. moreover, his falsified report resulted in one thing his cowardly soul approved of--the prospect of military reinforcement--for he could not have foreseen his being sent away from the menaced city. but since the governor's decision now promised to place him personally out of danger, a really malicious thought presented itself to his dastardly mind--he remembered what taras actually _did_ say. "your worship," he began, and his voice quivered with the consciousness of his meanness. "i venture to submit ... my own impression ... fully alive to the importance of the case...." "well, and what have you to say?" "only just this. would it not be well to anticipate any trouble this bandit is likely to give; to make it impossible, and, perchance, even force him to sue for peace? i know how easily he is cowed...." "it would seem so," cried the burgomaster; "at least, he has thus been described to us already." "yes, and by whom?" growled the governor, with a contemptuous glance at the victor of ostrolenka, who, after having given his evidence, had retired to the wall, where he still stood, grinning and smirking. "what is it you were going to say, mr. commissioner?" "only this, your worship. i have stated how i was able to save my life from the hands of this man. now, supposing this most honourable board could see its way, in consideration of the imminent danger wherewith the town is threatened, to issue an order for the arrest of the wife and children...." "we might, indeed, be driven to it," said the burgomaster, half under his breath. "what!" roared the governor, white and trembling with passion. "oh, the shameful disgrace, that an official of this district dares make such a proposal! coward, that you are!" kapronski felt the withering contempt, and shrunk back. "i meant it for the best," he stammered, "and i am sure i will not breathe a word of it at lemberg if it is disapproved of." "you are likely to be sent now!" muttered the governor, pacing the room furiously. "is this the man to be sent in the present emergency, when so much----" the rest was lost in an angry mumbling. the man's whole nature seemed in an uproar. at last he subsided, and, standing still before the frightened kapronski, he said, "you shall go; but i shall take care that the letter you carry be sufficiently explicit. you may come for it in an hour." the commissioner heaved a breath of relief, and turned to go, but not without experiencing another shock, for the governor called after him, "stop a moment; if the mandatar chooses to leave you might as well travel together. i shall allow you a couple of constables." kapronski stood rooted to the ground, his eyes starting with terror. if he had been offered old death itself as a travelling companion he could not have trembled more at the prospect. "and what if we are attacked?--taras----" he groaned. "in that case you would be lost either way;" with which comfort the wretched man had to be satisfied. the governor now addressed himself to starkowski, begging him to visit hajek in his voluntary confinement. "i know i can trust you with this delicate business," he said; "you will represent matters correctly to him, without exercising any pressure." the lawyer agreed readily, and went on his errand at once. but the abject creature lying on a couch in a private apartment in the city gaol did not strike him as likely to come to any resolve. he was positively delirious with fear, and the warder had not a little trouble to keep him quiet. so after all mr. kapronski started on his journey without the mandatar; not, however, without a numerous retinue. for no sooner had it become known that captain mihaly had not considered it possible to guarantee the safety of the town, than every citizen that had a chance of horses prepared for flight. and those who could not get away themselves were anxious to send, at least, wife and child and the best of their movables out of the town, which seemed doomed. the streets for some hours presented a picture of distress and unspeakable confusion, since the poor folk were hard driven for time if they wished to set out with the commissioner and his escort. at noon the sorrowful procession was ready to start, in the very centre of them all the commissioner on his car; but instead of two constables there were twenty of the hussars, which escort the governor had been prevailed upon to grant upon the sore entreaties of the fugitives. but this was the only concession he made to the craven fear that had possessed the populace. herr von bauer proved in those days that, with all his comical weaknesses, he was a man indeed. he called together the citizens, suggesting that they should organise themselves into a body of special constables for the safety of the town. but that chicken-hearted population met his well-meant proposal with positive indignation. "we are not going to be brought to ruin," they cried. "we shall endeavour to conciliate taras if he returns; maybe he will be satisfied with the heads of those who have offended him." nay, worse than this. "we are not going to be butchered for the sake of a blackguard land-steward; if you do not rid the town of his presence we shall do it ourselves, and so thoroughly, we warrant, as will please even taras." the district governor was by himself, facing the seething crowd; but his reply was as plucky and curt as possible. "you idiots! you cowards!" he cried; "i can't make men of you, of course, nor force you to defend yourselves; but be sure of this, i'll have every man of you shot that lifts a finger against the mandatar." in the consternation which followed he walked away quietly. but the very next hour showed that he was likely to be as good as his word, when, amid the beating of drums and the pealing of bells, martial law was proclaimed in the city and district of colomea. the citizens were informed that they must keep within doors, that every gathering of mobs would be treated as open rebellion, and any attempt upon life or property punished with the gallows. the worst was thus staved off, and disorder within was not likely to join hands with any horrors from without. at the same time couriers were despatched in all directions, not merely to the neighbouring military stations, but even to some of the larger villages of the plain, where the peasantry, eight years before, when the great polish insurrection threatened to spread into galicia, had volunteered their services for the safety of the town. and at sundown herr von bauer, worn out with the day's anxiety, had at least the comfort of knowing that he had done what was possible for the averting of trouble; if the night passed peaceably the town was saved. and there was no disturbance, but the morning brought one batch of ill-news after another. the messengers came flocking back from the plain stating that the peasantry everywhere repudiated the idea of yielding assistance. "we are not going to turn against our own flesh and blood," they had said, "and we advise the men of the law to make their peace with taras, for he is just." and more, it seemed as if the peasants round about, not satisfied with keeping neutral, were ready to side openly with the avenger. every hour swelled the reports coming in from the mandatars, landlords, and parish priests of the district, all concurring that the peasantry were at the highest pitch of excitement; that the success which had accompanied taras's first deed of vengeance had roused the spirit of opposition everywhere, and that the worst might happen unless government carried matters with a high hand. but the most appalling news was this, coming in about noon, that in the past night the avenger had dealt justice elsewhere; that he had appeared about midnight in the village of zadubrowce, setting free a number of peasants who were kept in gaol because of arrears of forced labour; that he had called upon the mandatar of the place to answer for his doings in the presence of all the people; and that after a careful trial he had decided to let him off a disgraced man with his head shorn, warning him at the same time that he would forfeit his life if he continued oppressing the people. but strangely enough--so ran the report--he gave the peasantry a similar warning, in case they should attempt any plundering of the manor. but if this latter piece of information contained any comfort, there was the fact to be set against it that the village in question was far out in the plain, bordering upon the bukowina. it was beyond anything to be conceived that these outlaws had dared the distance, there was not a shadow of an explanation how they got thither, and no one knew whither they had vanished. it seemed but poor consolation that by the evening a troop of dragoons arrived from stanislaw, especially as their captain brought the information along with him that further reinforcements must not be expected under a week. about midnight, however, the infantry returned from zulawce, captain stanczuk having led back his men on his own responsibility, in consequence of what appeared to him certain information of a meditated attack upon the district town. now this officer was a man whose judgment might be trusted, it being known that, having grown up among them, he understood the peasantry; and when he also reported an ominous excitement about the country, giving it as his opinion that the danger was not to be trifled with, it was resolved to keep together what forces so far were available--about five hundred men in all--for the protection of the town itself, and to deal with the disturbed state of the country only when further reinforcements could be obtained. april merged into may, but there was no further attack upon the town, although nightly expected, and the remainder of the garrison at kossowince arrived safely at colomea; but there was a constant feeling of the proximity of taras's band, and the reports pouring in proved that this man, for good or for evil, swayed the minds of the peasantry throughout that part of the province. for, incredible as it seemed, it had to be accepted as a fact that taras, whatever might be thought of his 'judgments,' exercised his influence in a marked degree for actual good. the governor, with a grim smile, had entered that account of events at zadubrowce along with the "charges against taras and followers"; but almost every day since had brought fresh proof that taras really had forbidden the peasantry under pain of death to have recourse to plunder, or even to seek their rights for themselves, and, more remarkable still, that he insisted on their yielding every just tribute. and this information did not proceed from any of his adherents, but from the mandatars, the landlords, and the parish priests, who hated this "avenger" as their natural enemy, and would have been only too glad to see him taken up as a malefactor. for if the influence of this strangest of bandits for good could not be denied, neither was there any gainsaying that he exercised it in a terrible degree for ill almost daily. that steward of kossowince had found some companions in his grief, who with the loss of their hair had been "disgraced" and obliged to make amends to the people they had wronged; while two landlords of the plain, not far from horodenko, had fared worse: taras had ordered them to be shot, and their dwellings levelled with the ground. but the man whom these accounts might well have dismayed first and foremost knew nothing about them. wenceslas hajek, lying in a raging fever, was mercifully saved from the shock of such news. taras's "judgments," indeed, were appalling, and within three weeks no less than ten distinct cases were registered against him. and they resembled each other closely. he arrived suddenly with his band, cut off every retreat, took up the accused, tried him, and if he denied the charges, called witnesses, had him convicted, and the sentence was carried out on the spot. it was a remarkable fact that he carried out his judgments with the bullet only, none of his victims coming by their death by means of the rope; another feature was that any money that was found he invariably made over to the community for whose sake the deed was done. in short the cases were so like each other, and followed one another so rapidly, that the district governor quite got into a routine of filing charges against taras. not till the end of may was the pressure on the minds of the citizens somewhat relieved. a battalion of infantry had been sent from stanislaw, a regiment of dragoons from the bukowina, and a regiment of hussars besides. with these troops there arrived also a lieutenant-general to take the entire command, and he forthwith called a council of war, to which, besides the military chiefs, were admitted the district governor, the burgomaster, and dr. starkowski as legal adviser. now while this council was sitting round the green baize table of the district court, a special messenger arrived with a letter from hankowce, addressed to the governor. "from hankowce," exclaimed herr von bauer dismayed, "alas, poor zborowski!... but no, he can't be killed," he corrected himself, "for it is his own handwriting!" he tore open the missive, read it, and, pushing the letter from him, he burst from his seat with a crimson countenance, striking both his fists on the table. "gentlemen," he cried, "this is beyond anything ever heard of; enough to madden the chief justice himself. there, read for yourselves, and tell me if it is not simply maddening!" the gentlemen made haste to comply, and what they read in that letter certainly was startling. the lord of the manor of hankowce, baron alfred zborowski, one of the most respected noblemen of the district, had written to his friend, the governor, with all the haste of one reporting a most unusual occurrence, for starkowski had some trouble in making out the shaky handwriting. the letter ran as follows: "we have just been saved as by a miracle from almost certain death. you know that i have never been a hard landlord; my peasants are kindly treated, and there has never been a point of contention between us till within these last weeks. but after the rising of taras my people appeared entirely changed. they no longer touched their caps to me refused the labour they owed me, and there was a good deal of seditious speaking and of getting drunk at the public-house. i did what i could to prevent worse things, yielding one point and another, but to no purpose. they grew only the more refractory, and it ended in their sending a deputation to me, a lot of young fellows armed with scythes and firelocks, demanding a loan of fifty florins. i refused it. they returned in the evening, about double the number, all more or less in drink, and not merely young men, but a great many of the older ones as well. there seemed nothing left but to yield, for how could i oppose them with a handful of retainers, and i dared not risk the safety of my wife and children. so i paid them the money. they went off brawling, spending it in drink forthwith. the day before yesterday they returned, some of my most trusted peasants among them, grievously drunk. 'we want one hundred florins of the money you have stolen from us, you robber, you tyrant,' cried their spokesman, a certain labourer of the name of juzef supan, 'pay it at once, or we shall call taras.' 'well, call him,' i said. 'i know him, and he knows me, for he was in my service twelve years ago; he knows i am no unjust man.' but they had only abuse in return, concluding, 'we don't even want taras, we can help ourselves. either you give us a hundred florins here on the spot or we'll make you rue it!' what could i do? i paid the money and off they went. "my poor wife and i were left to consider the horrors of the situation. there was little doubt of how it would end--they would return with increased demands, or, more probably, would fall to plunder. life itself was in jeopardy, and no help to be had. even flight was impossible; for how could we risk it when rebellion is up everywhere? we could only look at one another in mute despair. some hours passed, when suddenly my wife started from the couch on which she had buried her tearful face, looking at me with luminous eyes, as though she had had an inspiration. 'husband!' she cried, 'you call taras!' i stared at her, aghast, believing her demented with the agony of our fears. 'my dear,' i said, 'you know not what you are saying! my referring to him so confidently in the presence of these rebels was like a drowning man's snatching at a straw--nay, not even that! true, i have not been a hard landlord--the almighty is my witness--but how should taras care? don't you know that he is no better than a cut-throat now; up in arms against the noble and wealthy of the land? if i called him we were lost, if we are not so already!' 'no, we should be saved,' cried she, warmly. 'why, you know yourself we never had a more honest fellow in our service. i well remember his driving me once over to colomea. i was struck with a peculiar sadness in his face; and on my inquiring what ailed him, he, in the most simple, straightforward fashion, told me it was about a girl. now, it was just a tale of troubled love, nothing at all particular, but a man who could thus sorrow about a girl, and speak as he did, has a heart, i say, to pity us and our children.' i thought she was imagining a good deal; but, as she clung to her fancy, i no longer tried to contradict her, but set my face to the doing of a desperate duty. i did not send for taras--for where, indeed, could i have looked for him?--but i gave orders to barricade the doors; and, arming my men, i placed wife and child in the strong room of the tower, prepared for the worst, and resolved to meet it. "the day passed quietly, but with the approach of night we heard them coming--a mob of several hundred--the very women among them. they roared for admittance. 'we'll have it all back what you have robbed us of!" they cried, and forthwith prepared to force an entrance. the strong portal was groaning beneath the blows of their axes--it must yield, and we are lost! at this terrible moment a thunderous noise filled the air, the echoing hoof-treads of a body of horse bursting upon us. 'the hussars!' cried my steward; but no, for the mob was shrieking, 'urrahah, the avenger!' when i heard that i knew the hour of death had come. there was an ominous silence, when a mighty voice fell upon my anxious ear: 'you are lying, you wretches, i know the man!' and presently, 'up, comrades, make sure of this murderous lot; let none escape!' it was taras himself. my men gave a cry of hope, but i felt stunned. there was a knocking at the gate presently, and a voice saying, 'open, sir; i have come to save you!' my men let him in. "taras, indeed, stood before me, but i should not have known him again, so old, so worn he looked. 'my poor master,' he said, taking my hand, 'what must you have suffered, and the dear lady and the children! but fear nothing now, come with me and we will settle matters.' i followed him speechless. 'nay, stop,' he said, with the sweetest smile, 'had we not better send word to the lady first, she will be anxious, and i would not have her be troubled a minute longer than i can help!' i called one of my men, sending him to her with a message, but then--i am not ashamed of owning it, i have not shed a tear these thirty years, but there was no fighting against it now.... 'poor master,' he said, 'be comforted.' he spoke to me gently, as to a child, and drew me along with him to face the peasantry. a strange sight indeed--they stood like a flock of sheep when a storm is bursting, pressing against each other for very fear, and surrounded by a number of taras's men armed to the teeth, every third man carrying a blazing torch besides. by the outer gate i perceived a further number, motionless on their horses, and drawn up like a body of cavalry, their leader a man in peasant garb with marked jewish features. 'now,' cried taras, looking sternly at the mob, 'here is the man you have accused to me; let me hear, then, what he has been guilty of to justify your murderous attack. but i will have the truth--and woe to the man that dares a falsehood!' upon which most of them fell on their knees, crying for mercy; a few only remained stubbornly on their feet, and there was but one who had the courage to make answer--it was juzef supan who said: 'we did not think that you, the people's avenger, would take the part of a polish noble--a landlord--is not that enough in your eyes? he did, however, oppress us, like all of them!' 'you are not much of a witness,' said taras, 'i happen to remember you. your heart is a swamp, and your words like its poisonous exhalations. is there any one here who can come forward with proof of the baron's oppression?' juzef scowled, but the peasants cried: 'forgive us, he led us on, saying, this is the time when poor folk can enjoy themselves for once, and the rich men must pay! and so we----' ... 'turned rogues and all but assassins,' interrupted taras, and his eye shot fire; 'do you think these are the people that have any claim on me? you have deserved death every one of you for thus dragging low the sacred cause i have espoused; for making the holy right an excuse for the doing of meanest wrong. yes, you have forfeited your lives; but, believing that you have been misled, and that you are willing to repent, i will grant you forgiveness, unless the baron himself would have you punished.' 'surely, i forgive them heartily,' i cried. 'in that case,' he continued, 'i have but three things to see to. firstly, you shall begin to-morrow with rendering whatever labour you owe to the baron; and you will behave reverently, as he deserves at your hands. if any of you, after this, dares offer him any slight, or withholds any just tribute, be it but a sheaf of wheat or an hour of your time, i shall have him shot, as sure as there is a god above us.' 'we will render our every due,' they cried. 'secondly'--and he turned to me--'do they owe any arrears?' 'no,' 'but they have refused labour--for how long?' 'about three weeks.' 'that is eighteen working days. and how much in money did they force you to give them?' 'one hundred and fifty florins; but i acquit them of it.' 'ah, but that is not justice,' he exclaimed, with a look that brooked no contradiction; and, addressing himself again to the peasantry, he called upon their judge to step forth. but that good man was not of the rioters; only one of the elders, grigori borsak, had joined the mob, and shamefacedly he presented himself. 'the eighteen days' labour,' said taras, 'shall be doubled, and are due to the baron whenever he chooses to call on you within six weeks from this day. but as for the money, or at least its value, i'll see it paid back this very hour. you must raise it on the spot; some of my men will go with you about the village, and you had better not keep us waiting. and now for the third matter.' his voice swelled like thunder, and at a sign from him juzef was dragged forth. 'ah! forgive him!' i cried; but he shook his head. another sign--two shots--and juzef fell a corpse at our feet. the peasantry, horror-struck, rushed back to the village. 'well, then, this is settled,' said taras, turning to me. 'i have but to wait now to see them make amends for what they robbed you of.' but i stood mute, the awfulness and the generosity of this man seemed overpowering. he, too, was silent awhile, and then he said softly, almost humbly, 'i would like to see the lady and the dear children, but i dare hardly ask it.' 'certainly,' i cried; 'forgive my neglect. besides, she will want to thank you. it was she who insisted that you would save us if i would but send for you.' 'no! did she, indeed?' he exclaimed, blushing for very pleasure; yet he followed me bashfully, almost reluctantly. "but my wife was coming to meet us, bathed in tears and holding our youngest child in her arms. she flung herself on her knees before him, but he, with a gesture of dismay, lifted her gently, and, bowing reverently, kissed the hem of her garment. 'dear lady,' he said, 'i am told that you still think kindly of your former servant; and be sure he has never forgotten either the baron or yourself. i heard of your plight two days ago, but could not come sooner--not till i saw judgment done upon the mandatar at rossow,' 'bawinski!' she cried, dismayed, 'ah, his poor wife!' 'i could not help it, his life was forfeited!' 'terrible man,' she sobbed, 'how long shall this shedding of blood continue?' it must continue while wrong remains unpunished,' said he, solemnly, 'and i have the power of righting it.' i thought it best to change the subject, inquiring after his wife and children; and my wife, recovering herself, invited him to our sitting-room. he followed her shyly and with the utmost respect, nor could he be prevailed upon to take a seat, but, hat in hand, remained standing, listening deferentially to all i told him about ourselves and the things that had occurred since his leaving. in fact, he was just the old servant happening to pay a visit to his former master, unconsciously falling back into the ways of service with the humble interest of grateful attachment. but no sooner was he told that the elder had returned with some money and a few heads of cattle, than he was the captain of his band again, self-confident and imperious. i endeavoured once more to have the people excused from making amends, but he would not hear of it, turning upon me almost fiercely: 'it is right, sir, to accept it!' and there seemed nothing else to be done. he took his leave with evident emotion, and burst away with his band, like a whirlwind, as he had come. i have written this in the early glimmer of morning, hardly myself as yet, but i longed to tell you; nay, conscience urged me not to delay my report. i am ready to swear to this statement if required, remaining, meanwhile, "ever yours, "zborowski." the lawyer had read the letter aloud, but with a voice growing husky and tremulous, and having finished he sat down silent. nor could any one else find speech, except the governor, who once again struck his fists on the table, exclaiming with a quaint petulance:-- "perhaps you will tell me now, sirs, what i am to think of this? i say it is maddening, it is distracting, if even the law cannot decide whether a man is a wicked scoundrel or a noble-hearted, valorous defender of his kind. now without this taras, my good friend zborowski were a corpse by this time, every manor in the district, but for him, were in rains, and rebellion stalking the land! it is so, indeed. i have little chance of upholding martial law though i proclaimed it, but every word of his is regarded like an edict of the crown. but what do i say?--why, without him we had never seen this confusion, and the wretch has men shot like sparrows! do _you_ understand him? then do help me to see straight!" "he is a remarkable outlaw, that much i perceive," said the general, drily. "it does not seem so baffling after all," broke in the burgomaster, "it is just this, methinks--an honest law-abiding man, as he was originally, has been worsted in a lawsuit--wronged, he thinks--and it has driven him to seek for himself the right which he fancies is denied him. he wants to destroy the man who has thus ill-used him, and he thinks he must punish the unjust judges; that is, he seeks to kill hajek, and to--to--i beg your pardon, but the unjust judges in his opinion are evidently the magistrates of this district. all his enemies, then, are enjoying the shelter of this town, and this is why i always urged making special provision for its safety." "supposing it is so, then why does he hold his 'judgments' all over the country? returned the general. "by way of practice, i should say," rejoined the burgomaster. "so far he has not seen his way to attack us, because of the reinforcements, which i am thankful to say are sufficiently large now; yet he must do something to keep together his band. besides, such men require diversion!" "diversion!" broke in the governor, wrathfully, flourishing the baron's letter in the burgomaster's face. "do you dare maintain that such a man kills his neighbours by way of a pastime?" "gently--gently, sirs," interrupted the general, amused at the governor's fury; and turning to starkowski, he said: "now you have had some opportunity of knowing this man, doctor; are you also of opinion that this town is in danger of an attack?" "yes, certainly, so long as hajek is within its gates. but colomea is in exactly the same position to him as any manor, any place whatever sheltering an evil-doer. taras's doings do not proceed from any personal sense of injury; in short, they are not dictated by revenge. there have been such instances in the history of the law, but his motive, so far as i know, is unprecedented. hajek has not robbed him of anything, not wronged him in any way; the very lawsuit, which he carried on with a pertinacity quite unexampled, was never any fighting for _his_ right, but for the right of others--in fact, for _the_ right pure and simple, for the 'holiest thing on earth,' as he once designated it to me. he failed in fighting for it with peaceful means, so he continues his battle by force of arms. he does not hate the mandatar--or, rather, he hates him as he would hate any wrong-doer; his fighting is a fight for the right--for the right, as such, against wrong. therefore i say he would not now be satisfied if you delivered up the mandatar into his hands--you have heard what answer he made to the baroness! and, therefore, what i should counsel is this: protect this city by all means, but do what you can to withdraw the district from his power." captain stanczuk fully concurred in this view, and a resolution was passed to commence active operations against taras immediately. the town should be held, as hitherto, by its own garrison, while the rest of the troops, as flying columns, should scour the country, the hussars acting as scouts between them. the mode of action settled, and everything arranged, the council was breaking up, when the governor requested a further hearing. "sirs," he said, producing a writ, to which a large seal was appended, "i am extremely sorry to have to detain you with this--one moment, i pray you. it is not for me to question any of the provincial governor's orders--but--humph! it is a pity sometimes---- however, i can but make it known to you that, by this writ, i am instructed, firstly, to place a price of five hundred florins upon taras's head. now, leaving all other considerations out of the question, i should say this measure is utterly useless, and will only enrage the peasantry. and i am instructed, secondly--but no!..." herr von bauer was heaving with passion, and his face was purple. "well, secondly?" inquired the general. "i think, perhaps, on the whole, i had better keep this point to myself--for the present, at least, till i hear what the provincial governor may think of my urgent appeal to reconsider the matter. and i'll just see," he added, with rising anger, "if there is any coward to be found, any mean----" the rest was lost in his own furious growl. however, he recovered sufficiently to say, "i wish you good evening, gentlemen! i have the honour to wish you a very good evening. as for me, if i had never known it before, i know it now, that it is desperately pleasant work in one's old age to reach the dignity of a district governor in galicia...." chapter xvii. signs of failure. about the very time when the authorities at colomea were holding their war council, a remarkable occurrence took place at zulawce. it was ascension day, and a general meeting had been called. the men of zulawce were in a difficulty of their own; for, while all the rest of the parishes within the disturbed district were at least free to side either with the government or with the avenger, as seemed best to suit their temper or their interests, the people of zulawce could do neither. they considered they had done with taras; for had he not insulted them beyond forgiveness by refusing to rid them of the soldiers? but no less implacable was their resentment against the authorities who had inflicted the soldiers upon them; and even after the company had withdrawn its hateful presence, they continued in a high state of ill-humour and uncertainty of mind, which rendered them unfit for any united action. it was this very want of decision, however, which proved helpful to father leo in his strenuous efforts to prevent any deed of violence; for though there were few among them that would not have loved to see the manor plundered or set on fire, now that it was left at their mercy, none quite dared to assume the responsibility of taking the lead in such an act. still, this, or any similar outrage, might any day be looked for; and since the helpless jewgeni did nothing for the maintenance of order, father leo, assisted by some of the more steady-going of his parishioners, succeeded in bringing together a sort of committee, which was to take in hand the settlement of affairs in the distracted village. the six men, however, upon whom this office devolved did not at first seem more likely to arrive at a united opinion with whom to cast in their sympathy than the parish at large had been; but they managed by degrees to sink differences in a sort of compromise of a peculiar kind, and quite unprecedented even in the history of that remarkable people. the resolution arrived at ran as follows:-- "this is to give notice that since taras has left us in the lurch, and the men of the law have wronged us, we repudiate them both now and evermore! it is their fault if we men of zulawce, in this time of trouble, have come to the conclusion that we had better in future be our own administrators, recognising no one in authority over us, save the judge of our own choosing. we intend henceforth to pay neither tax nor tribute to any outsider, and we shall render forced labour to no man; but we will live justly and peaceably, wronging none either in life or property. we insist on taking back the field which belongs to us; but we will guard the manor as carefully as though it were left to the parish in trust by one of ourselves absent for a time." so then the committee of affairs at zulawce, after this fashion, and quite ignorant of its classical prototypes, had arrived at the idea of the republic, proposing simeon pomenko as the fittest man to preside as "free judge" over the parish interests. the announcement was received enthusiastically, and on the day in question all the community once more had gathered beneath the linden, where the new order of things was to be promulgated. the place was as crowded as on the palm sunday when taras had made his memorable speech. two only were absent--father leo, who of course could not officially acknowledge this change of government, although he would not deny that for the present it seemed the likeliest arrangement for arriving at anything like order in the parish; and she whom he had termed the most unhappy widow of the place, poor anusia, who since that service on easter sunday had left the house only when her presence was absolutely necessary about the farm. she continued an object of interest, and was talked about daily; but, with natural tact, the villagers forebore troubling her with calls, and passed her in silence when they met on the rare occasions of her being about the fields; for even the roughest of them felt that her sorrow, and the silent dignity with which she bore it, commanded their reverence. and it redounds not a little to the honour of that wild community, that even on the day when their fury ran highest, when wassilj and hritzko had returned with taras's answer, none had thought of casting it up to the widow, or of offering her any insult whatever. the bearing of the assembly was grave and even solemn. "men and brothers," said simeon, "it would be a disgrace if we could not rule ourselves and re-establish order in this village of ours! the country is full of uproar and sedition; let peace and honest labour have their place here--so be it!" on account of the intended independence of the community, and because of the pressure of the times, there would naturally be an increase of parish business; and it was resolved therefore that three elders henceforth would be required, and they were nominated. alexa sembrow was to act as "home minister,"--the common field and the fair distribution of its produce should be his especial care; while wassilj, the butcher, should see to the external safety of the place; wilko sembratowicz, the third of the number, serving as treasurer. this arranged, the assembly fell into a procession, and with bared heads proceeded to the field of strife, amid the ringing of bells and the solemn strains of the _te deum_. the "free judge" and his elders led the march, and with their own hands, while the singing continued, they pulled the black cross from its present place, replanting it where it had stood formerly, at three feet distance from the river. this done, the four white-haired men fell on their knees, and, spreading forth their arms, thrice kissed the recovered soil, all the people doing likewise, amid sobs and tears. after which simeon stepped forth, saying: "i require every one here to witness, as i also ask him above, that we have only taken back that which belongs to us by right, and which was taken from us by a wicked fraud.... we pray thee, thou ruler above, to prevent such fraud in the future, and we will fight to the death rather than permit it again. this is our solemn oath!" "our solemn oath!" repeated the men in chorus, lifting their right hands. and with faces beaming with satisfaction the people returned to the village. nor was their confidence at all lowered for some little time. the word of the free judge seemed being fulfilled, peace and diligence continuing here, while bloodshed and misery spread over the land. neither was the village interfered with for changing its constitution, the authorities and the troops having more than enough on their hands already. no illusion had prevailed at that war council at colomea concerning the difficulty of dealing with the bandits; but the utter failure of all operations hitherto exceeded even the worst anticipations. in fact, the chance had never yet offered for having even a brush with the enemy; and although the flying columns continued to scour the land, never a hajdamak did they set eyes upon. they somehow always arrived just too late, or they sought for them on the banks of the dniester while they did their work by the pruth; or strove to protect the east of the province, where the avenger had just been heard of, while taras quietly, but surely, carried out his judgments in the west. it seemed altogether useless that the number of soldiers out against him was doubled, and even trebled, by the arrival of further troops; and nothing seemed to come of spending large sums of money upon private spies, when the mandatars and others grew shy of giving their information, lest they should suffer for it sooner or later. taras, with all the machinery of government against him, continued his awful work, utterly undisturbed, all through may and june; nor did the presence of soldiers throughout the troubled districts hinder him in the least from extending his raids far and wide, and making his power felt in every direction. and, in spite of the almost appalling penetration he showed in singling out his victims, never mistaking the innocent for the guilty--in spite of his repeated injunctions to the peasantry to forbear from acts of violence themselves, and to render every just tribute conscientiously--the terror at the jurisdiction he had established, as it were, in the face of the law, and which one would scarcely have conceived possible within the boundaries of a powerful, well-ordered state, grew and spread till nothing short of a panic filled the length and breadth of the land. the authorities had to listen to the wildest reproaches of the excited people, although they strained every nerve in the execution of their duty. but with all their honest efforts they could not even suggest an explanation of the means by which this strange bandit was holding his ground against them. with their erroneous notions concerning his numbers, their absolute ignorance of his hiding-places--of which the bog-island near nazurna was the most important--and not in the least aware to what extent the peasantry aided and abetted him as his willing informers, the speed and temerity of his movements could not but be a mystery. he seemed everywhere and nowhere, and did his work with impunity. by the middle of july four thousand soldiers were out against him, and yet it appeared hopeless to look for an ending of this reign of terror. now the men of zulawce watched this state of affairs rather with satisfaction than otherwise. for the more useless military intervention appeared, the greater was their confidence in being able to maintain their self-constituted liberty unmolested. but all of a sudden the day dawned that should teach them it was not so easy to break away from the leading-strings of sovereignty. it was a dull, grey morning in july; rain was pouring in endless streams. the sodden roads were deserted, and so were the fields. the two fellows whom wassilj, the butcher, had placed by the toll-booth near the river, did stay at their post, it is true, for the place was dry and comfortable enough, but instead of keeping a careful look-out, they had retired to their pallets and were snoring blissfully. these somnolent youths started suddenly, rubbing their eyes, for heavy footfalls on the wooden bridge had broken on their slumbers; they stared, wondering if they could be dreaming; but no, it was flat reality--they even recognised the face of the officer who was leading hither his men, captain stanczuk. they rushed from the booth, fired off their muskets by way of giving the alarm, and, racing towards the village, they kept shouting at the top of their voices. the soldiers had to slacken their pace on account of the fearful state of the roads, so that the youths reached the village a good while before them. and when captain stanczuk brought up his men in sight of the inn, he found the road barricaded by some overturned waggons, while bundles of faggots were being heaped up hastily, and some fifty men stood with muskets levelled, ready to defend the place. now stanczuk had special orders to avoid bloodshed, if possible; but his kindly prudence hardly required such instruction. he stopped the advance of his men within a hundred yards of the villagers, and, riding on by himself fearlessly, requested to parley with the judge. "my father is not here yet," replied hritzko. "but there will be no parleying, save by means of bullets." "well," replied the captain, quietly, "if you set so little store by your lives, i cannot help it. but not being such a foolhardy idiot myself i think i will just wait for your father's pleasure." and turning his horse, he rode back to his men. he had to wait a considerable while, but not in vain. the number of men holding the barricade had, indeed, increased till almost every man of the village was present, and nearly all were in a belligerent mood; but behind them their wives were lamenting, preparing the way for the pope's and the judge's influence. it would be no more than good sense, these urged, to hear first what the officer might have to say; and after some altercation it was agreed that simeon, with his son and the three elders, should accompany father leo to the soldiers. the captain rode forth to meet them. "good day to your reverence, and good day to you all!" he said, smiling pleasantly. "i have been waiting patiently for an explanation of this nonsense! don't you think you are rather foolish, considering the times?" the half-bantering tone of his address somewhat disconcerted them, but after a pause the judge returned: "then what are you here for, captain? if you have any idea of calling us to order after your fashion, we'll just defend ourselves. and as for the field we have taken back----" "your fields are no business of mine," said the officer, as blandly as before, "and you may continue king of zulawce yet awhile, my good friend. my present orders concern no one but anusia barabola and her children. i have to arrest them, and take them to colomea." "that shall never be!" cried hritzko furiously, and even father leo flushed crimson with indignation. "it would be nothing short of a dastardly wrong, captain!" he exclaimed. "i pledge my life that the poor woman has no share whatever in her husband's doings." the honest officer winced. "your reverence is aware," he said, lowering his voice, "that the soldier's duty is to obey his orders, and not to question them." "and the poor children, are they to be held accountable for their father?" "i have to obey my instructions," repeated stanczuk; "and if your reverence will use your influence and prevent any interference with my duty, you will but act in accordance with the sacred office you bear." the pope was silent; but even if he had shared the officer's views and fallen in with his suggestion as to his influence, he would have had little chance of exercising it. for the peasants had decided for themselves, old simeon stepping forth, saying as he crossed himself: "sir captain, while there is a man alive here to defend her, you shall not lay hands on this unhappy woman and her children. we are fully aware that we endanger our own wives and children in opposing you, but we cannot help it. why, we should deserve to be struck dead on the spot if we suffered such wickedness against the widow and her orphans. there, you may do your duty--we shall do ours!" he turned to go, but the captain touched his arm, almost pleadingly. "have you really considered," he cried, "what misery your refusal may bring on this village? there is bloodshed enough in these days; do not add to it, i pray you. go and consult the people--i will wait." but simeon shook his head and turned away without another word, followed by the rest of them, father leo included. when they had reached the barricade and informed the people of the demand made upon them, there was but one voice of indignant refusal. anusia's servant, halko, rushed off towards the farm, but all the rest of the men stood like a wall, crying: "you have spoken well, judge, we will never permit it!" and the women ceased wailing, but father leo, with speechless agony, folded his hands, looking on. hritzko took the command, and the peasants, besides holding several of the cottages near, stationed themselves all about the raised ground on which the church stood, where they found ample cover. they knelt with muskets levelled, prepared to fire. "let them approach within thirty paces," cried hritzko, "and, at a sign from my whistle, receive them with a volley. be ready!" the captain waited for twenty minutes, and then, sorely against his will, drew his sword, and heading his men, gave the word to advance. the drums beat, the men started at the double, with bayonets fixed. the peasants, in accordance with the orders received, allowed them to approach without firing. the soldiers had reached wilko's cottage, when hritzko lifted the whistle to his mouth. but before he could give the sign, a hand was laid on his arm, pressing it down with a good deal of force. "you shall not fire!" a loud voice was heard to say peremptorily; "i will not have it!" the young man started amazed. before him, tall and commanding, stood the wife of taras, with little tereska on her arm; an old woman-servant followed with the little boys, sobbing piteously. the children, too, were crying. but anusia, though pale, was calm as death; she stood erect, and her face bore that expression of stony composure which, ever since that terrible palm sunday, appeared to have taken the place of her naturally passionate disposition. "i will not have a shot fired," she said; "i shall go with the soldiers." "anusia!" exclaimed simeon, "will you deliver up yourself and your poor children to certain death?" "we are all in god's hand," she said. "for my sake no wife shall be made a widow, no child fatherless." ... and, turning to the servant, she added, "come!" but captain stanczuk had understood the strange scene, and ordered his men to halt. the peasants, too, were standing motionless with surprise. anusia deliberately went up to the officer. "here i am," she said, "and here are my children." but the gallant soldier, on looking into the tearless, grief-bound face of that poor peasant woman, was filled with a sensation of awe the like of which he had never known before. he felt as though he must bend the knee as to a queen or empress. "come," he said, reverently, "we brought a carriage for you." she nodded, and forthwith would have moved towards the vehicle, which followed in the rear; but the villagers had recovered themselves, and were pressing round her. the officer nowise interfered, for he could see in their faces that they intended no further enmity. they surrounded her, deeply moved, some even sobbing when she lifted her children into the carriage as it drew up, and others kissed her garment, crying, "farewell, anusia! we shall never forget it!" father leo breaking out passionately, "you are a brave woman; no saint ever did a greater thing for her people--it shall not be forgotten, indeed.... and your farm shall be cared for, we shall be proud to do it!" "thank you," she said, gently, and could no longer forbid her tears, the big drops running down her face: but soon the rigid calm returned. "i am quite ready," she said to the officer. the drums beat, and the procession started, down to the river and across the bridge, towards the distant town. at dusk the following day they arrived at colomea, and that same evening anusia was ushered into the presence of the governor. that honest, stout-hearted gentleman had looked forward to this hour as to the bitterest trial of his life, and had indeed resisted it as long as he could; but his remonstrances with the governor of the province had been fruitless, though seconded by every magistrate of the district; and even their united request to be dismissed rather than forced to obey in this matter availed not. the lemberg authorities had returned word that no doubt the question of their dismissal might be considered in due time, but for the present they must keep to their posts, obeying their superiors. and thus the high-minded old governor had been obliged with his own hand to draw up the order for an arrest, which in his eyes was the worst act of violence yet committed; but having done this, he insisted on conducting the inquiry himself, lest the wrong he could not help should be carried out harshly. mr. wenceslas hajek by this time had recovered his sprits sufficiently to quit his voluntary retreat in the city gaol for his own chambers, and the apartment he had occupied--not really a cell, but a private room of the chief warder's--had been made ready for anusia, the governor himself superintending the arrangements and giving various directions for her comfort. this done, he returned to his office, awaiting her coming with a beating heart. she entered, but he scarcely found courage to look up, busying himself with a sheet of paper to hide his emotion. "are you cognisant of your husband's crimes, or aiding him in any way?" "no, sir." "i am forced, nevertheless, to keep you in custody; but i will have you well treated. i shall daily inquire after your own and your children's well-being." he waved his hand, and anusia was taken back to her place of confinement. the old man remained by himself, pacing his office for the best part of an hoar, deeply agitated; now gesticulating with his hands, now talking wildly. having calmed down a little, he returned to his desk to make his report to the provincial governor, adorning it with all the flourishes approved of by the profession of the period; but he took care that his dutiful letter should end with these words: "never again may a representative of the law within this realm of austria feel himself thus lowered in the eyes of the accused brought to his bar, and may his excellency, the governor-provincial, not find cause to lament the consequences of this measure!" but even before his note of warning could reach the ears it was meant for, the thunderbolt of vengeance had fallen--fearfully, terribly indeed! on the second night after anusia's arrival at the city gaol the district governor was roused from sleep--a certain clerk, joseph dorn by name, had arrived with news that brooked no delay. the poor governor positively shook with apprehension; for that clerk had been ordered to accompany one of the stipendiary magistrates, who in the morning had set out to the village of jablonow, where a certain matter had to be settled by local evidence. the gentleman's name was hohenau, he being a worthy german from the rhine, advanced in years, and universally respected for his integrity. now, although, after the attack upon kapronski, taras had not again laid hands on any officer of the law, the governor decided, nevertheless, that hohenau, whom he loved as a friend, should not undertake the journey, short as it was, without a special escort of forty dragoons. he was expected to return late at night; what if the clerk had come back without him!... the governor tried to battle with this thought as with an apparition. "nonsense!" he said; "what should have happened?" and he stepped boldly into his ante-room. but one look into the man's face showed him that his fears were only too well founded. that clerk, who had served half his life as a sergeant of the constabulary, till pensioned off to his present post, and who was not likely to grow faint at the sight of a shadow, was leaning against the wall, white as death, and trembling in every limb. "he has been killed?" gasped the governor. "he has!" groaned the clerk. herr von bauer, too, grew faint, catching at a chair-back for support. at that moment he experienced that most painful of all bodily sensations, which, though common enough as a figure of speech, is rare in actual fact, and not likely to be forgotten by the luckless mortal that ever underwent it! the poor old governor felt his scalp contract with an icy coldness, every single root of hair pricking into it like a red-hot needle--_his hair standing on end!_ for a while these two men continued facing each other, terror-struck and unable to speak, till the governor's lady came rushing in to inquire into the reason of this late disturbance. her coming was opportune, for the governor was obliged to rouse himself to bid her retire; and turning to the clerk, he said, "tell me." at which the latter drew himself up straight and saluted his superior. and then followed his tale: "there was much to be done at jablonow," he said, "and it was eight o'clock before we could set out on the journey back. both in front and behind us the dragoons were trotting, quite carelessly, and herr von hohenau was even merry-hearted, conversing pleasantly to pass the time. and he fell talking about taras, saying--'do you know, dorn, i should rather like to see him; one would like to have a talk with the man--he is quite a colleague of ours, a criminal judge if ever there was one; and i will even maintain he is possessed of all the true instincts of the profession, knowing how to discriminate between a rascal and an honest man--between right and wrong. i am sure of it!' 'begging your pardon, sir,' i replied, 'but he is just a black-dyed villain, and god almighty keep us from falling in with him.' 'well,' owned he, 'i don't say i am anxious to meet him, say, on this journey, although i should not give him credit for any desire of harming us. you misjudge the fellow, dorn; i have carefully followed his so-called judgments, and i will say this for him, he is a man still and no fiend.' the word was scarcely out of his mouth--we had just arrived by the little bridge leading over the krasnik--when all of a sudden the reeds on both sides of the brook seemed alive with highwaymen. i am an old soldier, sir, and it is a dead mystery to me how it could happen so quickly, but in less than three minutes all our men were clean overpowered. i should think the bandits were at least five to one of ourselves, but i will say this for them, they did behave decently, and whoever was willing to accept quarter, was merely disarmed and pinioned; they killed only those who stubbornly resisted. herr von hohenau remarked it also, and whispered to me: 'never fear, dorn, he won't harm us,' and for a while it seemed so. for the bandits who had surrounded the vehicle, levelling their pistols at our faces, now drew off, and one of their number--a jew, by the face of him--said almost politely: 'please to get out, sirs, and speak to the avenger.' we stepped to the ground, they closed in a circle, and taras himself stood before us. now i had often seen him--why, it is barely two years since--when he used to call here on account of that law-suit of his, a fair-haired, strong-built, ruddy man, with a glow of health about him; but i certainly should not have known him again, hollow-cheeked, worn, and grey as he is now, with deep furrows about his face, and almost trembling as he looked at us. he kept silent rather long, i thought, and there seemed more pity than wrath in his eyes, and he spoke gently when he began, turning to me first. 'it is not you i require, you are but a clerk of theirs, and are bound to write whatever they tell you. you had better go your way at once--that is, if this man here has not some last message he would like to entrust to you.' i shook from head to foot at this announcement, and the gentleman, too, grew white, catching hold of my arm as if to steady himself; yet he was able to say--'i am carl von hohenau, a magistrate; every man in this neighbourhood knows me, and can tell you that no crime lies at my door. what is it you accuse me of, taras?' 'unheard-of violence and cowardly wrong,' he said. 'my wife and my children are detained in your gaol.' at which herr von hohenau drew himself up, saying solemnly: 'taras, you will believe my word of honour, that they have not been arrested at our instigation, but against our every protest. the governor has been forced to yield to the authorities at lemberg, our superiors,' at which taras scanned his face attentively, saying, after a pause: 'i am unwilling to believe you are speaking falsely; but i have had information on solemn oath. was it not by your orders that kapronski, on the wednesday after easter, threatened my wife with arrest?' 'no--certainly not! did he? oh--the rascal! why, he came back assuring us that only by means of his taking it upon himself thus to threaten you had you been prevailed upon to spare his life,' 'he lied,' said taras. 'i charged him to tell you that i should consider your lives forfeited if you countenanced such wrong--did he tell you that?' 'no, on the contrary, he advised it as the only expedient; and the provincial governor, in issuing his orders to us, has acted on his suggestions without a doubt.' the poor gentleman was not a little excited, but had sufficient power over himself to state plainly that repeated efforts were made by the magistrates of this district to reason with the authorities at lemberg, and that they obeyed orders in the end under protest only, because there was no help for it. taras listened quietly, and then, bending his head, he stood motionless, like one lost in thought, a shudder ever and anon quivering through his limbs.... and i believed there was ground for hope; but, alas, i was mistaken. pulling himself up suddenly, he said: 'i will accept your account, every word as you have told it. but how is it that you yielded in the end, knowing that which was demanded of you was an act of violence?' 'we were driven to it,' 'i do not understand that,' said taras, slowly; 'a soldier has no will of his own, and must obey his superiors, or he will be shot; but i never heard it is so with the emperor's magistrates!' 'it is not; and yet we should have been punished--ignominiously dismissed in all probability, which is no light thing for a man to face. some of us have wives and children,' 'so it is just this: you preferred your position, and perhaps daily bread for yourselves and your families, to the integrity of your conscience! and you are judges, who have sworn an oath before the almighty, to further the right!' the terrible man said this in the same quiet tone and very slowly, but his passion now broke forth: 'no,' he cried, 'judges who are capable of that, who have yielded to the wrong, have forfeited their lives! prepare yourself for death.... i cannot spare you!' but i fell on my knees. 'taras!' i cried, 'for mercy's sake, forbear killing this man!' herr von hohenau, however, ordered me to rise, preserving his composure like a hero to the end. 'i have nearly reached my three score and ten,' he said, 'and have striven after righteousness all my days, to the best of my knowledge. i am ready to give up my account to him who is judge over all, and my days at best are numbered. and i leave neither wife nor child behind me. it is, therefore, not the fear of death, man, which prompts me to say that you must not kill me, unless you would burden your conscience with a deed of common murder, in the blind fury of revenge. so far as your deeds are known to me, this would be the first act of yours that must be called criminal and nothing else,' the bandits growled, but taras, beckoning them to be quiet, stood motionless, with bowed head, and lost in thought, as before. those were terrible moments, i cannot tell how long it lasted, but it seemed an eternity. at last one of taras's men--that jew--went up to him, addressing him gently. i could not understand his words, but saw from the expression of his face that he was pleading for mercy. that it was so grew evident from taras's answer, who, lifting up his hand, said hoarsely, and trembling as though it went hard with him: 'god help me and him, and if i am judging wrongfully i may suffer for it on the gallows, but there is no help for it--he must die! he and his fellow magistrates have set aside their sacred oath for the sake of earthly advantage, and in the fear of man; theirs is the power to protect the holiest of causes, to see the right carried out, and they have misused the power entrusted to them. that is a fearful evil; and where shall wrong end if it begins with them? hitherto i have tried to believe that it was their mistake, or at worst their carelessness, at times, which rendered them liable to judge falsely; and though combating the wrong i have so far not declared war against the men of the law themselves. but now i have proof that these judges, these guardians of the right, have actually been able, against their own better knowledge, to concur in a wrongful deed! i can no longer, then, be satisfied with merely stopping the course of this or that muddy stream, as it were, but am bound to close up the spring-head itself. i grieve, indeed, that i must make the beginning with this old man, who i daresay is one of the best of them, but there is no help for it--may god be merciful to him and to me!' herr von hohenau was going to speak yet again, but taras cut him short, saying: 'it is useless, you must see i cannot help you!' and when i clasped his feet, he freed himself, and fell back behind some of his men. but herr von hohenau stood erect, saying with a loud voice, 'get up, dorn, it is not meet for honest men to kneel to such a one! get me a piece of paper and a pencil!' he wrote a few lines, commended himself to the almighty, and--and----" the old clerk was shaken with sobs, his eyes were tearless, but the lips quivered, and his breast heaved convulsively. "they--shot--him?" the man nodded, and, fumbling in his pocket with trembling hand, produced a scrap of paper. but the governor saw nothing; he, too, was leaning against the wall now, unable to stand. his eyes were closed, but two large drops hung quivering at his lashes, and fell over the furrowed face. "peace, peace be with thee!" he murmured, "thou best of friends!" there was a long silence, but the clerk at last ventured to break it: "this bit of writing," he said, falteringly. the governor took it and read:-- "farewell, my ferdinand, we have been friends this many a year; do not grieve for me, but have a care for yourself and the others. let kapronski meet with his deserts if you can! what money i leave behind me i want your eldest boy to have; just take it, with my love. i do not die willingly, but with an easy mind.--yours in death, "carl von hohenau." herr von bauer folded the letter, placing it in his note-book. "where is the body, dorn?" he inquired, presently. "lying by the bridge; and so are the shackled dragoons. the monster himself cried after me, 'you had better send for them,' he had ordered some of his men to take me within sight of the town, where they left me." before daybreak even, the brave old governor, together with the general and a sufficient body of men, had started for the scene of death. it was an unspeakably sad journey through the mellow summer night. about half-way they came upon the greater number of the dragoons. none of these had been hurt, they had only been overpowered and bound with ropes. one of them had succeeded in slipping his fetters, and had thus been enabled to set the others free. they confirmed the statement that the band appeared to have no other object than to compass the magistrate's death, vanishing almost directly after he had fallen, pierced by their bullets. they reached the bridge in the grey of the morning, and found only a few wounded soldiers and the corpse. and the men, bending over it, were filled with a holy awe on beholding the expression of a restful, even proud calm, that had settled on the dead man's face; never had the majesty of death spoken louder than here. and even the old general felt an unwonted pricking about his eyelids when the governor knelt by the dead body of his friend. he insisted on lifting it himself, barely allowing dorn to lend him a helping hand. when the mournful procession had returned to the town, the district governor lost no time in calling at the prison, in order to see anusia. but only a single question he asked of her--"did kapronski offer you any threats?"--"yes," she replied, unhesitatingly, repeating his words. the governor nodded, as though it were just the information he had expected; and not wasting another word he went his way to the district-board office. as he entered the building the secretary came rushing down to meet him---a messenger had just arrived from lemberg with a writ from the provincial governor, and was to wait for an answer. "let him wait," said the district governor, bitterly. "i daresay they have come to see the propriety of our remonstrances and rescind their orders." the contents of the writ, indeed, somewhat verified these surmises, stating that, having referred the matter to vienna, instructions had been received to take no measures against the family of taras; to which the provincial governor nevertheless added, as his own opinion, that, had the arrest been effected already, he should not deem it advisable to countermand it, lest the dangerous bandit should draw strength from their yielding. but more than this, the viennese government requested that every authentic information concerning taras, beginning with the records of his law-suit in behalf of the community of zulawce, should be forwarded without delay. and the attention of the provincial authorities was directed to the advisability of endeavouring to reclaim, the rebel by peaceful means, since both his character and his history, so far as known in vienna, appeared to warrant this as the best solution of the difficulty. not that his submission should be bargained for under promise of absolute immunity, or any other inexpedient concession, but rather by rectifying certain unfortunate mistakes, which no doubt might be done without lowering the dignity of the law or that of its guardians. with regard to this, however, the opinion of the local authorities was invited. in the meantime, and until further notice, all action against taras should be strictly on the defensive, certain contingencies excepted. this official communication was accompanied by a private note of the provincial governor's, which said: "i have certain information that his imperial highness, the archduke ludwig, is at the bottom of these instructions. send me your records at once, and it is to be hoped everything is in plain order. for you know that if the archduke once inquires into a cause, he will have it thoroughly sifted. it is a positive riddle to me how this wretched cut-throat, taras, should have come to rouse interest in such high quarters. concerning the 'peaceful means,' however, about which we are to give our opinion, i desire nowise to influence your own ideas, but it seems to me we should be handed down to posterity as fools if we recommended them. the commissioner, kapronski, whom i have every reason to believe a thoroughly honest and trustworthy man, quite shares my view, deprecating the proposal in the strongest terms, and i should say he is not without experience of his own. he assures me, and i daresay he is right, that any leniency shown to taras would rouse his insolent opposition to the fullest. i wish to suggest this view to you, but of course you should judge for yourself." having read this, the district governor at once issued notices for a meeting of the board, submitting to the magistrates not only the official document, but the private communication as well. "his excellency, the provincial governor, and myself, are not in the habit of having secrets with each other," he said, grimly. the board, after a short debate, was unanimous in its opinion that peaceful means were not likely to avail in the present extremity, and the following despatch was drawn up: "we fully agree that taras, terrible as his crimes are, cannot be designated as a bandit and cut-throat in the ordinary sense; it might seem a natural hope, therefore, to lead him back to paths of rectitude by appealing to his sense of honour and justice. nor do we fear that such an attempt would increase his temerity. but we feel bound to deprecate such a plan, not only because of its utter uselessness as regards the man himself, but even more on account of the hurtful effect it would certainly produce on the people, who would see in it a confession of weakness. as for taras himself, it is evident that he is acting under the pressure of a belief stronger than his will, imagining that the duty has devolved on him to exterminate every 'wrong' he obtains cognisance of, to punish every deed of injustice, nay, the very omission of doing right. and this idea has so eaten itself into his heart, that no concession to any lawful, or for the matter of that even to unlawful demands, or any other 'peaceful means' will dissuade him from it. he will continue his 'judgments' till they are rendered impossible by force." the board, however, strongly recommended the setting at liberty of his innocent family; "not for fear of his revenge, but as a matter of conscience, and in the fear of the judge above." and in conclusion, having reported the murder of their colleague, hohenau, and anusia's declaration, they requested that the commissioner kapronski should be sent back without delay, that he might be brought to the bar of his immediate superiors. with which reply, and a bulky bundle of papers, the messenger returned to lemberg. upon this the provincial government wrapped itself in silence save on one point; they had been loth, these authorities stated, to set full value on the commissioner's complaints concerning the ill-will of his colleagues, much as they trusted his veracity on all other heads. but now the board of colomea had given tangible proof of its unworthy animosity, actually suggesting proceedings against a respectable servant of the law upon no evidence whatever, save the declaration of a bandit and his imprisoned wife. this appeared unjustifiable spite, and the provincial government not only must refuse to give up the innocent commissioner, but felt obliged to censure the magistracy sharply. in answer to which the whole board of colomea once more, and in stronger terms, submitted their request for dismissal, but neither on this matter nor concerning taras did anything farther reach them. there was a dead silence for several weeks. thus the district governor's position had come to be no bed of roses, when suddenly it seemed as though having reached the worst, matters would mend. it had been observed that taras's 'judgments' grew fewer, and during the first fortnight in august not a single act of his was heard of at colomea. it was as though the 'avenger' and his band had suddenly disappeared from the earth. this silence was as mysterious as his terrible doings had been. it could not be any fear of punishment which bound his hands; for if the general now kept his forces together in stockades between kossowince and zulawce, this centre of defence, however formidable, could not prevent the bandits from carrying on their work wherever they pleased, any more than the flying columns had been able to stop it. and since no other explanation offered, the board lent a willing ear to the report which arose, dimly at first, though it soon gained ground, that by far the larger number of the hajdamaks had fallen out with their leader, and that it was inward dissension which had stopped the activity of the band. chapter xviii. the approaching doom. the valley of the "black czeremosz"!... when the great emperor joseph, a hundred years ago, put forth his hand to lay hold of the lonely tracts overlooked by the carpathians, he sent thither a brave old colonel, george wetzler by name, a man reared on the sunny banks of the neckar, to take possession of the district in the monarch's name, and to make suggestions for the improvement of the newly-acquired territory. no easy matter! but the old colonel was a swabian born--stout of heart and tenacious of purpose--and, moreover, he was honest. so his efforts prospered, and some of the good institutions of his planting are growing still. never at a loss to make the best of things, he was the very man for his work; but after inspecting this valley the old colonel's patience appears to have been fairly exhausted, as may be gathered from his report to vienna--a witness of his disappointment to this day. "this valley of the black 'tshermosh'," he bluntly declared, "must be old nick's own presence chamber, and what human creatures are to be found here, are a pack of senseless knaves. there is nothing to be got out of them, nor into them, and this wretched valley will always belong to him of the cloven foot, and never to the emperor's majesty." in one point this judgment proved true, for the people or zabie and reza to this day own the supremacy of the state only in a loose and distant sort of way; but in other respects the plain-spoken colonel's picture certainly is overdrawn. it cannot be said that the inhabitants of the valley in question are either more senseless or more knavish than the rest of the huzuls, though they may be even more shy of the world, more rude of habit--creatures of the forest, both hardy and daring, as men will become whose life is a constant warfare with the sterner forces of nature. but "old nick's presence chamber" itself, in sooth, is one of the most glorious, if wildest regions of this mountain chain, "raised by the devil and beautified by the christ." it would seem as if this valley, which forces its way eastward in a zigzag line between the towering peaks in the southern-most part of galicia, had indeed been something like an apple of contention for evil or for good. but if it was the devil who made the frowning mountains and strewed the valley with weird-shaped rocks, the imagination may fitly dwell on the redeeming fancy that the gracious christ has clothed the heights with those splendid firwoods, and called forth flowers and shrubs about the boulders, sweeter and fairer than one would look for at such a height; and if it was the great adversary who made of the czeremosz a roaring and dangerous torrent, it must have been the friend of man who formed its banks, so rich and lovely, to hold in the turbulent stream. it fact the traveller, once acquainted with the fanciful legend, will remember it at every turn; and the higher he climbs, up towards the giant-keeper of the hungarian frontier, the towering black mountain (the czernahora), the more it will appear to him as though a contest between opposing forces had verily taken place; the upper valley certainly is one of the wildest and fairest spots on earth. it narrows perceptibly to the west, ending in a circular hollow, in the centre of which there is a small deep lake, whose waters appear black, partly on account of the dark-coloured strata of rock which form the sides of the basin, and partly because of its lying within the far-stretching shadow of that great frontier peak. at noon only is the silent mirror of the black water smiled upon by a passing sunbeam. on the shore of this lake there is one of the largest settlements within the mountains--cottages, sheepfolds, barns in great number, and closed in with a thorn-hedge; it is the home of clan rosenko, numbering about three hundred souls, dwelling here and ruled over by no man save their own patriarch, feared for their valour and duly respected as the wealthiest tribe of the carpathians. the patriarch of this settlement, in peace or war, is lord paramount within a territory as large as any english county, and wields an influence the strength of which rests in its tradition rather than upon any personal qualities. but never had the clan possessed greater power than when ruled over by the friend and ally of the avenger, the venerable hilarion, surnamed the just. there was not a man of pokutia or the bukowina who did not bow to him, and none so great nor yet so humble but he would obey his warning and accept his will. in this man's close proximity taras had arrived early in august, , encamping with his much-lessened band on an open space within the dembronia forest, about a mile from the black water. not for fear of the military operations had he withdrawn from the plain and broken up his camp by the crystal springs; still less had he done so of his free choice, but yielding to necessity, and hoping thereby to avert worse things. for the report which had reached colomea was only too well founded. taras no longer had absolute power over the minds of his men, whose dissatisfaction had grown to bitterness and resentment, breaking out into open rebellion at last. just that had happened which nashko, with the clear discernment of his race, had foreseen and foretold, the catastrophe occurring in the last days of july. "there are too many of them," taras had said, sorrowfully, to the jew. "i cannot now, as i used to, impress every individual man with the sacredness of the cause he is serving." but he was mistaken; the band never numbered more than about two hundred, and taras knew each and all personally; the men, in their turn, being fully aware of his ideas concerning the work they were engaged in. nor could explanation be sought in the suggestion that even his rigorous care could not suffice for keeping the band pure, and that some ill-disposed fellows, no doubt, were leavening the rest. no; the true reason was this, which nashko and jemilian failed not to point out to their beloved leader, saying, "you could never hope for anything better, unless the almighty had lent you his own avenging angels for the work. these men are but human, and unwilling to stake their lives day after day for no advantage they can see; they look for some reward, some personal gain, for the constant danger they run. you think that the sacred cause of justice should be as dear to them as it is to you; perhaps it should, but for a fact it is not. and if you expect of these men to understand your way of thinking, you should, in your turn, try to enter into their views, less elevated though they be." but, in truth, neither party could comprehend the other; and with a great number of the men the good-will even was wanting. their wonderful success, and the fame attending it, had intoxicated them at first; but the novelty wore off, and they began to resent their hetman's folly which forbade plundering and expected them to do the work merely for the benefit of others. it was unheard-of severity, and most unjust, they considered. among the huzuls, too, a spirit of discontent was abroad. these wild, lawless men had joined the avenger because they hated the authorities, together with the polish landlords and the thriving inhabitants of the plains, feeling attracted, moreover, by the prospect of plenty of fighting. it was not reward or booty they craved; but, unused to obedience or self-restraint of any kind, they writhed under the consciousness of being mere instruments of another man's will. they wished to have a voice in the matter before being ordered to this or that work, and did not see by what right they should be interfered with if at any time they preferred to please themselves after their own fashion. but there was yet another and an equally-numerous set of discontented ones, whose spokesman was the whilom choir leader, sophron hlinkowski--men of honest and respectable antecedents, who had gathered to taras's standard either for pure love of his cause, or had been driven to it by cruel oppression. but the scenes of bloodshed almost daily enacted, and in which they must take their part, filled them with horror and disgust. they trembled at the thought of what punishment they incurred at the hands, even, of earthly law, and they feared the judgment of god. hitherto, though with a sore conscience, they had obeyed every behest of their leader, whom at first they so fondly adored; but their helpless regret, ending in despair, looked upon taras now in the light of a cut-throat who forced them on to every fresh deed of iniquity. that his own soul suffered and bled more than theirs they never suspected; for the iron-willed man, worn and wan though he looked, never once quailed before his terrible purpose. they had come to look upon him as the destroyer, not only of their earthly, but even of their eternal hopes, and they were the first of his followers to unburden their minds. the band had been on a raid as far as the river sereth, and was returning in forced rides under cover of the night, taking their rest during the day in their various hiding-places, and once more was encamped now by the crystal springs. but before the first day was out taras reassembled his men, announcing that they must be ready to start at sundown for ispas, and thence to the southern bukowina, because several roumanian communities had sent him their grievous complaints. the information was received with a growl of disapproval, and a voice was heard, "what, already, before we are half rested?" another following it up with a plain "we refuse!" while yet another added, "we sha'n't move a step, unless we see what we shall gain by it!" but these cries were half smothered in the swelling surf of a general discontent. taras's friends pressed round him--those few in number who in life or death would be true to him--nashko, the faithful jemilian and his fellow-servant sefko, the youths wassilj and lazarko, and several others. they had caught up their muskets in real alarm, prepared to stand by him to the end; and to judge from the increasing uproar, violence indeed seemed imminent. the mutinous band pressed closer and closer to the captain. but he stood motionless, with eyes bent on the ground, and his face wore the expression of stern, unflinching resolve, which had grown habitual with him. "speak to them," whispered jemilian, hoarsely. "speak, or you are lost!" but he shook his head. presently, however, he drew himself up, fixing a penetrating glance upon the foremost of the heaving crowd, and such was the power of his eye that they fell back cowed and confounded. he lifted his hand. "silence!" he cried, continuing, with a voice not over loud, but wonderfully impressive, "if you have aught to say, or to ask of me, here i am! but i will not brook disorder! who is to be spokesman for the rest? let him step forth." there was but a low murmuring now, like rumbling thunder, ceasing gradually as the men fell to debating more quietly among themselves. the huzuls gathered round the royal eagle, urging him evidently to inform the hetman of their wishes. others again, the worst of the lot, pressed round a herculean fellow of the name of iwon pistak, who had been in the service of one of the victims of taras's judgments, and had joined the band but recently. a third body in the background was seen clustering round sophron, the former choir-leader; and while the others kept muttering with wrathful or threatening faces, these latter seemed to cling together for mutual support, requiring no words in their trouble. an expression of disappointment, deep and bitter, passed over taras's features. he had refused to believe what nashko and jemilian had told him concerning the splitting up of the band into factions--he could see it now distinctly for himself. alas! how far matters must have gone already, how often the men must have consulted among themselves, and how fully their minds must have been made up, if at this moment of excitement the division could take place thus easily and naturally. "who is to be spokesman?" he repeated, expecting iwon pistak to step forth with an insolent demand. but he was mistaken--this man of might shrugged his shoulders, refusing the honour. taras could hear him say with a loud whisper, "you see, he is sure to shoot down the first that dares tell him. of course he will then be shot in his turn; still i decline to be that first one!" taras was on the point of yielding to his indignation, when his attention was diverted from that miserable wretch; for suddenly there stood before him, pale and trembling, one of those from whom he scarcely would have expected the spirit of resistance--it was the late choir-leader, sophron. "you may kill us, hetman," he cried passionately, "but we shall not again follow you: we will never again lift hand at your bidding. we cannot bear it any longer, to spill the blood of men who are unable to resist us. we fear the judgment of god!" taras was not utterly unprepared for this terrible accusation, jemilian, more than once, having reported to him remarks he had overheard among the men. sophron's words, at the same time, struck to his heart; and he who had not quailed when all the band seemed ready to turn upon him now leant on his musket, for he trembled, and his voice quivered as he made answer, "god is with those who love justice! this is, and has been, my stand-by; i require none other, and it ought to hold good for you." "then how do you know that that which is just in your sight is just also in the sight of god?" cried sophron ... "tell me," he continued excitedly, taking hold of the hetman's hand, "speak, taras, and prove it, that god has shown you his will better and plainer than to others. prove it, and show us that you have a right to judge men in his name--that the power you claim is given you by him above!" an ugly peal of laughter burst from iwon and his party, but the royal eagle indignantly ordered them to hold their peace. taras looked fixedly before him. "tell us!" sophron repeated. "what i have to say, you have known from the beginning," taras made answer at length, but his voice was hollow. "i claim no power beyond that which every honest man is called to in this unhappy land, where right is not otherwise to be found." "this is nonsense!" cried sophron wildly, "i have suffered greater wrong than you. i have lost all, my property, my wife, my child, i have myself been imprisoned, and with no earthly show of justice. yes, i have been wronged, cruelly, and so have you--i will admit it--and many another, no doubt! but for all that, can you prove that there is nothing left for honest men but to turn murderers themselves? what would become of mankind, i ask you--what of this country, if every man who has suffered innocently felt called upon to do as you have done?... taras, you have misled us--you are grievously mistaken. and as for us, our latter ruin is likely to be worse that our former! say, what answer shall we make to the judge above, when he inquires of us, saying: 'what hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground!'" "listen to him! that comes of having been a choir leader!" cried iwon, with a sneer. but again the huzul chief silenced him peremptorily. "what is it you want?" said taras, hoarsely. "we want to leave you!" cried sophron. "let us go--we cannot bear it any longer.... we will try to live honestly and peacefully again; we will go away from this country which we have defiled with so much blood-shedding--far, far away. we will try to expiate the great wrong we have committed. and if our deep sorrow avails not, if the almighty cannot again turn his face upon us, and we must fall into the hands of earthly judges, be it so, we have deserved it." "you are at liberty to go," said taras. and wild excitement filled the air. the men of sophron's party seemed beside themselves with the sudden prospect of quitting their present mode of life. "would that we had spoken sooner!" they, kept crying. "any one is at liberty," repeated taras; "let all those whose conscience forbids them to continue with me, lift up their right hand." some forty men gave the required token; and, as taras could see at a glance, he was losing the most trustworthy of his followers--not counting his own few personal adherents. he heaved a sigh. "step aside to yonder fir-tree," he said, "i will settle with you presently; you shall have your share of the common property. but i must arrange with these others first," he drew himself up proudly, and his eyes shot fire. "now for you, iwon pistak!" he cried. the giant hung back, but his fellows pushed him forward. "why should i bear the brunt of it," he muttered; but gathering courage, he continued: "well, you know our meaning, hetman, and i daresay you find it natural; for after all, why should we go and help those fellows in the bukowina, utter strangers to us? and don't you think we owe something to ourselves? supposing now, we did your bidding, we might find the manor garrisoned and soldiers in the cottages, some of their bullets might hit, and we lose life or limb--that is looking at the worst side. but at best--well, we kill the landlord or his steward, men who never have done us any harm, we help these wretched bukowinians to get their money back, and then we return on our steps poor as church mice, even as we went. is that fair, we ask? you call yourself an avenger, and we grant you are just, but in justice to ourselves you ought to allow us something for our pains, now, oughtn't you? where would be the harm if you allowed us to go shares with the peasants in any money found, for after all it is our doing if they get any at all! and moreover, taras, we do think it is ridiculous to expect of us fighting-men to live like a parcel of monks! we want to enjoy life, we----" "that will do," interrupted taras, "and what if i deny your requests?" "in that case, taras," declared the giant, with a foolish grin, "you couldn't be offended if we gave you the slip; we might carry on a warfare against rich wrong-doers on our own account, mightn't we?" "that will do!" and taras turned to the fellows of this man. "whoever of you is of his way of thinking, let him signify it by lifting up his right hand." in a moment some fifty hands went up in the air. taras would not have believed it possible, but he looked neither surprised nor mortified. "very well," he said, "take your place by this rock, you shall have your due." he stepped up to julko. "and what about you?" he said, "do you also want to leave me?" "it is not for me alone to decide," replied the royal eagle, gloomily, "else we should have left weeks ago. it is neither your fault nor ours! but the huzuls have ever been free--we are not a submissive race. of course we should always obey the hetman of our choosing, but i also must say that men who are willing to be hajdamaks do not expect to live like monks. we should, indeed, have given up long ago but for my father, who would not hear of it. this was his message when i sent him word of our desire: 'it is not i who commanded you to join taras's banner; but neither did i forbid it, for i lay down no law unless i see absolute need of it; moreover, i consider taras to be an honest man, who knows what he is about, and i approve of his warfare. if you think differently, the question is whether he has ever expected anything of you beyond that which you knew he would expect when you joined him. if this is the case you may break with him; but if not, you must stay!' this is my father's opinion, taras!" "and what is yours? do you think, as he puts it, you ought to leave me?" "no; else we should not be here still. but i say this, that we did not much consider what might be your real meaning when we came to you, or perhaps we misunderstood you entirely. so what we propose now is this: take us back to the black water and we will submit the case to my father in person. he shall hear you and hear us, and we will leave him time to think it over; if after that he still will have us continue as your followers, we shall do so, whatever our own feelings may be." "and if i do not agree to this proposal?" "then we leave you this very day," said the royal eagle, curtly. "i will answer for it to my father." "in that case," said taras, after a pause, "i must accept your proposal; you will see for yourself, julko, that i have no other choice. if i had began this work for any advantage of my own, or merely to satisfy private revenge, i should have no need to appeal to you for your services any longer. for in that case i should turn the pistol against my own head at once, if i had not done so long ago!... but i have undertaken to fight for a holy cause, and i must not, i dare not, give it up till all means have failed me. i could not continue the work with the handful of faithful followers i have left; i must hope, therefore, that your father will be on my side. but at the present moment i have something else to ask of you, and you will do it, for it is a duty, julko--the duty of an honest man!" the royal eagle bent closer. "i guess your meaning," he said, under his breath; "it concerns iwon and his fellows. you want to pass sentence on them." "no, not that; for, evil as their intentions are, they have as yet committed no crime to be atoned for with their lives. but i must not permit these men to use their weapons, which have served a holy cause, for murder and robbery in the future. i will disarm them. will you help me?" "of course we will!" thereupon taras went over to sophron and his party, asking their assistance also, which was readily granted. but iwon and his fellows little guessed what was in store for them. standing or lying about, they talked noisily of the merry life they now hoped to lead, when suddenly to the right and to the left ranks were forming against them. they flew to arms, but it was too late; they saw themselves surrounded, and a circle of muskets levelled at their heads. taras fearlessly went up to them. "lay down your arms," he commanded. "not before i have made a last use of mine," cried iwon, enraged, and, snatching up his pistol, he discharged it at taras. the bullet missed its mark, striking a tree close beside the captain; but another bullet proved true to its aim. lazarko, quick as lightning, had fired back at the assailant of his beloved master. the giant's hand went up to his head, he staggered, and fell heavily to the ground. the sudden death of their ringleader so terrified the mutinous men that they obeyed helplessly, laying down their arms and entreating taras to forgive them this once, and they would do his bidding for ever. but he shook his head. "i know you now," he said, sternly, "men of your sort are no fit champions of a holy cause. go your ways, and seek a better occupation than you intended. green giorgi and the rest of the hajdamaks have disappeared, for they are afraid of me; should you make common cause with them they might venture forth from their hiding-places and once more be the pest of the land. take warning, then, for i shall hold you answerable. if any crimes are committed i shall know that you are the scoundrels whom i shall have to deal with next. and be very certain i shall find you, if need be." "we will seek an honest livelihood, indeed we will!" they asserted, trembling. "so much the better," he returned, coldly. "i charge you to do as you promise, lest i should have to make good my word." thereupon jemilian, by his orders, gave to every man who was ready to go food for three days and his fair share of the common purse, the disarmed number starting first, abashed and silent. and then the word was given for a general departure. "say a kind word to us before leaving," said sophron, with honest entreaty, and all the rest of that party pressed round the captain, begging him to forgive them. "we are sorry, but we must do it," they pleaded. "i know," said taras: "i bear you no grudge; but you also shall believe that it is laid upon me to act as i have done. farewell, and god grant that we may not meet again!" "oh!" cried sophron, "then you do bear us ill-will?" "no," said taras, and his voice was low with inward emotion; "indeed i wish you well, and that is why i said, god grant that we may not meet again on the road--that road which is marked out for me. fare ye well!" he spurred his horse, and, followed by his own friends and the huzuls, he led the way towards the red hollow. the night fell, and the stars looked down upon the deserted camp by the crystal springs. taras never returned to it. they reached the black water, after four days of desperate riding through the pathless forest wilds. their coming was entirely unexpected; but all the greater was the delight of the tribe at the return of the clansmen. taras, too, was received with a hearty welcome. those savage natures are not prone to show affection; but having made friends, they are fast and true. they had received the unhappy man with real sympathy on his first seeking their alliance. his dauntless courage struck a kindred chord, not to mention an undercurrent of _naïve_ gratitude in their minds, as though they were indeed beholden to him for being such a thorn in the flesh of the powers they hated. and when the aged hilarion had clasped hands with taras, in token of mutual friendship, the wild shouts of "urrahah" that filled the air, if an expression of savage delight, promised faithful adherence as well.... this being the case, the returning champions were loth to disclose the real reason of their arrival, and with tacit consent deferred matters to the following morning, when julko and taras together sought the presence of hilarion, informing him of the state of affairs calmly and without bitterness. the aged man listened quietly, the proud head uplifted, and with thoughtful, unperturbed brow. at times only his hand, passing with a quick movement over the silvery expanse of his mighty beard, betrayed his deep interest in the recital. "it is the old story," he said at last, after a long pause of silence, when they had finished. "i have watched the course of this world for eighty years, and it is ever the same. it is the wicked only who know how to traffic with the hearts of men, and to do so for their own advantage; but the good man is unsuspecting, judging others by his own honest nature, and it is sure to bring him to grief. it is nothing new, taras, and i am only surprised that you have no worse tale to tell; for you are good and honest to the core, and trustful as a child, in spite of the rivers of blood you have set flowing; and you are as a stranger on the face of this earth, despite the fearful experience of your life." "i do not understand you, my father," said taras, with modest deference. "nor would it avail you if i tried to explain my meaning," replied the old man, smiling sadly. "you would never understand it, and still less could you alter your nature.... as for your rupture, i cannot take sides with either of you; for you are both in the right, each acting after his nature. this is not a case to be influenced by any man's opinion." "then you do think that our ways henceforth lie apart?" said julko; "i and every one of our men thought so." "it would be the simplest solution, and perhaps the most prudent," said hilarion, slowly, "but i do not say it would be the best and most noble ... let me tell you, taras, when i first heard of the work you had set yourself to do, and of the way in which you did it, striving to carry out justice without fail or wrong, as far as mortal man is able, i said within myself, 'thanks be to those up yonder, whatever their names may be--and if the popes are right in maintaining there is but one, well, then, thanks be to him that i have lived to see this day; for truly it is a shame what oppression the inhabitants of the plain have to suffer, what wrongs untold, and no champion, no avenger, has ever stood up for them. but now such a one is given them, in token, as it were, that they are men still, and not mere cattle born for the yoke.' these were my thoughts, taras, and i think so still. but i also knew that your work could not continue. not that you had anything to fear from the whitecoats, for a man who has the mountain-haunts of the welyki lys to fall back upon, and as many helpers as there are sufferers in the land, need fear no soldiers. no, the only danger threatening you would come from your own people, for you judged others by yourself, taking for granted their willingness to share the burden to which you have bowed your own shoulders. it could not end well, and to tell the truth it was a relief to me to see you arrive yesterday, for the news would never have taken me by surprise that you had fallen a victim to your mutinous band. or if they dared not shoot you they might have delivered you up to the magistrates, gaining thereby their own safety and filthy reward besides. yes, these were my fears; and it was chiefly with the hope of protecting you that i insisted on our men remaining true to your banner!" "it may be so," said taras, gloomily. "a week ago i would have taken my oath in contradicting you, but now i have not a word to say. but the question is, what is now to be done?" "what, indeed?" repeated the old man. "i have thought about it a great deal, and especially this last night. i could not sleep for anxiety concerning you, for i love you as though you were a son of mine ... if prudence alone could guide you, i should invite you to remain with us and live in peace henceforth as a shepherd and huntsman in the mountains. i doubt not but that your wife and children would be released on your word of honour, and you could live happily. but it is useless talking, for you will listen--you can listen--only to that inward voice which prompts you to continue this work! so the question remains how to make it possible. if you raise your standard anywhere within these mountains your name and fame will attract numbers of men, there is no doubt about that; and they will be neither better nor worse than those with whom you have lately parted. how, then, will you anticipate such danger as you have just escaped?--do you think you might permit them some enjoyment of life and a share in the booty? "never!" cried taras, passionately. the aged huzul nodded. "i knew it," he said. "it would be wronging your inmost nature, and i could scarcely advise you to attempt it. for in that case the devil, not you, would be ruling the band before a month were out. nothing remains, therefore, but to govern your men in the future as you did in the past. a band will gather round you, but what will be the end? you must be prepared for worse things than these late experiences; you may end any day as i have hinted. or do you think i am mistaken?" "no! but there is no other way." "there is," rejoined the old man; "i have thought it over, and it seems to me the one plan to be adopted. you must not collect another band; at the same time you must carry on your work, which i deem both sacred and necessary. do it in this way: encamp with your faithful adherents in our vicinity, and wait and see what complaints reach you here. if any wrong requires you to redress it, i shall order this son of mine and as many of our men as you may ask for, to place themselves at your disposal. from the moment of their going forth with you, and until they return, your word shall be their law, but at other times they shall be free to live within the mountains as they are wont. that will suit all parties: you will not be short of men when you require them for any work that may be before you; the sufferers in the lowlands will not be crying in vain for their avenger, and my own people need not forego the pleasure of having a hand in punishing the polish nobles, the whitecoats, and all those that would lord it over us by means of the law, whom they hate cordially. this is what i offer to you: straightforward and honest alliance; will you accept it?" "i am grateful to you," said taras, "but it concerns a matter far dearer to me than life. i pray you, therefore, let me consider it, and hear my answer to-morrow." taras gathered his friends about him, and informed them of the proposal. opinions differed. "this will be no lasting alliance, dear master," said jemilian, anxiously. "we know the huzuls! we grant that they are honest and brave, and if for the rest of it they are dissolute rascals, that is no business of ours; but we also know that they have a devilish temper of their own, and are ready to pick quarrels out of nothing." "well, if we know that, they cannot take us unawares," suggested nashko. "we shall have to treat them accordingly, and if the alliance does come to grief sooner or later, we shall be no worse off than we are now. it seems to me there is no reason why we should not accept the offer as matters now stand." taras himself inclined to this opinion, and the result was that on the following day the alliance between him and hilarion was solemnly ratified in accordance with the ancient usage of the tribe, a usage found to this day among mongolian races. they filled two goblets with mare's milk, and each of the two about to pledge his friendship mixed a drop of his blood with the cup he was holding; thereupon they exchanged the vessels, and turning their faces sunward, they rested their left hands upon their heads, while drinking each of the other's life blood. about a week passed quietly. taras repeatedly went to commune with hilarion, and the old man in his turn visited him in his little camp in the dembronia forest. but their people had no intercourse with each other. no news arrived from the lowlands, and no prayer for redress. the peasants believed the band to have dispersed, and the avenger to be either dead or somehow silenced. but there was a poor mother far away in a village of the bukowina who refused to believe that the man was dead, or no longer to be found, of whom alone she could hope that he would be the saviour of her unhappy child. her neighbours laughed at her for setting out to seek him in the mountains; but she went and found him after a five days' anxious search. and the story she had to tell was so heartrending, that both taras and hilarion decided on the spot that her prayer must be granted, although the undertaking was fraught with more than usual danger, and even the bravest of the brave might well shrink back. the victim in this case was a ruthen maiden of rarest beauty, tatiana bodenko by name, who, in the district gaol of czernowitz, was awaiting the emperor's decision concerning the sentence of death which had been passed on her, following upon the verdict found by the local jury in fulfilment of their duty. that fair-haired, gentle creature, with the eyes of a fawn, had indeed committed murder; but it was one of those pitiful cases which the law must condemn, while the heart's sympathy will plead for the culprit. tatiana, who had only just reached her eighteenth year, was the eldest daughter of a poor gamekeeper, and had grown up amid all the hardships of poverty. the mother often was ailing, and the father absent on duty, so that at an early age the responsibility of rearing the younger children upon the humblest of means devolved on her. it was indeed a wonder that the flower of her beauty unfolded in spite of such nipping cares; but she fought hunger bravely and kept out the cold. there is a saying among her people that if god sees reason to punish a mother he gives beauty to the daughter, and that lightning loves to descend on the tallest trees. poor tatiana also had to learn that a girl's beauty may be her ruin. she was modest and sweet as a violet, but she could not help being seen; and all eyes that beheld her seemed spell-bound. but silent worship not being a virtue much known in those parts, she had much ado in keeping at a distance her rude admirers, and would often sigh at the thought that, with all her other burdens, she should have the special trouble of such beauty as well. but the day also was given her when she found that it was not altogether amiss to be lovely; she had made the acquaintance of a young peasant at a neighbouring village, and came to be grateful for her sweet face, since thereby she had gained his love. the young man was honest and fairly well off, her parents gave their blessing gladly, and that saying need never have come true as far as tatiana was concerned had not an evil hour brought mr. eugene de kotinski, the owner of the forest, to her father's cottage. he was not a fast man of the worst type, and his morals hitherto had escaped the world's censure, but no sooner had he seen the girl than he was seized with a frenzied passion for her. day after day he returned, like a moth to the candle, trying to win her with the most dazzling promises, and these failing, with cruel threats. her prayers and tears availed not, and she withdrew into the silence of contempt. suddenly his visits ceased; he had left the neighbourhood, hoping to master his folly. but the promptings of his nature, perhaps of his heart even, were too strong for such honest intentions; he returned to ask the keeper for the hand of his daughter. it was an unheard-of resolve for a man of his standing, making the gossips gape with wonder for miles around; but still more startling was the further news that tatiana had rejected her noble suitor. she did not care to be his wife, and neither her mother's entreaty nor her father's abuse could move her; she remained true to her humble lover. but passion fed on rebuff, and the maddened nobleman now sought to gain his end by a baseness which many another of his kind, no doubt, would have had recourse to much sooner. he exerted his influence, and the young peasant was levied as a recruit and carried off into a distant province. but this villainous trick brought him not a step further, the girl repulsing him more firmly still, whereupon he played his last card, discharging the keeper and evicting him and his family from their humble cottage, though it was in the depth of winter and the poor wife sick and suffering. but if tatiana was the cause of all this trouble, she also was the unconscious means of help. a forest ranger in the neighbourhood, pitying the poor girl, took her father into his service, appointing him even to a better post than the one he had quitted. this man was a german of the name of huber, of known respectability, and a widower beyond the heyday of life. but he succumbed nevertheless, offering the girl his honest love, and was more fortunate than the nobleman had been. tatiana agreed to wean her heart from the young peasant, separated from her by cruel interference, and to secure a home and bread for her family by marrying the kind-hearted ranger. her father's sudden illness only strengthened her resolve; he could die in peace, for the widow and orphans would thus be cared for. the wedding was postponed for the usual time of mourning, and this delay left room for evil slander. the ranger was informed that his wife that was to be had allowed herself to be visited secretly by kotinski's valet. of such baseness had that man's revenge been capable! and he must have paid his servant handsomely, for the wretch added oath upon oath when huber interrogated him concerning the truth of the report. calumny carried the day. he broke with the girl, and once more tatiana, with her mother and the little ones, were homeless. again pity held out a helping hand, a well-to-do widow in their own village receiving them into her house. but even here they were not safe from kotinski's low-minded vengeance. that charitable widow was fined for giving shelter to a girl of bad character. when tatiana heard this she took hold of the one possession they had left, her father's musket, and waylaying kotinski as he rode about his property, she killed him by a shot through the heart; and going to the nearest magistrate she gave herself up on the spot. the case against her was so plain that sentence could be passed almost immediately; according to the law, she had forfeited her young life and must atone for her deed on the gallows. when asked whether she had anything to say for herself, she made answer quietly: "you will not deny, sirs, that he deserved to die; and since my father is dead, and my eldest brother but nine years old, i had to do it myself." but in spite of this open confession, the jury unanimously agreed that the verdict should be accompanied by a strong recommendation to mercy. she was told of it, but all she said was: "mere life is nothing to me. i suppose the emperor would not let me go back to work for my mother and the children; so i do not care whether i die now, or some years hence in prison." and her whole bearing showed that she spoke as she felt. she returned to her cell, awaiting the imperial decision without a shade of disquietude. she considered she had done her duty--an evil duty, to be sure--and must take the consequences. her fortitude was not the outcome of heroism, but simply that submissive yielding to the inevitable which is so strong a characteristic of slavonic races; but in a case like this, and surrounded with the halo of so tragic a fate, it reflects the lustre of the higher virtue. but while the girl thus awaited her fate calmly, taras was coming to avert it. the hill country between the rivers czeremosz, pruth, and sereth was almost bare of troops, and he knew the neighbourhood sufficiently; nevertheless this enterprise was the most daring of his ventures. there was the general with his concentrated forces not far to the left of him, and he was moving towards a city of some ten thousand inhabitants--not to mention its garrison, the strength of which he had not been able to learn. true, he had sent on nashko and the royal eagle to procure information and to reconnoitre the situation of the prison; but these spies of his could scarcely rejoin him before he, at the head of his band, would have arrived in the vicinity of the town; and the least suspicion of their approach would bring almost certain failure, for the general could effectively cut off their retreat. no precaution, therefore, was omitted to avert discovery. they carried food for themselves and provender for their horses, in order to obviate intercourse with the peasantry. they rode by night only, and in small detachments, taking their rest and hiding in lonely places from the early dawn till late in the evening. they avoided villages--and solitary homesteads even--choosing the rocky woodland paths as much as possible, where the horses' hoofs left no traces behind them. still, a hundred horsemen could not traverse the country as quietly as mice; and, apart from all this, everything depended on whether the attack could be carried out successfully within the space of an hour: if there were anything like a fight, the band was lost. most of taras's feats hitherto had been ventures for life or death; but the chances of utter failure never seemed more certain than this time. the huzuls hardly realised it, or if they did, their great temerity despised the danger; but all the deeper was taras's sense of responsibility. with the first streak of dawn on the fourth day they reached that uninhabited forest region, rent with numberless ravines, between the village of dracinetz and the swabian settlement of rosch, which forms the western suburb of czernowitz. in the midst of this wild waste rises broadly and grandly the cecina mountain, the brow of which, in times gone by, bore the ramparts and bastions of a considerable stronghold. in one of the hollows on the western slope, between rocks and brushwood, the band was halting; to this spot the spies had been ordered to return. they arrived in the course of the day, but their news was even less hopeful than taras had anticipated. the prison itself was favourably situated in the outskirts of the city, but within a stone's throw of barracks containing some five hundred soldiers. but taras nevertheless resolved to venture, and the attack was not only successful, but was achieved without the loss even of a single life. the enterprise, which bordered on the impossible, was carried victoriously through by a series of happy chances. a storm had broken at sunset, the rain descending in torrents for hours through the night. under cover of this tempest the band succeeded in gaining the level between the gaol and the catholic cemetery, without letting the sentry in the barracks close by, or any one else, become aware of their arrival. taras dismounted with about half his men, cautiously advancing to the entrance of the prison. the sentinel, most fortunately, had retired from the pelting rain, and was comfortably asleep, well wrapped up in his overcoat. he was gagged and pinioned before he had half opened his drowsy eyes. and now taras rang the bell, but there was no sound in response--the wind only howled and the rain splashed wildly. after the bell had been rung a second time, approaching footsteps were heard and keys rattled, a sleepy voice growling, "what is it at this time of night?" "government inspection!" returned taras, peremptorily. at which the gates flew open, revealing an old turnkey with a lantern in his hand. he staggered back horrified. "lead the way to tatiana bodenko," said taras, lifting his pistol. "you are a dead man if you raise the alarm; but you have nothing to fear if you show me to her cell. i am the avenger, and you may trust my word." the man grew livid, but did as he was told, tremblingly unlocking the cell of the condemned maiden. taras took hold of the lantern and entered, leaving the warder to his men. tatiana was fast asleep, her rest being as peaceful as though she had sought it in her father's cottage, the sweet earnings of toil. a gleam of light fell on her face, and a tall man, grey-haired and wan, was bending over her. she woke with a start, and gave a little scream, but he laid his hand on her mouth, saying, "rise; i am the avenger. i have come to take you back to your mother; it is she who has sent me. be quick!" he turned away, and she rose as in a dream; but her limbs shook and she was scarcely able to put on her clothes. taras knew that not a moment was to be lost; divesting himself of his "bunda," he wrapped it about her and lifting the quivering figure in his strong arms, he carried her away through the night and the rain, followed by his men, to where the others were waiting. he placed her upon a horse, tying her fast in the saddle and joining the bridle to that of his own steed. and the band dashed away quick as lightning through the storm-tossed night. but success was scarcely yet complete. unless the authorities at czernowitz had utterly lost their heads they would send a courier to inform the general of what had happened; and if the latter moved forward to the banks of the czeremosz, quite at his leisure, he could cut off the band's retreat to the mountains. taras was fully aware of this and resolved to make a dash for it straight across country, taxing his men and horses to their utmost. and it was well he did so, for on the evening of the second day he fell in with the vanguard of the approaching troops, a handful of hussars. but these, not strong enough to venture upon an attack, turned tail after having exchanged some shots with the bandits. only one of their bullets hit, wounding one of taras's truest helpers, and his own inmost heart as well; his oldest, most faithful companion, jemilian, fell bleeding by his side. they lifted him up, taking him away with them back to the mountains. the old man's iron nature fought for life, but taras knew that the sore parting was at hand.... words utterly fail to describe the excitement which filled the land when that night's exploit became known. the consternation was all the greater because men had clung to the belief that taras's day was over and no further attack need be feared. it had been asserted he had laid hands on himself in despair; others declaring his band had mutinied and that he had fled for his life to hungary. but here he was, bold as ever, daring unheard-of things, and heading a swarm of outlaws which the terrified hussars who had fallen in with them estimated at five hundred at least. helplessly the authorities met at the board, couriers flying from czernowitz to colomea, and thence to lemberg, and away to vienna. the poor district governor, who had begun to breathe more freely, hung his head again in utter dismay. "would to god," he cried bitterly, "our superiors at lemberg had turned their venom against this taras, instead of spluttering it over us. but as for those at vienna----" he heaved a sigh and sat mute. the poor old man was so deeply troubled that even his favourite resort of growling began to fail him. but "those at vienna," meanwhile, did not quite deserve his disgust. before a week was over he could once more call the board to inform them that a special writ had arrived from the provincial governor, and his eyes shone with a curious moisture. "gentlemen," he said, "after all it was not in vain that we stood up for what is fair and right. our superiors at lemberg have just informed me that by express orders from vienna anusia barabola and her children are to be set at liberty at once, and that, considering the very special circumstances of the case, she is to be indemnified for any loss she may have suffered through having been detained here. this is fine, i say! but, on the other hand," he added, with a queer smile, "we seem to be told that, in part at least, our views are open to amendment. listen to this," and he read as follows:--"'it appears to be thought highly desirable at vienna that an effort should be made to bring taras to his senses by personal remonstrance, it being left to the district authorities to name fit persons for this office. these, in company with the outlaw's wife if possible, are to repair to taras's camp, and to inform him that the imperial government, having learned that he, formerly a well-behaved and even exemplary subject, had been driven to his desperate crimes by an alleged wrong done to his parish in the matter of a law-suit against the lord of the manor concerning a field of theirs--that government, as in duty bound to rectify any miscarriage of justice, had ordered a careful revision of the judicial records referring to that suit; and although there seemed nothing irregular in the judgment of the local court, yet nevertheless it appeared that certain pleas might be urged in taras's favour, for which reason it was deemed well to annul that judgment by an act of imperial prerogative, and to order the case to be tried over again; that the district governor was instructed to repeat the process of collecting evidence, and especially to inquire into the possibility of perjury in the former trial--these matters to be taken in hand with all possible speed; and taras to be given to understand that the case was to be re-tried for the sake of justice itself, and not with the mere idea of pacifying him. at the same time he shall be informed of this decision, in the hope that it may enable him to see his way all the more plainly to turn from his present evil life, and by an unconditional surrender to make amends to the law he has so grievously wronged. and though it would not be just to hold out positive impunity to him and his accomplices, he is to be assured that his and their lives shall in that case be spared. the district governor is herewith requested to take note of these instructions, and to act accordingly.'" herr von bauer looked up from his paper, and, allowing the excitement of the board to subside, he added presently, "and now, gentlemen, who is to be sent--to taras, i mean; for i shall myself repair to zulawce to re-examine the witnesses." "if i might be allowed to suggest," said wroblewski, the secretary, looking wicked, "surely we could find no better delegates than our friend kapronski, who sooner or later will have to show his face here, and the amiable hero of all this business himself, mr. wenceslas hajek, who, i am told, intends this very week to enter the blessed estate of matrimony." "none of your chaff," broke in the governor, "we are not gathered here for joking; moreover, i want to be off to inform the poor woman of her liberty. i'll see her myself! so, to come to business, suppose we appoint dr. starkowski, who not only knows taras, but always had a good word for him. and i should say he could not have a better companion than the parish-priest of zulawce, father leo woronczuk. let these two go and come to an understanding with taras." the board unanimously agreed to this proposal, and the governor was soon free to repair to the city gaol, his heart brimming with the good news for anusia. chapter xix. for the right--in the wrong. it was a lovely morning, fair and still, with the glow of autumn upon the mountains. more golden seemed the light and bluer the heavens than summer had known them. though but early as yet in september, the high peaks of the czernahora were white with the first sparkling snow; but the air was mellow in the valley, and there being no foliage which by its turning colour might have told of the waning year, but only firs and pines of sombre green, there was nothing to remind one of nature's gentle decay, save the peculiar clearness of the atmosphere, and at times a whirring sound high overhead--the first flights of birds going south. a deep silence lay brooding over the wild splendour of the valley; not a sign of life anywhere. the czeremosz even, ever restless and rushing as described in song, had grown calm with the hot days of summer, and was flowing quite steadily along. a strange shrill call suddenly rent the air. any one who had never heard it would naturally have looked up to see whether a hawk or falcon might be discerned in the shining blue; but the sound was followed by others, falling on the ear more gently, now at intervals, now in succession, a monotonous mournful melody, rising and sinking, and ebbing away through the stilly landscape. and even the unaccustomed listener would have found out by this time that it was some shepherd's pipe sending its voice through the valley. but ere long, the sorrowful strain was broken into by that same shrill call, only it now came from a different direction, another pipe silencing the first one, as it were, and carrying on its dolorous song; which again in its turn was taken up by another, more distant, starting with that peculiar note, and continuing the strain. thus the plaintive melody went sobbing along from pasture to pasture, and those that heard it crossed themselves, murmuring a prayer, and then hastened to their homestead to put on suitable attire, that they might assist in burying the dead. for such is the way within the mountains: if a man dies in any of the valleys the event is made known by a blast of the horn--the death-horn they call it--and its voice is hollow and dismal, as befits the first outburst of mourning; and later on the subdued dirge of the shepherd's pipe invites the neighbours to render the last kindly tribute to him who is gone. it was from the largest settlement that the call had come, and the far-off listeners had been seized with apprehension, lest the death-horn should announce the passing away of the patriarch of the valley, hilarion the just; but by the time the pipes were heard it was known that it was for the burial of a stranger only, who in a sheltering homestead of clan rosenko had breathed his last. old jemilian was gone. for more than a week he had lain wrestling with death, fighting his last battle bravely, with manly courage and resignation. hilarion, not merely the ruler and guide of his people, but their adviser in sickness as well, had vainly endeavoured to succour the sinking life with healing herbs, and to tend the wound with practised skill. in vain, too, had been the almost passionate care of the maiden tatiana, who watched by the sick man day and night. the poor girl, feeling shy at first, and disconsolate among strangers, had been glad of the opportunity of showing her gratitude to the hetman by soothing the sick-bed of his servant and friend. jemilian himself was almost impatient of so much solicitude. "i know that i am going to die," he kept repeating; "and it is well. one duty only i have yet to perform, and the good god will give me the needful strength before i go." what this one thing might be which yet bound him to life he was in no hurry to disclose, not even to taras, whose devotion and loving care for the wounded man were only equalled by tatiana's. once only, when the hetman had to leave him for a couple of days at the call of duty, the well-kept secret seemed about to be told. for taras had learned that green giorgi, reinforced by several of his own late followers, had dared to resume his predatory life, and he at once resolved to bring those scoundrels to justice, jemilian himself urging him not to delay. and when the fearless band was mounted, and taras once more returned to the sick-bed to take leave of his friend, the wounded man suddenly grew restless, looking doubtfully at the girl. tatiana understood, and left the two by themselves. "dear master," said jemilian; "you may be absent for several days, and i may be gone when you return; yet i must not die without telling you one thing!" "i shall find you alive, and, please god, getting better," said taras, cheeringly. "but if it is any comfort to you----" the old man shook his head. "no," he said, falteringly; "i think i will wait till death tightens its hold; for if, after all, i should recover by some miracle it were terrible ... terrible ... to have told you! no! go your way, dear master, and god bless you.... i will wait!" and as taras rode along at the head of his followers he kept thinking of these strange words; but explanation there seemed none, and his attention presently was otherwise engaged. the enterprise was successful as usual, if not fully, for green giorgi himself was not among the hajdamaks he waylaid and caught, and taras had to be satisfied with punishing his accomplices. the two most guilty he ordered to be shot, while the rest were disarmed and shorn of their hair. returning to the settlement, he found his faithful old servant alive still, but his last hour evidently at hand. but not yet did he refer to his secret, and taras cared not to inquire. not till the last sands were running through did the old man open his lips. it was near midnight; he had been lying still with closed lids, but, suddenly endeavouring to raise himself, he gazed anxiously at the pale, beautiful girl who sat by his side. "tatiana," he whispered; "for god's sake, where is my master? call him--i am going!" she hastened away, and in another minute taras was by the side of the dying man, taking hold of his hand tenderly. and jemilian having satisfied himself that they were alone, began with laboured breath:-- "i have to make a confession to you, and to ask a promise. hear me--a dying man cannot use many words. do you know what, after all, will be your end?" taras kept silence, a stony look stealing over his face. "the gallows!" whispered the old man, and shuddered. "it is an evil death, taras--a horror to yourself and a lasting disgrace for your children! and therefore i have been resolved fully and firmly to save you from such a death, my poor, dear, dear master! i have sworn to myself, if ever we should fall into their hands, and there were no hope of escape, to shoot you myself with these hands of mine." "jemilian!" "do not hate me; for never man loved you more truly than i did when binding myself with that oath. you know what it would have cost me to do the deed! but you are the noblest soul, the best and most lovable man that ever lived, and such a one shall not be tortured to death on the gallows...." taras, quite unable to speak, had fallen on his knees by the side of the bed, and was hiding his face in the rough bearskin which covered the limbs of the dying man. jemilian continued: "the almighty is calling me hence, and i am not able to show you that love! but i cannot die in peace without endeavouring to save you from so horrible a death, for your own sake and for the sake of your little ones whom i have helped you to rear. promise me, therefore, taras--i entreat you promise me--that you will do yourself what i had intended." "i cannot," groaned the unhappy man. "why not? poor, dear master! ah! i know how you dread the gallows!--not the dying, but the rope! the mere thought of it fills you with horror and loathing unspeakable. i know it, for who knows you better than i do? for this and no other reason you have granted the bullet to even the blackest rascal we ever brought to his doom. and to yourself you refuse it--why should you?" "because it were cowardly and a sin against god!" "nay, surely the almighty will judge your soul with the same justice and mercy whether you appear before his judgment-seat a month sooner or later. i cannot doubt that!... and cowardly? i do not understand you...." "yes, cowardly!" cried taras, passionately, and rising to his feet. "it is my appointed lot to be a guardian of the right, and to strive to carry out the will of god concerning it, as far as may be possible to mortal man. i must not, i dare not renounce that sacred duty. if ever i fall into their hands i shall hope and endeavour to make good my escape, and continue fulfilling the duty which is laid upon me. yes! in the very sight of the gallows i shall cling to the hope that the judge above will set me free, though it be by a miracle, to carry on his work." the dying man was silent; he fell back on his bed and closed his eyes. taras bent over him. and once again those faithful eyes opened on him fully, and the old servant whispered, scarcely audibly: "farewell, dear master, and may god in his mercy be with you in death." a deep breath, and jemilian was gone. they laid him out in the morning after their way in the mountains, with a crucifix at his head, but with a jug of water at his right hand, bread and salt at his left, and the skin of a newly-killed kid at his feet, "for the other gods." and after that they buried him beneath a mighty fir-tree in the dembronia forest. no priest prayed over the dead, the aged hilarion only whispered his ancient spells handed down from generation to generation, believed in by all, and understood by none. they filled up the grave, discharging their muskets over it, and finally cut a cross into the bark of the tree, not forgetting some mysterious signs by the side of it "for the other gods." then they returned to the settlement to partake of the funeral meal. but as they entered the enclosure taras perceived a youth standing by the hedge, at the sight of whom he gave a stifled cry. it was young halko, the farm-servant, who, with glistening eyes, now burst upon his master and kissed his hand. "thanks be to god," he cried, struggling with tears, "we shall all be happy again! the mistress and the children have been set free! they are waiting to see you at the hamlet of magura, at the lower end of the valley." "my horse!" cried taras, turning to his men. "and why have they not come all the way?" "because of the two gentlemen. it was they who refused to come further, lest you might think they wished to discover your encampment--our little father leo, i mean, and that old lawyer of colomea who was your counsel in the suit." "and what have they come for?" "to bring you good news, master--really. the men of zulawce are to have their field back, and the wrong is to be righted." taras grew white and then crimson, and again the glow yielded to a deadly pallor. but he asked no farther question, and, mounting his horse, he raced down the valley at a pace which left halko fax behind him. the meeting between husband and wife was deeply affecting. taras flew towards her without giving a glance at the men, and anusia, with a wild cry, buried her face on his shoulder. and they stood clasping each other speechless, only their tears kept flowing. at length taras freed himself from her arms, and turned to his children, little tereska beginning to cry with fear when that strange-looking grey-haired man caught her up, kissing her wildly; the little girl did not recognise her father, nor did the younger boy. wassilj only clung to him sobbing, "oh, father dear, you look so ill--so ill!" taras made no answer, he took the boy on his knee, fondling him and closing his month with kisses when he would have spoken. it was as though he feared human words might destroy the blessedness of this meeting. and almost anxiously he avoided the eye of either the pope or the lawyer; still less could he have offered them greeting. he kept lifting, now this child to his knee, now that, pressing them to his heart closely; and drawing his wife down beside him, he passed his hand tenderly over her grief-worn face. "do not speak," he whispered, and she nodded, hiding her head in his bosom, to weep her sorrows away. father leo and dr. starkowski had withdrawn modestly, watching that most touching scene from a distance only. "there is every hope of his yielding," whispered the lawyer. "god grant that it be so," returned the priest, less confident, evidently. half-an-hour might have passed, when taras roused himself, once more clasping his wife and kissing the children with a passionate fervour, as though separation once more were at hand. and now he went up to the men, expressing his pleasure at seeing them, but his voice trembled as with apprehension, "what is it you have to tell me?" he inquired. "we are sent hither by order of the government," said starkowski, producing a written document and explaining its contents. it was a paper drawn up by the district governor, instructing the present bearers, and containing, in full, the resolutions come to in vienna. "to-morrow," concluded the lawyer, "the governor himself will repair to zulawce to re-examine the witnesses in person. and, since he is fully determined to get at the bottom of the matter, there is no doubt but that the contested field will be adjudged to the parish, and that the perjured witnesses, together with the scoundrel who led them on, will meet with their fullest deserts. and this is resolved upon, as you understand from this communication, for the sake of justice itself, and quite irrespective of what decision you may arrive at concerning yourself. but we ask you, whether there be any just reason left why you should refuse submission to the emperor, the guardian of justice in this realm." taras drew one deep breath after another, but answer there was none. "husband!" cried anusia, wildly, "tell them you are satisfied." "do not press him," interposed father leo. "let us consider the matter calmly.... taras," he continued, "i do not want to urge upon you the claims of ordinary wisdom, which might well prevail with you, in order to preserve your life, not only from ignominious death, but for your children's sake and their future welfare; for i know that no such consideration has influenced your actions hitherto and that you follow the voice of your conscience only; but this i will ask of you--does your conscience permit you to continue striving in your own might, and with fearful means, to bring about a result which will be attained peaceably by the faithful endeavour of those who are called to this duty?" "this is the very point," said taras, slowly. "i do not know that these endeavours are faithful! look back on all this sad experience. grievous crimes have been perpetrated at zolawce--robbery and perjury. i appealed to the law, considering no personal sacrifice too great to obtain relief; but every effort proved vain. the robber was left to enjoy the benefit of his deed, and the perjurers could mock honest men! three years nearly have passed since this happened, and the matter was not likely ever to be taken up again. now you tell me that the men of the law nave suddenly remembered their duty. why so? what is the reason that, all of a sudden, they feel called upon to try the case over again?--why are they willing to do so? because these months past they have stood in terror of me, and i have left them no peace!... i ask you, doctor, as an honest man--would the case ever have come to be tried over again if i had followed your advice, and lived down my disappointment as a peaceable subject on my farm?" "yes, possibly," returned the lawyer. "i mean it is just as likely that some other chance had made it advisable----" "that will do!" interrupted taras. "by your own showing, then, it was a mere matter of chance, and you were brought to seek for the right in the present instance only because of my forcing you on to it through dire warfare. but for this, i repeat, you would not have lifted a finger to right the wrong! this is an evil state of things, and must not continue, for it opposes the beautiful will of god. the case does but lend force, then, to my belief that a judge and avenger is grievously needed in this country. this, however, is not the only, not even the chief, thing i must strive to rectify. i found greater wrongs left unpunished elsewhere; and, knowing that the men of zulawce would not miss their opportunity of getting back their field for themselves, there was no need for me to see to it. i soon perceived there were other evil-doers in the land, not greater scoundrels, perhaps, than hajek, but with greater scope for wrong; and therefore i judged well to punish and remove them first, and to bring him to his doom when i can do so without too great an effort or loss of life. but to come to those other cases, or to take one only as an example--who, i ask you, would ever have thought of ridding the people of kossowince from that vilest of oppressors if i had not done it? and how, then, can i be sure that such things shall not happen again--not once, but in scores of cases? can you pledge yourselves that such wrongs shall never again be possible? will you yourselves be the surety that in future no man shall be oppressed in this country, or his cry for redress die away unheard?" "this is more than we can promise," said the lawyer; "but----" "it needs no further word! i maintain that a judge and avenger was required in this country, and will still be required; and therefore----" "taras!" cried anusia, with a shriek of despair, and clutching his arm, "forbear! speak not lightly; it concerns our deepest welfare--it is a question of life or death!" once more the pope interfered. "hear me, taras," he said, speaking with a forced calm; "i do not condemn your answer so far, for it is no more than must be expected from your nature and your way of thinking, such as i have known them these years. and as a tree could not change the colour of its leaves at any man's bidding, you also could not have spoken differently, for your words are the outcome of your very being. but i should have to condemn you if you were to disregard that which i will point out to you now, and which no doubt has escaped you hitherto. listen to me! you are grievously mistaken if you imagine that the law in itself is to blame, or that the emperor wishes his judges to close an eye when poor peasants are ill-used by rich and powerful oppressors. the law is all right, and those that are appointed to dispense it are required to take a solemn oath that in all cases they will be just and impartial. and again, you are mistaken if you think that our magistrates sometimes pass an unjust verdict wilfully." taras broke in with a passionate exclamation, but the pope stopped him. "i know what you are going to say," he cried; "you want to remind me that your wife and your children were arrested. i shall come to that presently. let me urge upon you that, taking all in all, the intentions of the magistrates are good, and the laws are good. just call to mind your experience as a whole, and tell me, speaking honestly, as before the face of almighty god, is it the just or the unjust verdicts which are the exception?" "i have considered this point often," said taras, quietly; "it is true that i have heard of far more just than unjust sentences. but what of it, what _can_ it prove?" "just this," rejoined father leo, warmly, "that an occasional miscarriage of justice is not to be explained by imputing it to the ill-will of magistrates. what else, then, is to blame? you inquire. i remind you that for one thing there is that unfortunate survival of feudal times, whereby the lord of the manor is vested with judicial authority over the peasantry on his lands; this is fully acknowledged to be an evil, not only by you and me, but by government as well. but it cannot be done away with all of a sudden, nor by violent means, for the landlords exercise their jurisdiction in virtue of imperial grants acquired by purchase in times long gone by. it is this deplorable state of things which is to blame chiefly, if oppression and injustice go more easily unpunished in this country than elsewhere. but do not imagine, taras, that we are the only people who ever suffer wrong; nay, that beautiful ladder which has appeared to you in happy vision is not anywhere on earth so firmly planted, so utterly to be relied on, as you dreamed. for the guardianship of justice in this world is not given to god's angels, but to poor sinful men like you and me. god alone is all-knowing, all-wise, and all-just, and it is man's inheritance to judge of things not as they are, but rather as they appear. i do not deny that there may be unjust judges here and there; yet it is not this fact which is to blame for the continuance of wrong upon earth, but the imperfection of human nature. for everything human falls short of its highest aim, and perfect justice is with god alone; if, therefore, you are bent on continuing your warfare, it will not be against the emperor and his magistrates, nor against the wrong upon earth, but against human nature and human failings." taras had bent his eyes on the ground thoughtfully; but after a pause of silence he shook his head. "i have followed you," he said, "and i grant the truth of your points. but of one thing, the most important of all, you cannot convince me. i will never believe that a man endowed with good sense, provided he is honest, could pass an unjust sentence as it were against himself. and therefore i must continue in my sacred undertaking, for it is nothing to the point _why_ any wrong goes unpunished--whether the human weakness, or stupidity, or the ill-will of the magistrates be at fault. it is enough for me that the wrong is there and requires to be rooted out." "this is sheer infatuation!" cried father leo. "and have you ever considered which is the greater wrong, either as regards your fellows or the will of god--whether some peasant is taxed with more labour than he owes, or whether you fill all the land with horror and bloodshed? nay, has not a harvest of wrong sprung from your very work? have we not heard of villages rising against their lords, refusing their just claims, and threatening their lives? have you forgotten what happened at hankowce? and what at zulawce? does not the blood of many a soldier--nay, of your own men--cry for vengeance unto god?" "i am not afraid to be answerable for this," responded taras, "for the right is more to be valued than any man's life. both my conscience and my reason tell me that, for the world itself is founded on justice." "the world founded on justice!" reiterated the pope, hotly. "and how do you know, then, that your judgment is always just? are not you a man like others, and liable to err?" "i follow conscience, and rely on the grace of god, which will be with him who seeks what is right. you know my deeds; do you accuse me of any injustice?" "what of that poor man hohenau!" "he was one of those magistrates who used the power entrusted to them for a deed of violence, for fear of earthly punishment." "taras," cried the pope, with a vain attempt to speak calmly, "there is no excuse for you, or rather your only excuse is this, that you did not know the true state of things----" "i knew all about it," rejoined taras. "i was aware that the board of colomea had prayed to be dismissed the service rather than be obliged to do this deed. but what of it? you will tell me that their request was refused by their superiors, and that their oath required them to stay at their post and obey the higher authority. but i tell you no oath binds a man to iniquity--and therefore the judgment i carried out was a just one!" starkowski interposed: "it is quite useless to reason with you on these points, or to expect you to retract anything of the past. but tell me, what of the future? do you really consider yourself infallible? do you imagine that you alone will never be in danger of passing sentence unjustly? this is awful presumption!" "no," said taras, solemnly; "it is an assurance resting on the grace of god. he sees and probes my heart. he knows that i have undertaken this warfare for his sake alone, and he will not let me fall so grievously. but even apart from this, i do think that an honest, right-minded, and judicious man will always be able to distinguish right from wrong." "then you really believe that an unjust sentence on your part is utterly impossible? well, let this pass; but supposing the hour ever came that would convince you that you also, in striving after justice, had done wrong--what then?" "it were the most fearful hour of my life," said taras, hoarsely; "and i do not speak lightly!... i have never considered what in that case i should have to do, but it is quite plain. if god ever suffers me to commit the wrong, then i shall acknowledge that he never was with me, that the blessed ladder joining earth to heaven is a dream, and i shall no longer call myself an avenger, but an evildoer who has deserved every punishment he has ever inflicted on others. if ever such terrible conviction does come to me, be very sure i shall give myself up to you on the spot. till then, i have nothing to do with you. take back this message to those that sent you." deep silence followed. "is this your final decision?" these words fell on the stillness with stifled sobs. it was anusia--white as death, bending forward, hollow-eyed and shaking in every limb--who now faced her husband. the two men were dismayed, and even taras staggered. "anusia," he began, "you know----" "nothing else; just this one answer!" she looked straight into his eyes, and continued with that same ghastly voice: "but let me tell you first what is at stake.... hitherto i have clung to this one conviction, that all your deeds were done in obedience to the dictates of your conscience; and because i have known you as a man more noble and more just than your neighbours, i would not permit myself to doubt for one moment that you continued noble and acted justly even where i could not see it. i took it upon myself to be both father and mother to our children, to rule the farm in your absence--the loss to my heart i could not make good. but in my sorest hours i strove to encourage myself. 'hold up thy head proudly,' a voice within me kept crying, 'for thou art wife to one who is not like common men! thou hast loved him for it, and prided thyself on it, bear thou the deep sorrow which comes because of it. he never was like other men; he cannot be now. he has set his great heart on winning back that field for his people, for it is theirs by right, and since he was foiled when he sought to gain his end by lawful means he is now trying what force will do. since justice is on his side, he will succeed in the end, and will come back to you, and happiness once more will return.' this was my one hope through it all, and i believed in its fulfilment and fed upon the longed-for blessing. when the governor came to tell me what message had been received from vienna, ah! then indeed, my heart beat with the rapture of its gratitude! i learned at the same time, however, that they could not let you go unpunished, and that you might very likely have to atone for your deeds with a long imprisonment; but even this my love and pride were ready to bear. 'he will not be a whit less great and noble,' i said to myself, 'and prison cannot degrade him! and far better to know him in prison, and making up for these months, than to think of him continuing this fearful life.' for, taras, no human tongue can tell what it means to be the avenger's wife! god knows, and i do!... and will you now crown it all--will you heap up a burden of grief and shame beneath which i and the children must break down entirely?" "anusia!" "be silent, and listen! i have borne the utmost; now let me speak. i say this, that unless you return, now that the wrong is about to be made good, and the field given back to its rightful owners, you will cease to be believed in as noble and good, not only by me, but by all upright and sensible men; you will no longer be a champion of the oppressed and an avenger for conscience' sake, but a mere common assassin, a bloodthirsty----" "anusia, wife, for god's sake----" "do not call me wife! i will not acknowledge an assassin as my husband, nor let the children call him father. now tell me--are you willing to follow these gentlemen or not?" "i cannot!" "then go your ways ... but in your dying hour you shall call me in vain ... i will not----" she could not finish the terrible sentence, breaking down, not in unconsciousness, but overpowered with the boundless passion of her resentment.... the unhappy man hid his face in his hands, and then slowly, with a faltering step, but not again lifting his eye to her he was leaving, he returned to his horse, and, mounting it with evident effort, he rode swiftly away towards the black water, nor once looked behind him. chapter xx. the banner soiled. the following day the district governor arrived at zulawce. he had been careful to let the villagers have full assurance beforehand that he was coming with truly peaceful intentions, but he considered it prudent, nevertheless, to provide himself with a considerable escort of hussars, since besides sifting the evidence concerning the field, there was that republic to be overthrown, and a new mandatar to be introduced. for count george borecki had succeeded at last in finding a man who expressed himself willing to unravel the complication left by wenceslas hajek, this man of enterprise fortunately being an old acquaintance of the villagers, mr. severin gonta; and there was some hope of his succeeding, for he was thoroughly acquainted with local affairs and enjoyed the good will of the peasantry besides. but herr von bauer was not so certain that hostility was entirely out of the question, and apart from the consciousness of doing his duty in a matter of justice; he very gladly relied on the sharp sabres of his body-guard as well. but his apprehensions happily proved unfounded. on his reaching the wooden bridge leading over the pruth, the whole parish, to be sure, was there awaiting him, but peacefully inclined, thanks to simeon pomenki, who had addressed the republicans on the previous evening to this effect: "there now, you see, we get all we ever could ask for--the field which is ours, our own old mandatar, who is no fiend, and exemption from punishment for what is passed. if we are not satisfied with this, but insist on carrying on the conflict, we had better apply for admission into the madhouse at once. but i am no fool, and prefer the chances offered me of continuing on my farm." this harangue did not miss its aim, and simeon was able to receive the district governor in the name of the community respectfully. herr von bauer was ready to be conciliated, and replied with his customary bluntness: "it is a satisfaction to see you, rascals though you are; but you are poor wretches after all, and have had to suffer for the life you have led us, so we'll forget all about it and be friends again. as for you, old simeon, i'll not even inquire into your private feelings as king of zulawce. you'll hand me over that crown now, and if ever you men here are going to play the fools again, send us word first, and we'll say be hanged to all the parish. so that is settled; and in the meantime we shall expect better things of you." after which impressive statement old gonta addressed the peasantry on behalf of the count, and if he was less outspoken, his kindliness was quite as apparent, winning over the villagers entirely when he assured them in conclusion that he was prepared himself to plead their rights concerning that field, and that he felt sure of count george's readiness to withdraw any claims that might have been urged in his name, without waiting to see what decision the authorities might form. in these circumstances it was easy for the district governor to arrive at the truth concerning the field, though he experienced some difficulty in eliciting a confession from the perjured witnesses. the experienced magistrate perceived well enough--and was ready to make allowance for it--that these persons would think it hard to be excluded from the general pardon; but he went through with his duty bravely, assuring them that, although the instigators could expect little mercy, those who had been led on by them might hope to be treated leniently, if a point of the law could possibly be stretched in their favour. and he succeeded at last in making out several cases in which the mandatar, either personally or by means of his under-steward, boleslaw, had corrupted the witnesses and led them on to perjury. he had the true charity not to inquire more closely than was absolutely necessary, and allowed the crest-fallen sinners to return to their homes, the judge going bail on their behalf. his object accomplished, he returned to zablotow, where dr. starkowski and father leo were to await him with the results of their mission. he was fully prepared to hear of their failure, and not surprised, therefore, at their tale. "we shall have to proceed now against the misguided man," he said, quietly. "let him do his worst. we can breathe more freely now than we could before, for our own conscience is at ease! to be sure, all we can do for the present is to protect the lowlands against him as best we can; an expedition to the black water, in the hope of catching him, would be sheer madness, for the whole of the carpathians would rise in an uproar. i know those huzuls! but he will be brought to book somehow. it is well he believes that god is with those who seek what is right--he will find it so sooner or later!" september verged upon october, and though almost daily expected, no farther violence transpired, the reason being that no complaints had reached taras which appeared to him worthy of redress. but before the month was out he received information which roused him to action. a certain nobleman, baron stephen zukowski, of borsowka, in the district of czortkow, was accused to him by karol wygoda, the piper, who had continued with taras, and in whom the latter rested full confidence. "your work is but half done, hetman," the man exclaimed, "while that fiend is allowed to suck the very blood from the people of borsowka!" and he enumerated a whole string of iniquities to be brought home to that nobleman. taras was indignant. "we will put an end to his doings!" he cried. "but how do you come to know of them?" "i knew the wretch long ago; for though my own home is miles away from that village, i was in service there in my younger days, and could see for myself--indeed, his unblushing crimes were done in the light of day. not a head of cattle was safe from his cupidity, and not a girl from his wickedness--but these are old tales, it is well nigh twenty years ago, and i believed the old sinner had gone to his account long since. but he is alive still, and carrying on his evil doings, as i learned yesterday, quite accidentally. you had given me leave, as you know, to join the merrymaking at zabie and pick up a few coppers with my bagpipe. i met an old fiddler there who had just come from borsowka. ah, hetman, the iniquity done in that place keeps crying to heaven--it is worse than any we ever heard of elsewhere! 'why don't the injured people call upon taras to help them?' i inquired of the fiddler. 'indeed,' he said, 'it is strange they do not think of it, but the horrors of their existence are enough to kill even hope in their hearts.' so the fiddler said, and i can well believe it; at the same time, i agree it is well to be careful. and i propose that you should send me to borsowka to make inquiry. i know some folk there whom i can trust, and they will tell me the truth no doubt. i feel i must do this for conscience' sake, and out of compassion for those villagers among whom i lived." "this is good of you," said taras. "go, and the almighty speed you. it is a solace to my soul that some few honest men will cleave to me, knowing the sacredness of our common duty." these words rose from the depth of his heart! and indeed, he needed some comfort--something to cling to--lest he should break down and fail. he had informed his men on returning from the hamlet of magura what answer he had given to the messengers of the board; but what a wrench it had been to his dearest affections, and the sore cost of his final parting from wife and child, they never learned from his lips. as compared with this deepest sorrow, no other trouble befalling the unhappy man might be thought to affect him, yet his burden seemed to be added to daily; and in spite of the honest desire to avoid all contention, in spite of the real friendship hilarion entertained for him, there were constant bickerings between his own followers and the clansmen. it was nashko especially, who, on account of his faith, appeared to be a convenient butt for the mockery of the huzuls. now taras could not allow this to continue, if only for this reason: the jew had acquitted himself splendidly, fully justifying the confidence reported in him, and would, in any future enterprise, naturally have to retain his position of a leader; so the huzuls must be taught to respect him, and taras begged hilarion to explain to his people that a man should not be derided for worshipping the almighty in one way and not in another. the patriarch fixed his eyes on the ground, keeping a long silence, as was his wont before answering, and when he began to speak he appeared to have forgotten the matter in hand. "taras," he said, "have you ever ridden an ox?" and receiving a rather surprised "no" in return, he said, with a half smile, "well, neither have i, and i don't know that any one else ever did. but why not? might there not be found an animal among the species, well-grown and nimble enough to serve as a mount? in fact, i should say it is quite possible. at the same time, neither you nor i ever thought of trying it. and why? simply because, for a fact, god who made the ox, did not intend it for a steed, and because every man who used an ox for such a purpose against its nature would look a fine fool on its back. you will allow that?" "i daresay, but i don't admit the simile; a jew is as good a man as you or i." "certainly," said hilarion. "the ox and the horse are equally useful, only in different ways; and a jew is as good a man as ourselves, but differently endowed. say what you like, but a jew is ill-fitted for the bearing of arms, or to lead men in warfare; they are considered to be cowardly and servile, and no doubt are so." "nashko is a brave man, and has acquitted himself like a hero." "i am sure he has," rejoined the old man, "but i maintain we do not ride an ox, even though we should know of one exceptionally well fitted to carry us. and we do not do so for the one reason that oxen as a rule are not considered to be first-rate steeds. and if a man insists on making the experiment, though it should turn out to his own satisfaction, he must not quarrel with his neighbours for laughing at him, nor scold his horses if they toss their heads at the queer creature he is stabling along with them. no, taras," he added more seriously, "it is never satisfactory to fight established opinion, and you seem determined to run that head of yours right through the thickest walls; and not content with overthrowing injustice wherever you see it, you would actually have the world make friends with the jews. taras, have you considered that sometimes it is not the walls which go to pieces, but----" "the head may dash out its brains against them, i know that," said taras, quietly, "and it does not deter me for one moment. i entreat you to lay it upon your people not to sin against the laws of hospitality with regard to nashko. he who offends him offends me." "i am sorry for that," replied hilarion, "but i cannot help it. he who receives hospitality must consider the ways of his hosts." so the conversation served not to heal the jar, as taras had hoped, but rather widened it, and the huzuls annoyed nashko even more than before. taras was grievously disappointed, and resolved to avoid further altercation, but something happened which forced him against his will to appeal a second time to the patriarch's sense of justice. it concerned tatiana. the poor maiden once more had reason to bewail her bewitching beauty. hilarion had offered her the shelter of his house, and she had gratefully accepted it, endeavouring to repay her benefactors by faithful service. she could not have lived many days among the tribe to whom her strange fate had brought her without perceiving that their moral sense was of the bluntest; but she endeavoured to keep out of harm's way by attending to her work, and to nothing else. the impudent youths, moreover, soon discovered that the youngest son of the house, the royal eagle, was not inclined to have her molested; and, indeed, he interfered with any intended liberty of theirs so effectually, that they dared not offer it, for even the boldest of them could ill stand his ground against that young hero. the girl was glad of his protection, her natural light-heartedness returning, till one day, when gone a-milking to a distant pasture, she grew aware, to her intense dismay, that julko had defended her for no very lofty motive. she broke away from her ungenerous admirer, and like a hunted deer fled to taras's camp, falling on her knees before him with the bitter cry: "if you cannot save me from shame, it had been better for me to die on the gallows!" taras endeavoured to calm her, and was going to set out immediately for hilarion's dwelling. but nashko laid hold of his arm, excitedly. the jew, who had kept his composure so admirably through all the petty insults offered to himself, was shaking with rage, and his eyes flashed fire. "do not humble yourself in vain!" he cried. "you are going to ask these men for manly generosity--_these_ men, taras! why, they will never even understand your meaning; and if they did they are too savage, too low, to grant it!" "you smart at the recollection of their insults," said taras; "but this is unjust." "i do not!" cried the jew, passionately. "what is it, then, that moves you like this?" nashko grew white, and again the crimson glow flushed his clear-cut face. "go," he murmured, "and judge for yourself." taras went, and was hardly able to believe his ears, for hilarion's reply was of the shortest and driest. "there is no help for it," he said. "what?" cried taras, utterly amazed. "do you mean to say that we have saved the girl from her ignominious fate only to hand her over as a plaything to that son of yours? for shame!" "moderate your feelings," returned the aged man, quietly. "if the royal eagle has cast his eye on a maiden, and would have her, she has every reason to be proud of it." "in honourable wedlock, then?" "oh dear, no! he is promised in marriage to the only granddaughter of my cousin stanko, on the other side of the czernahora, and she will be his wife as soon as she attains her sixteenth year. stanko and myself arranged this more than ten years ago, for she is his heiress and must marry into the family." "then i was right in concluding that he desires the girl for his pleasure merely?" "yes, certainly; and why should he not? she is fair enough to behold. why on earth do you look as if he meant to eat her? you cannot expect him to consider her more unattainable than any of our own girls. i give you leave to ask any huzul maiden you please whether she would not feel honoured by his attentions." "that is nothing to me," cried taras. "tatiana considers it shame, and i call it vilest disgrace! i entreat you to hold her safe from your son." "i cannot interfere; i said so before," said the old man; "and there would be little use endeavouring. if the maiden indeed is so coy as you tell me, i can only advise her to leave the settlement." furiously indignant, taras went back to the camp. karol wygoda had returned in his absence, bringing with him two peasants from borsowka. but taras waved them aside; he was going to consult with nashko first, who rushed out to meet him anxiously. "you were right," said taras, grinding his teeth, "and i know not where we can hope to protect her." "but i do," cried the jew, eagerly. "she dare not leave the mountains, because prison still awaits her in the lowlands; but we must place her where julko's power is not acknowledged. i have thought it might be best to take her to zabie; i have acquaintances there, an old jewish innkeeper and his wife, who i doubt not will give her shelter. they have no children of their own, and i know they can be trusted. i mentioned the girl's sad history there the other day, and the good wife shed tears, assuring me she would love to show kindness to one in such trouble." "but if julko should follow me thither?" interposed the girl, anxiously. "even if he should, he will not dare to use violence," said the jew. "but i do not think him capable of that. he is not a scoundrel, but only a lawless youth whose nature at times is too strong for him, and who never learned to keep it under. moreover, it is true huzul fashion--out of sight, out of mind. you will be safe there, i think." "let us hope so," said taras, deciding for this plan; "for, indeed, we have no other choice. make ready, poor girl, to ride with us!" and turning to karol now, he required his report. "captain, it is just fearful!" asserted this man, "if that priest at kossowince was a fiend, this baron is one double-dyed." and therewith he proceeded to give instances of his atrocious cruelty and oppression. "have the people appealed to the law?" inquired taras. "indeed, they have; but he is not only the greatest scoundrel, but the vilest liar under the sun. he has given the lie to every accusation, and the magistrates have believed the nobleman rather than the poor, ignorant peasants. ah! captain, you should have seen their grateful tears when i told them i was one of your men, and that you had sent me. they are waiting and hoping for you now, as for their only saviour; but hear their own messengers." and his companions came nearer--a poorly-clad elderly man of dignified bearing, who introduced himself as harassim perko, the judge of borsowka, and a younger peasant wearing a fine sheepskin. he called himself wassilj bertulak, and his voice was husky, as with suppressed tears, in giving his tale of woe; indeed, he could hardly speak. "our people have sent me because the monster's most recent crime has laid low the pride of my life. ah! my poor daughter!" and he turned away, overcome with sobs. but all the more minute was the judge's account, and it did not require his final entreaty to confirm taras's resolve that he must start on the spot for borsowka. the assistance of the huzuls was not needed in the present instance, for although taras's men numbered less than a score now, they would suffice for overpowering the baron, who, with a few old servants, lived in the quiet manor house of borsowka. taras therefore returned to hilarion only to take his leave. "the almighty speed you," said hilarion. "let us part friends. you are a welcome guest here whenever you please to return, and the flower of the clan is ever at your service. i have partaken of your blood and you of mine; this is a tie which can never be severed. remember it always." "i shall remember it," said taras, bending over the old man's hand. he mounted with his men, and the little troop followed the czeremosz till they reached zabie. there he handed over tatiana to the old jewish couple, requiring their solemn assurance that they would watch over her as though she were a child of their own, and after the fashion of their race they gave the promise with many oaths. this settled, the band dashed away towards the plain, the two men of borsowka in their midst. early on the fourth day, riding under cover of the night only, they reached the chalky cliffs on the left bank of the dniester. there they rested for the last time, being within a few miles of the quiet manor house they were about to enter. late in the afternoon a pale faced girl, looking troubled and shy, appeared in the glen where they halted. wassilj bertulak going to meet her, greeted her with a father's affection, and taking her by the hand brought her to taras. "my poor girl," he said, "she has come to see the scoundrel meet with his reward." "oh! no! no!" cried the girl, alarmed. "yes, yes, it is necessary," urged the father, "for he might deny it all." taras looked compassionately at the troubled girl. "stay with us," he said, tenderly. "poor child! i daresay it is a sore effort to you to tell of your grievous sorrow in the presence of so many strange men. but let the thought comfort you that you do it in order to save others from similar harm." and then he made his disposition for the night. the manor house was in a lonely place, inhabited only by the baron, his old body-servant, stephen, and peter, the coachman; the steward and the rest of the men sleeping in the farm-buildings near the village. resistance, therefore, need not be expected, and taras satisfied himself with appointing nashko and the greater part of his men to guard the grounds, whilst he, with the others, would bring the accused nobleman to his doom. about eleven they started, reaching the modest building soon after midnight. the outer door was not even locked. "no doubt that coachman has attractions in the village," whispered the judge, who was of taras's party. but when they entered the basement, in order to make sure of stephen, that conjecture proved to be erroneous. they found but one man, the coachman, who started aghast and prayed for his life pitifully. "i am no assassin," said taras, and inquired about stephen. "his dying sister sent for him this morning," stammered the terrified peter; "and the baron gave him leave to go." taras thereupon ordered sefko to guard the man; he, with the others, mounting the stairs. the baron seemed to have been roused, for a door opened, a streak of light appearing, a voice weak with age calling out, "peter, what is the matter?" "we have come to tell you," the strong voice of taras made answer. "i am the avenger." there was a cry in response, and a sound as of breaking glass; sudden darkness enveloped the scene, for the lamp had fallen from the trembling hands. but power to attempt an escape seemed wanting. and when taras, torch in hand, reached the upper landing, he found the aged nobleman leaning against his open bedroom door, simply petrified with dismay. lazarko, at a sign of the captain's, pushed him back into the room. it was a spacious chamber, but poorly furnished, and serving evidently as a library besides, for the walls all round were covered with bookshelves, and a large table in the middle was littered with volumes and papers. the whole aspect of the room seemed to deny that it was inhabited by a man of low pursuits. and so did the baron's own appearance. taras looked at him surprised, for the man he had come to judge was bowed with age, and of a venerable countenance. but for a moment only he hesitated, his inflexible sternness returning. he knew that appearances were deceptive: did not that monster at kossowince gaze at him like an angel of light? "i have come to judge you," said taras, austerely. "you have wronged your peasants with unheard-of oppression." "i?" groaned the poor old man, sinking into a chair. "by the blessed lord and his saints, some one must have lied to you!" "do not call upon the holy names!" returned taras, with lowering brow. "i am prepared to hear you deny the charge, but witnesses are at hand. is it true, or not, that you have acted like a tyrant by your people, robbing and wronging them fearfully?" "i call god to witness that this is false!" cried zukowski, solemnly, lifting his hand. "ask the judge, he will tell you; his name his harassim perko, and his is the first house this side of the village. he can be here within an hour if you send for him." "he is nearer than you suppose," said taras, turning to the door; and the elder of his two guides entered. "here he is," continued taras, "do you call upon him as a witness?" "this is not the judge of borsowka," exclaimed the baron, and rose to his feet. "why this is dimitri buliga, an old good-for-nothing whom no one respects here, and he left the village some time ago." these words were spoken with such a show of simple truth and honest indignation that taras looked at the peasant doubtfully. but the man never winced; answering the charge with a smile almost. "i must say, baron, this beats all we ever knew of you as a liar! it is natural that you should seek for a loop-hole, but i suppose i know that i am i! this is preposterous ... after this it will seem useless, hetman, to ask this wretch another question. let that man of yours speak for my identity whom you sent to us, he knows me--that is one comfort." and karol wygoda cried out: "yes, hetman, certainly, i have known him these twenty years; his name his harassim perko, and he is the judge of this village." "it is false," groaned the baron, and, stepping closer, he looked into wygoda's face. "you also seem known to me ... yes, i remember--your christian, name is karol, and you were in my service as a farm labourer years ago. i remember you because you are the only man i ever had to hand over to the law." karol listened with an unperturbed air, looking at the baron with an amused sort of wonder, as one might examine a natural curiosity; and, turning to the hetman, he said: "there now, this is as fine a proof as we could expect of this man's capacity of wronging a poor fellow. i daresay he may remember having seen me since i lived in the village; but i never set foot on his property, and still less did i give him any chance of handing me over to the law, as he says." "have you no fear of god, man?" broke in the baron. "i----" "stop," said taras; "answer me one more question. do you think that your own servants are likely to betray you, or tell a lie in order to have you killed?" "god forbid!" exclaimed the baron, eagerly. "honest old stephen, i fear, cannot have returned, but my coachman sleeps in the house, and he can tell you that this man is not harassim, the judge." "have him in," ordered taras, and the coachman appeared; his hands had been tied on his back, he was pale as death, and shook from head to foot. "you have nothing to fear," said taras; "we only want you to tell the truth; but woe to you if you prevaricate. who is this man?" "harassim perko, the judge," stammered the fellow. "peter!" cried the baron, "you have lost your senses. why, you know the judge as well as i do." "this is sufficient," said taras. "be silent now, till i require you to speak. say, judge, has this man taken unlawful possession of part of the common field?" "he has," replied the man, adding a minute statement. "what have you to say to this, baron?" inquired taras, of the nobleman, when the accuser had finished. "it is false," reiterated zukowski--"a whole web of falsehood. i have told you that this man is not the judge, but that good-for-nothing dimitri. if you, indeed, are bent on justice, taras, i pray you send to the village for the real judge. do not soil your hands with innocent blood." "it is you that are bent on lying," said taras, scornfully. "other scoundrels have endeavoured to deceive me, and to stay me in the performance of my sacred duty; but a man of such brazen face i have never yet set eyes upon. it is a pity that you seem willing to die as you have lived.... but we have yet other witnesses--bring them in." the peasant wassilj entered, followed by the reluctant girl; her father had almost to drag her in. "do you know these two?" said taras. "the man is a stranger to me," replied the baron, unhesitatingly; "i have never set eyes on him. but that girl was in my house this morning, with a message from my poor stephen's dying sister, entreating him to come.... taras!" he added, excitedly; "now i see all this wretched plot. they have made up this tale of the dying sister to decoy my good old stephen away, who would rather have died than betray me, and i suppose they have bribed my coachman. they are deceiving you, so that you should order me to be murdered!" "this is cleverly put together," said taras, coldly, "it is lamentable, indeed, that, gifted as you seem to be, you did not make better use of your life; it might have saved you from this hour. answer me, marinia, as in the presence of god almighty. is it true that you were in this house this morning for the first time in your life?" "no!" she faltered. "but you were here three weeks ago when this wretch wronged you?" "yes!" "how dare you!" cried the baron, with flashing eyes. "oh, god! how should i--look at my grey hairs, man!" "silence!" returned taras. "what have you to say, peter--does this girl speak the truth?" "she does--old stephen told me." "the lord have mercy on me!" groaned the doomed man. "taras, have pity on my age. i have but little money in the house, but what there is, take it all--only spare me!" "i am not a robber, but an instrument of god's justice," replied taras, solemnly. "it is very evident that you have deserved death amply. if you would recommend your soul to the judge above, i will give you ten minutes." "spare me, for mercy's sake! call any of the peasants, there is not a man in the village but would stand by me." "we have had sufficient witness. say your prayers." "assassin!" cried the aged baron, and with the strength of despair he flew at taras. but a bullet from lazarko's pistol laid him dead at their feet. the girl shrieked and fainted, her father carrying her from the room. the others remained till they had found the cash-box. it contained, as the baron had said, but a moderate sum. taras avoided touching the money. "take it," he said to the judge, "and divide it justly among those that have suffered most." before the day broke the manor house of borsowka lay wrapped in silence as before, and utterly lonely, for peter the coachman had gone off with the two villagers, taras and his little band speeding back to the mountains. the following day, after a sharp ride, they reached the low-lying, water-intersected waste between kotzman and zastawna, where they resolved to halt till the evening. the place being within easy distance of karol wygoda's home, the latter begged to be allowed to look up his relations. "i have no objection," said taras, "only be careful not to fall in with any traitors. i shall expect you back by sundown." karol promised and went. but he did not return. taras, growing anxious, kept waiting for him, gazing into the deepening night, but not a sound broke on the stillness. "we had better start without him," said nashko, at last. "either he has been caught, and in that case it were folly for us to tarry; or else he has made up his mind to remain with his own people, in which case we cannot force him to come back to us." "i cannot believe that," said taras; "for he has ever proved himself a trustworthy man; he would certainly have told me if he had any idea of leaving us. and i cannot bear to think that the faithful soul has come to grief. some accident may have detained him; indeed, i feel sure he will return. let us wait till midnight, at least." but midnight came and no karol. with a troubled heart taras at last gave orders to mount. on the third day, which they spent under the shelter of the forest by the czeremosz, taras consulted his men, whether they had better return to the camp in the dembronia forest, trusting to the huzuls for further assistance in any considerable enterprise, or move northward to the welyki lys and gather a new band to their banner. but they would not decide. "we follow you whichever way you lead us," they said. "well, then," said taras; "i am for taking you back to the dembronia forest. the huzuls, certainly, are troublesome confederates, but we must not consult our feelings, we must do what seems best for the cause we serve. while hilarion is inclined to back us we are strong, whereas without him we might not always be able to fight great wrongs effectively." it was late in the evening of this day that they rode into zabie. the village lay hushed in sleep, the cottages standing dark and silent, the inn excepted, whence a pale light gleamed, though the place was closed for the night. taras rode up to one of the uncurtained windows, and peered in. the large bar-room was empty, save for a bowed figure sitting by the hearth, motionless. "it is froïm, the innkeeper," cried nashko, who was looking in at another window. "for god's sake--i trust nothing has happened!" and, trembling violently, he tapped at the pane. the old jew started, turning to the table as if to extinguish the flickering lamp. but recognising nashko's voice, he came to the window instead, opening it, and saying with a hoarse whisper: "i suppose you would like to have a last look at her!" "tatiana!" cried taras. "man, say, what is it?" "we could not have her laid out here," continued the innkeeper, slowly and shaking with emotion. "poor lamb! we would have loved to show her that last honour, but we are jews. she is in the little chapel of the cemetery, and to-morrow they are going to bury her." "she is dead!" cried nashko, with anguished voice. "did you not know? i thought you might have returned so speedily for this sad reason," cried froïm. "we got her out of the water yesterday--the good pope here, and myself, and some of the villagers; but it was hard work, for the czeremosz is a cruel river, holding fast its prey." "tell us," cried taras, "who has dared to take her life?" "it was her own brave doing," cried the old jew. "she would rather die than be dishonoured. ah! how fair and sweet she was, and how good; and to come by such an end!" the honest innkeeper struggled with his tears, continuing, amid sobs, "we have known her these few days only, my wife and i, but we grieve for her as for a child of our own." "but how did it happen?" cried taras, vehemently. "cannot you see?" returned the old jew. "two days ago, toward midnight, that huzul came----" "the royal eagle?" "yes; but vulture were a truer name! he came with a hundred of his men--or two hundred for aught i can tell--and, knocking at this very window, insisted that i should let him in. 'what do you want?' said i. 'open the door,' says he, 'or i shall force it open.' 'i am a poor old jew,' i replied, 'and there are but three women in the house besides me--my wife, and her servant, and tatiana. of course we cannot resist you, but i ask you whether it is fit for a son of hilarion, whom they call the just, to turn house-breaker, and worse!' 'open,' he retorted, 'or you shall rue it.' 'so please the god of abraham,' said i, 'but i shall never let you in with my own hand, for i have sworn to keep the girl safe, and god almighty will punish him who breaks his oath. i am afraid of you, of course i am, for i am but a poor old jew, but much more do i fear god, and i will not let you in.' so he kicked open the door and carried off the girl. on to his own horse he lifted her, holding her in the saddle before him, and was off to the black water. but she was a jewel of a maid, and her honour was dearer to her than life. she slipped from the horse as they rode by the river and leapt into the roaring water. they tried to save her, but in vain. i heard of it early in the morning, and went to seek for the body with some of our men, the good pope himself coming with us. and, as i said, they'll bury her to-morrow morning. go to the chapel if you like to have a last look at her." the piteous tale had been interrupted with many an indignant exclamation from the men, nashko and taras only listening speechless, nor could they find words at once. "come to the chapel!" said taras, after a sorrowful pause. in deep silence and slowly the band rode through the village, reaching the cemetery at the other end. there they dismounted, casting the bridles over the railings, and one after another they entered the chapel, baring their heads. it was a modest place, damp and bare, lit up with a couple of torches. and there, at the foot of a large, crude crucifix, stood the open coffin in which they had laid the body. no one was watching by the dead, those to whom the pope had delegated that pious duty no doubt preferring to spend the blustering night in more congenial quarters. with bowed heads and murmuring a prayer the outlaws stood by the humble coffin and gazed at the marble features, lovely even in death. the fair face, but for its pallor, seemed bound in sleep only, and the green wreath, the crown of virginity, rested lovingly on the maiden's brow. the hearts of these rough men were stirred to their depths, but one only was unable to keep silence, and with a smothered cry the maiden's name burst from his lips. he broke down utterly. that was nashko. taras went up to him gently and led him out into the night, making him sit down on the steps of the chapel. and bending over him, he passed his hand tenderly over his face. "i know ..." he murmured, "i have seen it for some time ... and if i cannot avenge her, you will do it!..." chapter xxi. "vengeance is mine." it was a sad, humble funeral. the blasts of october moaned in the valley, and the rain hissed and wept. for which reason the villagers preferred to remain indoors when the little bell called them early in the morning to attend the body to its resting-place, the charitable among them murmuring a prayer for the dead. "she needs it," they said, "having laid hands on herself!" for which reason, also, the judge and the elders had insisted that she must be buried by the outer wall of the cemetery, although the honest pope had tried his utmost to show them that the girl deserved their pity, even their admiration, rather than their contempt. but the villagers clung to their opinion, and all the priest could do was to take care that she should be buried with full church honours. if no one else were willing he, at least, would consign her to her grave reverently. he appeared at the mortuary chapel soon after eight o'clock, followed by some half-dozen mourners, and started back dismayed on beholding a band of armed and wild-looking men, evidently waiting for the funeral. but he proceeded with his sacred duly bravely, and felt touched not a little on perceiving how fervently these ill-famed outlaws joined in the prayer he offered up by the grave. having ended, taras came forward, begging him to read three masses for the maiden they had buried. he promised, but refused the money the captain was offering him. "you may take it without fear," said taras, smiling sadly, "it is honestly acquired--we rob no man." the priest gave a searching glance in the face before him, which looked old and anguished with the burden of sorrow this man had borne. "i believe you," he said, "but permit me to do a good work for this poor girl without taking reward." taras made no answer, but bowing low, he kissed the priest's hand reverently. the good man, seeing him so deeply moved, took courage to whisper a word urged by his deepest heart. "you poor, misguided man," he said, gently, "how long will you go on like this?" "as long as there is need for it," said taras, in a tone equally low, but none the less firm and decided. "i have been kept from wrong so far, but i see much of it about me." the pope could but shake his head mournfully, and went his way. taras and his men remaining yet a while in the cemetery to say their prayers by the newly-made grave. nashko only stood aside, gazing at them fixedly, and his eyes glowed with a terrible fire. but a pitiful scene awaited these men on leaving the graveyard--the old innkeeper and his wife standing without, weeping and sobbing; forbidden by the strictness of their faith to pass within an enclosure at the entrance of which there was a crucifix, they had abstained from coming nearer, but from a distance had endeavoured to do honour to the dead after their own fashion. taras went up to the old jew. "you have done what you could," he said, "and we thank you." "what is the use of making words," cried froïm, passionately. "i know i have done what i could, but i could not save her! i'm a poor old jew, but you are a strong, hale christian, and if i were you i'd make the rascal rue it dearly." "this is the very thing i am going to do," returned taras, quietly. "i shall go straight to the black water to accuse him to his father. and if hilarion will not bring him to due punishment, i shall do so." and the band mounted, turning their horses' heads westwards, towards the towering peaks of the czernahora. they stopped for the night at the hamlet of magura, reaching the settlement early the following day. the patriarch appeared to have expected them, for his eldest son made haste to invite taras into his sire's presence, hilarion receiving him with the same dignified complacency with which he had parted from him the week before. "you have come to call for justice against that young son of mine; but i have anticipated it, and punished him as he deserves." "and what is his punishment?" inquired taras. "i have sent him to a distant pasture, where he will have to stay till i give him leave to return, and i shall take good care not to do so before the spring. this will furnish him with leisure to consider his folly." "folly!" exclaimed taras, bitterly. "yes, folly!" repeated the patriarch, pointedly. "was she the only pretty girl to be had? he ought to have seen that tatiana had no taste for him, but his vanity blinded him; it was sheer folly." "but i call it a crime," cried taras, hotly; "a mean, dastardly crime!" the old man nodded. "i expected to hear you say this," he said calmly; "but you are wronging the youth. you must bear in mind that he is a huzul. and, besides, how should he have foreseen that the girl would drown herself? i suppose that even in the lowlands suicide for such a reason is rarely heard of; but up here, i swear to you, such desperation in a girl is utterly unknown. if you will bear this in mind, you cannot accuse him of anything worse than folly." "it was a dastardly crime," repeated taras. "a man acting thus by a poor defenceless girl dishonours himself, and ought to be dealt with accordingly." "do you expect me to understand that i should order my son to have his hair cut off as a sign that he is no longer fit for the society of the brave and honourable of his kind?" "i do," replied taras, fiercely; "i even demand it. and if you refuse, i must carry out the punishment myself." there was a long pause of silence. taras stood erect, fully expecting to meet with the old man's indignant denial. but hilarion preserved an unperturbed calm, closing his eyes as one in deep thought. now and then he would nod his head like one arriving at a conclusion, and presently he touched a small gong by his side. his eldest son entered. "call hither the clansmen, young and old, as many of them as are about the settlement, and request the followers of this man also to enter my house. let all hear my decision." the spacious room presently began to fill, the huzuls thronging in first, taras's men following. and when silence had settled the aged patriarch again nodded to himself, and thereupon he rose from his seat, holding in his hand an intertwining twig of willow--for taras had interrupted some quiet occupation of his--and with solemn voice he began: "listen to me, ye men of my people, for i, hilarion, called the just, to whom you look for guidance, have cause to speak to you. mark it well, and tell others if need be ... you all were present when this man of the lowlands, taras, whom they call the avenger, first came to me; and you know how i received him. you witnessed our solemn covenant; how we swore friendship to one another, not only for to-day or to-morrow, but partaking of each other's blood as a sign that it shall never be broken while the red life-stream pulses through our veins. i have kept this sacred vow; but he just now has wronged it grievously, casting insult, nay, shame, on me by insisting that a member of my own house shall be punished, not because i say so, but because he wills it, and threatening that he himself will carry out such punishment if i fail to do so. it is my own flesh and blood, even my youngest son julko, whom he will have dishonoured." a cry of indignation burst from the huzuls, and they turned upon taras. "silence!" commanded the old man. "i have called you to hear what i have to say, and for nothing else.... but what i say is this: a man who can thus insult me no longer can be my friend and brother." he held up the twig in his hand. "he and i have been as this branch of willow, closely intertwined; but henceforth we are severed, and there is nought to heal the disruption!" he broke the twig, casting the parts from him, one to his right and one to his left. "urrahah!" shouted the huzuls; but again the patriarch enforced silence, and, turning to taras, he said: "you are no longer my friend, but a man who has offered me deadly insult; yet the sacred law of our fathers lays it upon me never to forget that we partook of one another's blood! i therefore may not, and will not, have recourse to active enmity beyond what you yourself will force me to by further affront. it were sufficient affront, however, if a man who has acted as you have done should continue to insult me by his presence! for which reason i banish you from this settlement, and from these mountains, to the extent of my authority. you will leave the settlement at once, withdrawing from my reach within these mountains in three days. and let me warn you that none of you shall ever see the lowlands again if, after this, you dare brave the presence of my people. it is not on my son's account that i thus threaten you, for i shall take care to inform him of your intentions, putting him on his guard, and the huzul lives not who fears his enemy when once he knows him! it is not in order to protect him, therefore, that i have said this, but simply because you have so deserved it. and now be gone!" "i go," replied taras; "but i call god and all here present to witness that you are disgracing yourself and me. i will not avenge it, for i also will remember the friendship we had sworn. but as for your son julko, i shall know how to find him and visit his wrong on him, like any other evildoer." the fury of the huzuls knew no bounds, and taras would have been lost had the aged hilarion himself not stepped between him and the indignant clansmen, enabling him and his followers to leave the house and mount their horses, the wild cries of their hitherto confederates pursuing them as they rode away. it was a sad departure, and with heavy hearts the little band returned through the dreary landscape to the hamlet of magura. what should they do now, and whither turn their steps? dark and gloomy lay the future before them, but none of the men uttered a word of complaint. having reached the hamlet and seen to their horses' needs, taras gathered his men about him. "i would not for a moment delude you with fair speeches," he said; "you know for yourselves how matters stand. just answer me one question: will you stay with me, or go your way? i could not upbraid any one whose courage failed him to continue this life of ours. it has been full of hardships hitherto; it will be almost unendurable now that the huzuls also are against us." "tell us about yourself, hetman," said wassilj soklewicz; "what are you going to do?" "i must continue to the end," replied taras; "it is not for me to fail in my duty, even if you all forsake me. i shall endeavour to win other followers." "is it thus?" cried the faithful youth; "then we will share your fate!" all the rest of them crying in chorus, "we will not forsake you!" "i dare not dissuade you," said taras, "it is not i, but the cause which claims your fealty!... now the next question is, where shall we encamp ourselves? in the lowlands the military are on the look-out for us, and here we are in danger of the huzuls. i propose we retire to our island fortress in the wallachian bog. by the crystal springs, or indeed anywhere within the mountains the huzuls would rout us out; i know them better even than you can know them. they were true to us while they were friends, they will be intense in their hatred now they are our enemies. but we are safe from them on that island, where we have the advantage, moreover, of being in the very midst of the country we would rid from oppression, and in a hiding-place we could hold against almost any odds. i do not deceive myself concerning the danger even there, but i know no better place." they resolved, then, to venture into the lowlands the following morning, after which these homeless outcasts lay down by their horses, sleeping as calmly as though they had found rest by their own firesides knowing nothing of the dread burdens of life. two only were awake--nashko, keeping watch outside the hamlet, and taras, tossing on the bundle of straw that formed his couch. sleep was far from the unhappy man, much as he longed for it; indeed it had but rarely come to him since that terrible hour, that last meeting in this very place, separating him for ever from wife and child. alas! and what nameless agony tortured him in those hours that seemed an eternity to the sore heart within! it was then he heard those voices that would not be silenced, of regret not only concerning the lost happiness of his life, but of a far more terrible regret--of awful accusation, much as he fought against it when daylight and activity returned. the night winds moaned, sounding to him like the blending curses of a hundred voices, the never-silent reproaches of all those whom he had brought to their doom. and when he succeeded for a moment in turning his back upon the irredeemable past, fixing his relentless gaze on the life before him, the life he would have to tread, what was it but a glaring reality, a fearful outcome of the shadows behind? he was glad of the first streak of daylight stealing into the barn, and, rising from his troubled rest, he went out into the cold grey morning, seeking the jew, who walked to and fro at his post looking pale and wan like a belated ghost. he nodded sadly on beholding his friend. "we shall not be able to mount for a couple of hours yet," said taras. "turn in now, and have a rest." "i could not sleep," replied nashko, "but i am stiff with the cold, and could scarcely ride without first stretching my limbs on the straw." and, handing him his gun, he went away. taras walked up and down, slowly at first, till the nipping cold forced him to a quicker pace. it was as dismal a morning of late autumn as could well be imagined. cutting gusts of east wind kept hissing through the narrow valley, rattling in the gloomy fir-wood, and having their own cold play with the whirling snow-flakes. the sun must have risen by that time, but it was nowhere to be seen; a pale, cheerless light only, descending from the snow-capped mountains, showed the muddy road and its windings, with a look of hopelessness about it. not a living creature anywhere, not a sound of animated being beyond the croaking of a solitary raven on a fir-tree near. the unhappy man cast a listless glance at the dismal prophet. the raven is looked upon as a bird of ill-omen, but what of trouble yet untasted could its call forebode? death? nay, for would he not have welcomed it gladly! and yet, though he seemed to know the very sum of human suffering laid upon him by a terrible fate, even by his own awful will, there was an agony approaching him that very morning, the direst possibility of grief for his heart and soul, and that cheerless day was to be the saddest of all his sad life.... an hour might have passed, but daylight seemed as far off as ever, and the wind continued its play with the whirling snow-flakes, so that taras did not perceive the approach of a horseman, who was fighting his way hither from zabie, till he pulled up close by the hamlet. it was a puny, elderly figure, ill-at-ease evidently on his miserable horse, and shivering with the cold; for though his garment was bedizened abundantly with gaudy ribands and glittering tinsel, there was not a scrap of fur to yield comfort, his queer head-gear, a tricoloured fool's cap, being fully in keeping with his tawdry appearance. on his back, by a leathern strap, he carried--not a gun to betoken the mountaineer--but a wooden case, from which protruded the neck of a violin. taras examined this strange horseman with not a little wonder, concluding presently that it was some sort of a mountebank seen about the village fairs in the lowlands, where they pick up a scanty living, now playing the fiddle, now performing some jugglery. but what gain might this artist be seeking in the wintry mountains? "what a mercy," cried the horseman, "to fall in with a living creature at last! how long shall i have to struggle on, tell me, before reaching the dembronia forest?" "what on earth do you want there?" asked taras, surprised. "you would find only wolves to make merry at your bidding, if that is it--why, the forest is utterly uninhabited!" "then i am better informed than you," retorted the fiddler; "the avenger and his band are in the forest, if no one else is." "do you want him?" "to be sure, and badly! the poor wretch of a girl, i believe, would claw my eyes out if i did not fetch him as i promised." "what girl? but you may save yourself farther trouble--i am the avenger." "you!" cried the man, crossing himself quickly. but coming a little closer, he peered with a half-fearful curiosity into the hetman's sorrowful face. "you might be he, certainly," he muttered; "you look exactly as they told me, and poor kasia said i could not possibly mistake the terrible gloom on your face. i suppose i had better believe you, and you must come with me, else that wretched girl will die of her remorse." "what girl? what is it? where am i wanted? do speak plainly!" "at the inn at zabie. she'd have come to you instead of asking you to come to her--i mean kasia, my sister's daughter--she says it is killing her, and she must not die without telling you." "telling me what? has she any complaints to make against any wrong-doer?" "no; she has done that once too often already, and is grievously sorry for it now. it is not you, though, who are to blame--nor in fact, is she, poor thing--but her sweetheart, jacek, that good-for-nothing rascal; if you can pay him out for it, 'twere well if you did. for it was a damned lie, all that story at borsowka----" "at borsowka?'" exclaimed taras, staggering. "at borsowka!" he repeated hoarsely. and clutching the fiddler with his strong hand, he dragged him from the saddle and shook him till the poor creature gasped for breath. "speak the truth!... is it that marinia who sent you?" "you are strangling me! help!" groaned the fiddler. "it is not my fault ... help!... murder!" at this moment nashko, who had heard the cry, came out, followed by the others. "what is it?" they inquired, and the jew, taking in the situation, endeavoured to free the agonised messenger from the captain's powerful grasp. "aren't you rather hard on him?" he whispered to his friend. "what has he come for?" but taras, letting go his hold, stared about him like one demented, and a shriek burst from him--"a horse! for god's sake, a horse!" his men moved not, utterly confounded. but he broke away, dragging a horse from the barn, the first he could lay hold on, and mounting it without saddle or bridle dashed away in the direction of zabie as fast as the frightened animal could carry him. two hours later he stopped by the inn. the horse was done for. he cared not, but rushed up to old froïm, who came to meet him. "where is she?" he cried, wildly. "who? the sick woman?" inquired the innkeeper. "we made up a bed for her in the little lean-to." another minute and taras stood by the couch. the girl had greatly changed since that terrible night. she looked as though she had passed through an illness, and her eyes were deep in their sockets. "ah," she moaned, "you have come, and i may tell you. it has left me no peace day or night. i ran away from jacek to look for my uncle gregori, that he might try and find you, for he was always...." "be quick about it," interrupted taras. "i want to know the truth!" "ah! do not look at me with those eyes," cried the unhappy girl, hiding her face in her hands, and indeed the man bending over her was fearful to behold. "i want to tell you ... i wish i had never done it, but they made me!" "be quick about it!" repeated taras, hoarsely. "you are not marinia bertulak, and no peasant girl from borsowka. your name is kasia, and you keep company with jugglers?" "yes, yes! i am kasia wywolow." "and you lied to me in that night, all of you?" "yes, we did; the old baron only spoke the truth. the man who pretended to be my father was jacek, with whom i have been going about to fairs; and the other one was a farm labourer, dimitri buliga, and not the village judge...." "and why did you deceive me?" "it was all karol's doing. we, jacek and i, fell in with him at the merry-making here at zabie, and he talked us over; after which he went to borsowka, where he bribed the coachman and prevailed on dimitri to play the judge. he said he knew exactly how to set about it to make you believe the story ... he had an old grudge against the poor baron, who years ago brought him to punishment for theft. he stole away from you as soon as the deed was done, dividing the spoils with jacek and dimitri, who waited for him at kotzman. but i suffered agony with remorse, and it brought me here." "that will do," said taras, faintly; "thank you." and he staggered from the room. the old innkeeper came upon him presently where he lay in a merciful swoon. it was late in the afternoon when his men came after him, and with them the fiddler gregori. they had not been able to gather the full truth from the bewildered messenger, but they had understood sufficiently to know that karol wygoda had deceived them shamefully, and it had filled their honest hearts with indignant grief. but pity for their unhappy leader was uppermost, for they felt rather than knew how fearfully the discovery must affect him; and since he had left no orders, they waited hour after hour, with growing anxiety, thinking he might return; and as he did not, they now came to seek him. "yes, he is here," said old froïm, sorrowfully, in answer to nashko's inquiry, "and i think he is seriously ill. i do not know what that young woman may have told him," he added under his breath, "but it must have been something very awful; for he fainted right out, and when i had managed to bring him to again, he just said: 'i must go my way to the gallows now,' and never another word has crossed his lips. i have tried to rouse him, but he is like a stone, staring blankly; it could not be worse if he had buried wife and child. i have spoken to him, i have implored him, but not a sign is to be got from him. will you try it?--he may yield to your words." nashko told his companions what the old jew had said, and they all agreed. "try and rouse him," they said, "tell him that to us he is as noble and just as before. how should he, how should we, in god's eyes, be guilty of this blackguard karol's wickedness!" nashko took heart and entered the little room, where froïm had prepared a couch for the stricken hetman, but he was unable to deliver the men's message. for no sooner had he closed the door than taras turned to him, saying huskily, but firmly: "please leave me to myself till to-morrow morning; i must think it over; not for my own sake, for i know what i have to do, but for yours--i would like to counsel each of you for the best i can hardly collect my thoughts as yet, it is as though i had been struck with lightning. let me come to myself first. i daresay froïm will find a night's lodging for you; and to-morrow--yes, to-morrow morning when the day has risen, i will see you." taras seemed fully determined, and nashko could but yield. the following day early, when the men had gathered in the great empty bar-room, taras came among them. they had not seen him for a space of four-and-twenty hours, but the havoc wrought in his appearance seemed the work of years. he was fearfully altered, looking like an old man now, overcome with life's distress. "dear friends," he said, speaking very calmly and kindly, "i pray you listen to me, but do not try to turn me from my firm resolve. i release you one and all from the fealty you have sworn to me. i am your leader no longer. please god, this will be the last time that you will see me; i have prayed to him earnestly to let my life and the yielding up of its every hope be sufficient atonement. yes, i have pleaded with him in mercy to let your ways be far from mine; for the path i have to tread will now take me to colomea, to prison, and thence to the final doom." a cry of horror interrupted him. "for god's sake," they cried, "what is it that has come to you?" "not thus, if you love me," he said, gently, warding them off. "i have followed the voice of my own heart so far, let me follow it still. that voice has deceived me hitherto, leading me to misery and crime; it is speaking well this day for the first time! yet, be very sure, i was not wrong in saying that the plain will of god required right and justice to be upheld in this world; not wrong in accusing those of their shortcomings whose sacred duty it is to see that justice rules here below, but who do not carry out this duty to its fullest, holiest meaning. my mistake was this, that i fancied this unfulfilled duty could by the will of god devolve upon me or any other individual man. to be sure i who sacrificed all earthly happiness at the shrine of justice, who became a murderer in blind love of the right, and now go to the gallows--i most not be unjust, not even against myself, and therefore i say it was a natural mistake. for what more natural than to argue: since they will not guard the right whose bounden duty it is, i will do so, who am strong at heart and pure of purpose! but, nevertheless, it was a grievous mistake. i see it now. i still believe in that grand, holy ladder of his making which is intended to join earth to heaven; but plainly it is not his will, even if some of its steps at times be rotten, that any single man should take upon himself to make up in his own poor strength for any failings in that glorious institution for working out the divine will. it were proud, sinful presumption in any man, and i have done evil in his sight, not merely in disregarding what mischief must accrue if others followed my example, but chiefly on account of the awful delusion that _i_ was above erring, and that _my_ judgments must needs be just! and how did i come to imagine this? because i chose to believe that the almighty _must_ keep me from foiling--me, his servant, the righteous, justice-loving taras. it was just my pride! the magistrates, the courts, might err, but i never! and yet how great is the danger if the carrying out of justice be vested in any individual man!--the work i have undertaken could not but end like this! i believed i was doing right, and i have been utterly confounded. the baron of borsowka was a righteous man, and i, who presumed to judge him, have been his murderer." "but that was not your fault; you were deceived by karol!" they cried. "i was," replied taras; "yet the guilt rests with me for not examining into the charge more carefully. why did i refuse his urgent request to send for witnesses to the village? i am his murderer. i, and no one else; and since i have judged falsely in his case, how can i be sure that i have not done so in others? but, be that as it may, i am an assassin, and it behoves me to expiate my crime, submitting to those whom god has called to judge any evildoer in the land. i am going to colomea to give myself up." vainly they strove to turn him from his resolve. he kept repeating: "i follow the voice within, and it has begun to speak truth." with heavy hearts they perceived it was utterly useless to plead with him, and listened to his last farewell. he enjoined them to separate at once and to begin a new life each for himself in different parts of the country. he had a word of sympathy, of advice for each. "forty florins are still in my possession," he added, producing the sum; "it is all i have left of the money contributed by honest peasants towards my work. take it and divide it fairly. let it be the same with the proceeds of your arms and horses." and he took leave of them, of each man separately, the jew being last. "nashko," he said, "i have yet a request to make of you. you love me, i know, and i am about to die. will you grant it?" "surely," said the jew, with tear-stifled voice. "i know your intentions with regard to julko," said taras, "and i know the reason.... but i ask you to forbear, and to leave these mountains without bringing him to his due." "the thought of revenge was sweet," said the jew, "but i will do your desire." "whither will you betake yourself?" asked taras. "i was able to advise them all, but i know not what to say to you; besides, your judgment is better than mine." "i shall go away--far, far away," said nashko. "i have heard that in following the sun through many lands you reach the wide sea at last, and crossing the sea you reach a country where a man is a man, and no one inquires into his creed. i shall try for that country, and if so be that i get there----" "god speed you!" said taras, deeply moved, "for your heart is honest and you have been true to me. so have you all: the almighty watch over your lives!" he left the room and, seeking his horse, he sped away from his friends towards the lowlands, vanishing from their gaze. chapter xxii. paying the penalty. a few days later the district governor and dr. starkowski were having a quiet talk in the dusk of the evening. they were sitting in herr von bauer's private office, and the latter had just confided to the lawyer that it was officially settled now--and the requisite document a visible fact--that the contested field on the pruth was formally adjudged as belonging, not to the lord of the manor, but to the parish of zulawce. "i am simply thankful it _is_ settled!" the governor was saying, rubbing his honest old hands. "i always suspected foul play, but since i had proof of it, the former judgment has weighed on me like a nightmare. it is more of a relief than i can tell you!" "and yet that judgment was legally correct," said the lawyer, somewhat sadly; "the case had been investigated, and witnesses on both sides were examined, the evidence appearing unquestionable!" "is this intended for a covert reproach?" "certainly not," returned starkowski; "and yet i cannot think of this tragic affair without a sad reflection on the short-sightedness of all human justice." "you are right there," said the governor, sighing in his turn. "my only comfort is, that we, the authorities of this district, have done our human best; even that coward kapronski, cannot be accused of wilful injustice. the peasants had been so foolish as to move the landmark, and the mandatar, rascal that he is, saw his opportunity for taking possession. it was quite correct that our commissioner should have told the peasants that their only remedy was the law; and the suit began. both parties were ready to swear, and, indeed, there was no other means for eliciting the truth, except by putting them on their oath. i admit that kapronski set about it somewhat summarily and offhandedly, but i doubt whether, in all conscientiousness i could have arrived at a better result myself. if witnesses are open to bribery, perjuring themselves, how should the most careful of judges get at the truth? there was oath against oath, a considerable number of the peasantry yielding evidence in favour of the manor against their own interests, and the lord of the manor, moreover, was in possession--how then, i ask, should even the court's judgment have been different? there is some comfort in this, i assure you; at the same time it is better comfort that the wrongful judgment with its sad consequences has been reversed--as far as possible at least." "as far as possible," repeated the lawyer, thoughtfully. "poor taras----" "don't talk to me about that man," interrupted the governor, waxing hot; "or would you have me tax the short-sightedness of human justice with his history also?" "certainly, i should say." "certainly not, you mean! what, have you forgotten poor hohenau? and what of his latest murder at borsowka?" "there i am staggered, i own," said the lawyer. "of course you are, because you insist on judging the man by the rules of your ethics," cried the governor, as though the deeper bearings of the soul were utterly beneath the legal mind; "but i, who am no psychologist, but a wretched district governor in this province of galicia---worse luck!--i who have had plenty of opportunity of getting acquainted with any number of hajdamaks, i tell you he is no better than the rest of them! it is all very well to start the business with a fine pretence, a pretty cloak to cover one's rags; he has discarded it now, you see, and shows himself as he is--a mere wretched assassin. let us change the subject; i have something more pleasant yet to tell you. what should you say to those poor wretches at zulawce, in mortal terror of their lives on account of their perjury?--of course, they must bear the consequences!--they are going to be duly sentenced, and then----" the kind-hearted man could not go on for smiles. "they are going to have a free pardon," added starkowski; "are you sure?" "i have got it in my desk, which is more, and i am highly delighted for once that the law should be circumvented. of course, the line will be drawn between the instigators of these precious plans and those who were merely led on. there is mr. wenceslas hajek, for instance, whom we shall have the honour of lodging in safe quarters within this city for a couple of years--i'd give him five, willingly--and no expense to himself. come in!" there had been a knock at the door repeatedly, but the gentlemen had not heard it in the warmth of their discussion till it struck the governor at the tail end of his information. "come in!" the door opened showing a tall visitor, who stood still. "a peasant by the look of him," said the governor, peering into the dusk. "this is beyond office hours, my friend; come again to-morrow." there was a pause of silence, and then the man by the door came a step forward, saying, with trembling voice, "excuse me, sirs, for disturbing you, but i would rather not go away again----" "taras!" exclaimed the lawyer, and the governor, bursting from his seat, stood still a moment, paralysed with the discovery; but then he flew to the window, flinging open the sash, and sent one terrified cry after another into the street below. taras never moved. "do not be frightened," he said, sadly. "look here, i am quite unarmed, and have come with peaceful intentions." but the sentry outside and some of the clerks yet at work had heard the alarm; assistance already was pressing in at the door. "bind him!" cried the governor. and, nothing loth, the men clutched the prisoner. but starkowski interfered. "stop!" he said. "you are five against one, and you see he offers no resistance." he walked up to taras and looked him in the face. "you have not come with any evil intention?" "no, sir." starkowski seemed quite satisfied; turning to the governor, "leave your men in the room," he said, "but there is no need to bind him, i'll go bail." but the poor governor was not so easily quieted, and his voice positively shook when he addressed the man of whom all the district had stood in mortal fear these months past. "step closer," he said, "we are ready to hear you." and taras came nearer, looking pale and wan, a stricken figure, resting his worn frame against the table. "i have come to give myself up," he said, "and i pray to be dealt with according to my deserts." "and where are your people?" "i have disbanded them; there is no fear of their committing further violence." "_where_ are they?" "they have gone different ways; but i have not come to betray them, and shall not do so. concerning myself i will answer any question, and that must suffice. but before interrogating me, please have a clerk here to write it all down, for i should like those at vienna to have the truth in my own words. i would especially wish the emperor to know it, and his kind uncle, ludwig." the governor was going to retort sharply, but he restrained himself; the man after all had not desired anything improper. but the shock had been too great to enable him to open proceedings on the spot. "you will be interrogated to-morrow morning," he said, "and, whatever your misdeeds, it shall be set over against them that you have given yourself up of your own free will. i will not have you put in irons, and no one shall dare to insult you; but i shall have you well guarded." "do whatever the law requires," replied taras. "but there is no fear of my escaping again, even if never a door were locked upon me. it is my conscience which brought me hither, and it will keep me here. indeed, if any one attempted to set me free against my will, i should oppose him as an enemy." the governor had nothing more to say, beyond ordering the prisoner's removal to the city gaol. but taras looked at him. "there is yet one thing," and his voice quivered; "may i speak to this gentleman--it is something i have deeply at heart." the governor nodded assent, and starkowski went up to the prisoner. "ah, sir," said taras, "i pray you not to believe that after all i turned a robber and murderer! i daresay you heard that i have had zukowski killed, the poor old baron at borsowka. i have; but i have been grievously deceived by evil men, on whose honesty i relied. i was fully persuaded i had judged righteously in this case also. i appeal to you--you know that i never yet told a lie--will you believe me?" "i will--i do," said the lawyer, holding out his hand. but taras did not take it, there was a strange agitation in his face, he shook, and before the lawyer could prevent it, he had fallen on his knees, covering starkowski's hand with kisses and tears. "ah, sir," he sobbed, "this is the most merciful word you have spoken in your life!" he rose and followed his keepers. an hour later special messengers were speeding in all directions to announce to the magistrates and military authorities that the great trouble was at an end, that the avenger was in safe keeping of his own free will. at colomea itself the news was flying from house to house, being received everywhere with exultant satisfaction. two men only, whose interest in taras's fate, because a personal one, was of the liveliest, were rather aghast at the news, calling their mortal enemy a fool for his pains, because he had put his head into the noose. one of these worthies was mr. ladislas kapronski, who had been obliged after all to return from lemberg, not of his own choice, but because of the importunity of his immediate superiors, which left but two ways open to him, either to accept their pressing invitation or to quit the service. so he had arrived, hoping to escape with a sharp reproof; but the very first meeting of the board showed he was not likely to be dealt with in a spirit of leniency, the district governor being especially vicious in the virtuous kapronski's opinion. nevertheless, he clang to his hope, giving the lie unblushingly to all accusations, since the one witness to be dreaded, even taras, could not so easily be confronted with him; and who else should know whether he had perverted his message or not? so he carried his head high, and his collapse was sad to behold when, at a late hour that evening, the news reached him, "taras is in safe keeping!" he jumped from his seat as though an adder had stung him; but, alas! there was no use in his rushing abroad to inquire whether it could really be true, since the strange rudeness--or, perhaps, deafness only--of his closer acquaintances had appeared of late to affect most people at colomea, and now kapronski in addressing any honest citizen could never be sure of a hearing! so he did not go forth from his chamber, but fell to chewing the bitter cud of retribution, listening intently for what terrible affirmation might come flying in to him through his open windows from the excited streets. the news plainly was a fact! but if his cogitations were misery, what then must be said of that other one who deprecated taras's act of surrender, mr. wenceslas hajek, the ex-mandatar of zulawce? this gentleman quite lately, at the invitation of two constables, had exchanged his princely residence at the castle of drinkowce for the more modest abode of a prison cell, and this quite in spite of--or, in fact, rather because of--his sudden desire for a change of air in distant parts. it had transpired that he was quietly on to paris. he had been admitted to bail, when proceedings were commenced against him on account of the discovered perjury, and the constables caught him in the very act of strapping his travelling bag. he was naturally annoyed at being thus overreached; but the virtuous wanda, who had not intended to accompany him on his travels, most heroically witnessed his discomfiture, watching his being carried off with truly stoical calmness--she might even have been a spartan matron! "good riddance," she said quietly, "if they would but keep you in prison; it's the one place for you!" whereupon he, gathering together the shreds of masculine courage, retorted: "hell itself would be delightful if i had a chance of going thither without you!" from which amiable passage of arms the reader may infer that this marriage, founded on a love just about equalled by the mutual respect of the contracting couple, had turned out as happily as might have been foreseen, the actual result being that herr bogdan von antoniewicz even now was taking measures to bring his daughter's case into the divorce court. but mr. hajek, who, it will be remembered, had prepared against such a contingency, felt no sorrows on this head; and indeed a husband blessed with a wife of the countess wanda's description might be tolerably certain that any inquiry into her character would bring to light ample mitigation of any blots in his. but if his domestic concerns sat easy on him, all the greater was his anxiety concerning that other trial, since there was no saying where a close inquiry might not land him, especially as his under-steward, boleslaw stipinski, had been so very foolish as to allow himself to be caught. still, while boleslaw had a tongue left wherewith to deny all charges as unblushingly as hajek himself, the mandatar need not give himself up for lost--not while the only man who could witness to most of his crimes was far away, and not likely to be got hold of. what, then, must have been the feelings of the brazen-faced prisoner that evening when a call from the echoing corridor resounded in his cell, and he understood the words: "look sharp, boys, they are bringing the avenger!" it was the chief warder calling upon his fellow gaolers. there was a running to and fro and a confusion of voices, followed presently by the usual silence of the place. and when the death-like stillness had again settled down the wretched man tried to persuade himself that he had been dreaming; but the early morning dispelled this delusion, his inquiry eliciting a gruff reply from the warder going his rounds. "taras? yes, he is on this very floor, more's the pity you cannot communicate with him," said the surly attendant, never perceiving the irony of his speech. early in the forenoon the new prisoner was brought to his preliminary examination, herr von bauer conducting it in person; and in accordance with his stated intention taras yielded the fullest information concerning himself and his late doings, but refused persistently whatever might tend to incriminate his followers. he readily mentioned those who had led him into the murder at borsowka; but not a fact, not a name besides, was to be got out of him. nor could he be brought to give the slightest clue towards inculpating such of the peasants as had assisted his work by their contributions for the maintenance of his men. "they have aided and abetted a criminal course," he said; "but they did it with the best of intentions for the love of their suffering neighbours, and believing it to be the will of god." "it might be better for you to give their names," said the governor, not unkindly, "for if you do not, how is it to be proved that you are speaking the truth? these contributions might be a myth, and you be taken for a common bandit after all, who committed murder for the sake of gain. are you prepared to face this?" "if the almighty will thus punish me, i shall bear it," said he, sadly. "he knows i have spoken the truth." the trial concluded with those questions laid as a duty upon the judge, even with the worst of criminals, ever since the great empress left her womanly influence upon the austrian law. "do you desire spiritual assistance?" inquired the governor. "not now," said taras; "i need no one to come between me and the almighty. when death is at hand i will thankfully receive the holy sacrament, and i would ask you then to send for the parish priest of zulawce, father leo, who on palm sunday gave me his promise to come to me whenever i should need him. he will do so." "and have you any message to be transmitted to your wife?" the extreme pallor of his face yielded to a flush which rose to the very roots of his hair. "no," he said faintly. "my wife was right in saying i had forfeited my claims on her and the children. it were sheer goodness and mercy on her part to remember me now. but since it is so, i must not ask for it; i can only wait." but waiting for the prompting of her love seemed vain. throughout the dreary tune of the legal proceedings, which lasted nearly four months, neither the pope nor anusia visited the prisoner. the only human being who during all this sad time requested permission for occasional intercourse with the accused was dr. starkowski, who could not visit him in his capacity as legal defender till after the protracted inquiry, but prayed to be admitted as a friend. and he was allowed to see the prisoner occasionally in the presence of the chief warder, finding the unhappy man, for whom he had a truehearted sympathy, strangely quiet. "i have nothing to complain of," taras would say; "i could not have expected anything else. and, calling to mind the terrible hour when that girl in her agony of remorse confessed to me how i had been deceived, this present time seems happiness in comparison. i am bearing the just punishment for my deeds even on this side of the grave--it is all i must ask for at the hand of man." "all?" repeated the lawyer, with a peculiar stress on the word, and it seemed to him a very duty of christian charity to offer to the unhappy man his willingness to plead with anusia. "it will be no trouble," he added, rather awkwardly; "i have business at zulawce, and might as well go and see her." "i pray you not to do so," said taras, earnestly. "it would be a bitter trial to her to have to speak about me to a stranger, and i have brought on her so much suffering already that it is not for me to add to it." starkowski nevertheless endeavoured to mediate, but in vain. father leo himself dissuaded him from his well-meant purpose. "believe me, sir," said the honest priest, sadly, "there is nothing to be done. if human pleading availed anything, my entreaty would have done so! but no prayer and no exhortation will bend the iron purpose of that woman. this is the reason why i have refrained hitherto from going to colomea: i have not the heart to meet him with no better news than this." "well, perhaps a stranger may be more successful," said starkowski, and went over to taras's farm. but he was met in the yard by halko, with a message from his mistress. she did not desire to see him, the young man said wistfully, unless he were sent on business of the trial. towards the close of january, , the inquiry was concluded; but, after all, not much more had come to light than had been known with more or less of exactness before. and if, on the one hand, it was beyond a doubt that taras was guilty of the death of a great number of men, having brought loss and suffering to others, so also it proved a matter of certainty that in every case he had granted to the victim a kind of judicial inquiry, punishing them upon conviction. also there was a considerable amount of actual evidence in his favour, baron zborowski, of hankowce, especially doing his utmost in his behalf. on the whole a fairly just estimate of the man's activity during those seven months of the reign of terror in the land had been arrived at, but not a clue had been obtained concerning his fellows and helpers, who appeared simply to have vanished. one of his late followers only was caught--karol wygoda, whose whereabouts taras himself had suggested. this wretch denied the charge persistently, until confronted with his former hetman, a look of whose eye sufficed to crush the man, whereupon he made a full confession, including the crime he had instigated at borsowka. but not only in this case was it apparent that taras had in no wise lost his strange power over men; none of the perjured witnesses of zulawce could hold out against him at the bar. but the most flagrant proof of the awe he still inspired, perhaps, was this, that mr. hajek, on the mere announcement of the governor's "i shall confront you with taras to-morrow," fainted outright, and upon recovering his senses declared himself ready to confess on the spot. no doubt he acted from the consciousness that conviction was unavoidable, and that it would be useless to harass his feelings by so painful an interview. kapronski, on the contrary, felt that all his future career depended on the ordeal of a meeting with taras, and, fortifying his flunkey spirit with this consideration, he tried hard to strike terror into the soul of the convicted bandit; but he collapsed woefully, and blow upon blow the righteous wrath of taras came down upon his head. it was a strange sight these two--the one covered with the blood of his fellows, the other legally guilty at worst of a breach of discipline--but no one could doubt for a moment which of them was the nobler and better man. on the last day of the inquiry the governor put the question to taras who should be his advocate. "ah!" said taras, "am i permitted to choose? i would have dr. starkowski in that case, for he will do his best for me." "certainly," replied the governor, continuing with some surprise; "have not you assured me again and again you had done with life? yet you seem to rest confidence in the success of your advocate." "oh," returned taras, "i never doubted the justice of my having to die; that is settled, and i would not have him or any one else endeavour to get me off. but there is another important matter in which i sorely need counsel." what this might be starkowski learned on his first professional visit to the prisoner. "they will not believe me," said taras sadly; "they doubt the truth of my having maintained the band honestly, partly out of my own means, partly with the freewill contributions of well-meaning folks. and yet i cannot name any of those who helped me, for fear of their having to suffer for it. is there no help, but that the suspicion most rest on me and mine, that i committed murder for vulgar gain's sake?" the lawyer endeavoured to comfort him, saying he hoped to dispel this charge, proving it at variance with the character of his client, which was plainly apparent in the evidence. "but let us speak of something else now," he added, "which is more important--your own fate." "why, that is settled," replied taras, quietly; "i have shed blood and must atone for it with my own. please do not try to overthrow that!" "now, listen to me," said the lawyer, "there is such a thing as common sense. you have given yourself up of your own free will to satisfy justice; this is enough for your conscience, and it would be simply wicked in you to clamour to be hanged. try to judge calmly in this respect. looking at facts, of course i cannot doubt that the jury will find you guilty, because the law must have its course, but i have hopes that the emperor may pardon you. there are strong reasons for a recommendation to mercy. moreover, it is plain that the old archduke ludwig is interested in you, and he will not fail to plead in your favour." "will you listen to me now?" said taras, quietly, when his counsel had finished. "i can have no other wish in this matter than to see that carried out which i have been striving for all my life--that is justice; and a sentence of death alone would be just! i can not prevent the emperor pardoning me if he is so minded, but i will not have you petition him in my name. there is one favour only i would ask, if it comes to the dying ..." he paused, a shudder running through his frame. "i know," said the lawyer, deeply affected, "you would like to be shot and not hung. father leo told me; old jemilian come to him once secretly for confession ... take comfort, i think i can promise you that much, if indeed it must come to the worst." towards the end of february, taras was sentenced to death--"to be hung by the neck"--there could not have been any other verdict. but he was informed at the same time that the parishes of ridowa and zulawce, as well as baron zborowski, had petitioned the emperor for mercy. that same day starkowski addressed a letter to father leo, acquainting him also with the sentence, and imploring him once again to try his influence with anusia. the pope was deeply grieved. "alas," he said to his wife, "even this news will not move the woman, and what else could i tell her? have i not striven with her to the utmost?" "you must try yet again," said the good little popadja; "it is the most sacred duty in all this life of yours." "i am sure of that," he said, sorrowfully; "and my heart bleeds at the thought that once more i must plead in vain for her poor husband! i am truly sorry for anusia herself, and shall never cease befriending her, but this hard-heartedness, this horrible power of vindictiveness in a woman fills me with loathing." with a heavy heart he set out on his mission, finding anusia in her sitting-room, her eldest boy, wassilj, at her feet, reading to her with a clear voice from some book of spiritual comfort. on beholding her visitor, she gave a nod and ordered the little boy to leave them alone, but the child hesitated, obeying her repeated command reluctantly. she rose and went up to the pope with the icy quiet which had grown habitual with her; but her face was fearfully worn, and she looked quite an old woman now. there was scarcely a tremor in her voice. "i know what you have come for," she said "he has been sentenced to death." "yes," he replied. "but if ever----" "stop!" she interrupted; "would you have me and the children be present at----" "anusia!" he cried; "it is awful--fearful; do you know that your life-long repentance will never atone for this cruelty of heart?" "is that what you think?" she said, hoarsely; "and do you know how i loved him? do you know the depth of my suffering? god knows----" "do not call on him," cried the pope, passionately; "he is holy and pitiful, and has nothing in common with the hardness of men." "priest," she said, confronting him wildly; "how dare you come between him and me? his understanding me is the one hope which keeps me from madness----" and a cry burst from her; she fell at his feet, clinging to his knees, moaning: "ah, turn not away from me! try and consider the agony of my heart!" he lifted her gently, making her sit down on a chair. "i do consider it," he said; "and i have borne this sorrow with you throughout. but do not think you can lessen it by being unforgiving and hard.... come with me and see him," he added, folding his hands with his heart's entreaty; "it is his dying wish, will you not grant it? i will not plead his right to look for his wife and children." "no, certainly," she interrupted him, and he shuddered at the cold denial glistening in her eyes; "he gave up his rights when he left us with no better excuse than his mad longing to obtain justice for any stranger. he could not have complained of me if i had told him as early as palm sunday, 'i cannot prevent your going, but you cease to be my husband,' i did not say that, i did not upbraid him, but i knelt to him and wept at his feet. he saw the agony of my soul, and went his way. i did not cease loving him, i only strove to save the children from his ruin. he would not have hesitated to make me the recipient of his plans, the go-between transmitting his messages to the village. he only thought of his work, never of what might come to us! and when we were taken to prison for his sake, he only said, 'and though they kill them i must go on with this cause!' can a husband, a father, nay, a human being act thus? and when we were set free, and you and i went to see him, to entreat him to forego this life of bloodshed and murder lest his wife and children should have to bear the last fearful disgrace, did he listen to us? 'i cannot help it, i must go on,' he said. and neither can i help it now," she added, with a bitter moan; "he has brought me to it, and must bear the consequences!" "and do you think this will help you to bear it?" said the pope. "can it in any way lessen your sorrow?" "no!" she cried; "but it is just! just! i am treating him as he treated me!" "and is it justice you look for from your saviour?" said he; "is it your deserts you will plead when you hope for his mercy in that day?" he paused solemnly, but once again he strove with her entreatingly, pleading for love and for pity. she moved not, and he could not see her face, for she had covered it with her hands; but when a sob burst from her ice-bound heart, and the tears welled through her fingers, hope rose within him, and, continuing to speak to her gently, he lifted his soul to god that the words might be given him which could touch her and carry light into the darkness of her fearful despair. neither of them heard the door open, both starting when suddenly the voice of little wassilj was heard sobbing amid his tears. "let me help you, father leo," faltered the child, "mother will listen to us, surely. and if she will not go with you, take me, please, for i love father dearly!" at these words an agonised cry burst from the woman's heart; she caught up the boy and covered him with tears and kisses, crying: "i will go--i will go!" two days later starkowski, with a flush on his face, entered the convict's cell. "taras," he cried, "i am glad to tell you--your wife----" "is she coming?" faltered taras. "o god, is it possible?" he had risen, but staggered back to his chair--it was too much for him. starkowski left him quietly; in his stead anusia had entered the cell. and husband and wife once more stood clasped to each other's heart. the governor allowed anusia to spend many hours with the prisoner. they spoke of the past, of the children's future, of the village, and everything they had in common--one subject only they both avoided, the ghastly event which soon would separate them for this life. taras took leave of her and the children every evening as tenderly as though it were the eve of his final doom, but he never referred to it, and anusia in her secret heart took it as a sign that after all he hoped for a pardon. on the th of may, , the decision arrived from vienna. the emperor had confirmed the sentence; a pardon could not be granted because "the notoriety of the case required the law to have its course." but it was left with the district governor to make all further arrangements and decide the mode of execution. it so happened that father leo was with the governor early in the day when the decree arrived; he had come to beg for an interview with the convict, and dr. starkowski having been sent for, the three entered the cell together. taras knew at once what they had come for, his face grew white, but he could stand erect, requiring no support, while the sentence was being imparted to him. "you will be shot to-morrow morning," said the district governor. "father leo will go with you. your execution shall not be a spectacle for the curious, for which reason i have fixed an early hour, and chosen a place at some distance--a quiet glen on the way to zablotow, where a deserter was shot some time ago. none but myself and another magistrate will be present, and the fact will be kept secret to-day. would you desire your wife to accompany you?" "no," said taras, "and i pray you not to tell her anything. we have settled everything, and i shall take leave of her and the children this evening just in the usual way, as though we were to meet again to-morrow. i think this will be the best course for her." and he carried out this pious deception with a wondrous strength of purpose, passing the day in quiet intercourse with her and their children. when she had left in the evening, utterly unconscious of the final parting, he was removed to another cell, lit up and provided with altar and crucifix, to spend his last night in the customary way. father leo took his confession, taras's voice being low and earnest, but he was very calm; and having received absolution and the sacrament at the hands of his friend, he passed the rest of the night in silent prayer. at daybreak the following morning, when the town yet lay buried in sleep, three carriages drove away in the direction of zablotow, the governor and a brother magistrate occupying the first, the condemned man, father leo, and a couple of soldiers the second, some more soldiers in the third bringing up the rear. it was a perfect morning of spring. taras drew deep breaths of the fragrant air, and his eye rested on the blossoming fruit-trees by the way. "god is kind to me," he said, turning to the pope, "letting his sun rise brightly on my dying hour." "yes, god is good," said the pope, "he is always kinder than men ..." the poor priest spoke his inmost feeling, but he regretted it almost immediately--was it for him to drop bitterness into the heart of the dying man? but taras only shook his head. "it is your grief for me which makes you unjust, father leo," he said, quietly. "i have thought deeply these last days, and i see there is much to be thankful for! i may be at rest, too, concerning my poor wife; and as for my children, i am certain you and anusia will bring them up rightly, and they will live to be good." "i will not fail in my duty by them; i shall look upon it as a holy vow," said the pope solemnly. and he kept it faithfully. the children of taras are alive to this day, honoured and loved by their neighbours, richly blessed, too, in outward circumstances; and wassilj barabola would long ago have been made judge of his village had he not declined the distinction, remembering the promise he gave to his father. "and even as regards myself!" said taras. "all my life long i have endeavoured to farther the right and promote justice, and if i have done grievous wrong myself, yet i have not failed entirely. but for this strife of mine, oppression would be more rampant than it is now; my own parish would not have received back the field of which we were defrauded, and the wicked mandatar would not have been replaced by a man who means well by the peasants. so you see, dear friend, the grace of god has been with me after all! i have not lived in vain; as for my evil deeds, i now pay the penalty, as is right and meet. why should i complain!" "oh, taras!" cried leo, "what a heart was yours, and to come to such an end!" "nay," said taras, "i am poor and sinful, and my pride was great; yet i always longed for the right, and to see it done was my heart's desire. the judge of men, i trust, will be merciful to me." "amen!" said leo, with stifled voice, and he began to say the prayers, taras repeating the words after him fervently. they reached the glen. the sentence was read, and the priest resumed prayers. taras stood up. the soldiers fired, and he was struck to the heart. he lay still in death, and his face bore an expression of deep content. they buried him where he fell. there is no cross to show his grave, but the place to this day is known to the people as "the glen of taras." footnotes: [footnote : these mountaineers, like the tirolese, know but one pronoun in addressing high or low, the "thou" being used throughout the story in the original; but their straightforward simplicity may be sufficiently apparent, though substituting the english "you."] [footnote : forced labour, a reminiscence of villanage, surviving in slavonic countries.] [footnote : one of a church choir.] [footnote : soldiers.] [footnote : the fur mantle.] [footnote : orthodox jews wear on their chest a short garment with fringes according to the rabinical tradition; _vide_ numbers xv. .] the end. transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=zqozaaaayaaj . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. . lacunae in english version were compared to the german edition (ehre). corrections to english version are shown in bold. page , rd para., end of last sentence: wird zur gewißheit. linda's mutter hat ihn betrogen? linda weiß nichts! becomes certain that linda's mother has deceived him; linda knows nothing! page , th para, first sentence: da fordert der priester sein "ja!" then the priest demands his "yes!" page , para. : --reine farbenpatzen.--sind von einer schlamperei diese franzosen!--daß sich wirklich noch jemand von ihnen prellen läßt!" so schließt papa harfink, der kunstkritiker. --regular daubs of colors. these frenchmen are tricky. really, people are cheated by them. thus concludes papa harfink, the art critic. page , para. : sie aß ohne ziererei und ohne gier, nippte nur an dem champagner, lächelte gutwillig über die frechsten scherze, ob sie selbe verstand oder auch nicht verstand, mit der resignation eines geschöpfes, das es gewohnt ist, sich auf diese weise sein brot zu verdienen. she ate without affectation and without greediness--only sipped the champagne, smiled good-naturedly at the boldest jokes, whether she understood them or not, with the resignation of a being who was accustomed to earn her bread in this manner. page , para. : die alte manuela schnarchte längst. einige der offiziere waren melancholisch geworden, ... the old manuela had long been snoring. some the officers had grown melancholy, ... page , para. : er pflegte sie, wie ein bräutigam die rosenknospe, die ihm seine liebe braut geschenkt hat--ja, so pflegte felix die welke gelbe blume, die der coulissenstaub beschmutzt--auf die ein akrobat getreten haben mochte! he cherished it like a lover the rose-bud which his dear one had given him; yes, thus would felix cherish the faded yellow flower which the dust [in the wings] of the stage had soiled--upon which an acrobat might have trodden. [illustration: elsa springs up--she listens breathlessly.] felix lanzberg's expiation by ossip schubin translated by Élise l. lathrop illustrated new york worthington company broadway copyright, , by worthington company press of j. j. little & co. astor place, new york felix lanzberg's expiation. i. "my dear falk, do not tear past me so unheedingly, i beg you! do you, then, not recognize me?" thus a stout old lady cries in a deep rough voice to a gentleman whose arm she has energetically grasped with both hands. the gentleman--his carriage betokens a retired officer; his wrinkles betray him to be a contemporary of the lady--starts back. "oh! it is you, baroness!" cries he, and half recalls that forty years or so ago he was an admirer of hers, and remembers very distinctly that last winter he had quarrelled with her at whist on account of a revoke. "i am indescribably pleased," he adds, with well-bred resignation, and at the same time glances after a passing blonde chignon whose coquettish curls float to and fro as if they said "catch me!" "ah, ah! age does not protect you from folly!" laughs the old woman. "she interests you, the person with the yellow hair, eh? dyed, my dear man, dyed, i assure you. it is not worth the trouble to run after her. her back is pretty, _mais pour le reste!_ hm! sit down and talk to me for a little!" the yellow chignon has vanished round a corner and the energetic old woman has drawn her ex-adorer down on a bench in the meagre shade of a watering-place promenade, upon a grass-green bench under gray-brown trees. it is in franzensbad in july; afternoon; around them the sleepy stillness of a place where there is nothing to do and one cannot amuse one's self. some ladies, pale, sickly, dressed with the grotesque elegance which is permissible in a watering-place, pass, some with arms bare to the elbow, others with pearls round their necks, still others with floating hair. "how glad i am, my dear colonel!" cries the old baroness to her captive, for at least the tenth time. "but how are you, pray tell me? no! where do you get your elixir of life? you remain so fabulously young!" in fact the colonel, closely shaven and dressed in the latest fashion, slender and active as he is, at a hundred paces looks like a young dandy; at twenty paces, at least like the mummy of one. still he parries the old lady's compliments, while he shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders disparagingly. "positively--positively!" croaks the old woman. "and now tell me what is the news with you people in marienbad? it is not in vain that they call you 'le figaro de marienbad.'" marienbad, a few hours distant from franzensbad, is the present stopping place of the colonel. "news? news?" grumbles the colonel. "a mill burned down yesterday, three head of cattle and two men with it." "oh, cease such ordinary, horrible stories. what does society?" "rejoices that it has opportunity of diversion through a fair for charity." "so? ah!--and what else?" "last night princess barenburg's groom hung himself. perhaps that interests you?" "ah, very agreeable that! poor clémence is unfortunate!" says the baroness, compassionately. "yes, the pancini also!" remarks the colonel, and looks down indifferently at the flower in his buttonhole. "why she?" "what? you do not know!" cries the colonel in astonishment. "her last admirer, the polish prince with the unpronounceable name, has turned out to be a circus rider." "the handsome blond with the mysterious political past." "it seems to have been merely a politic silence," jokes the colonel. "_tiens, tiens!_--how delightful--how delightful! but do you know it positively?" she asks with anxious excitement. "positively! nicki arenhain, two years ago in madrid, saw him dressed in a green satin jacket and white tights springing through hoops--she identified him at once. famous story, quite famous." the colonel rubs his hands with satisfaction--the old baroness knocks enthusiastically on the ground with her umbrella, like an animated amateur who applauds her favorite virtuoso. "excellent!" croaks she. "it serves her right, that pancini, who permits herself to be as arrogant as a born lady. it serves her right, the soap-boiler's daughter." "pardon! her father was a pawn-broker--or was in some banking business--i really do not remember----" "it is all the same--she will have to step down now. bravo! bravo!" "i know something else, baroness," says the colonel proudly, and smiling slyly. "a decided bit of news, _pour la bonne bouche_!" "well?" "felix lanzberg is to be married." the baroness is speechless; she opens her mouth, stares at the colonel, clutches his arm, and only after several seconds she stammers softly: "the--the--certain--lanzberg?" "yes--it is considered certain." "whom?" "look around." the baroness looks around. in the back seat of a carriage just rolling past them sit two ladies, one of whom, a woman in the fifties, tastelessly dressed, loaded with cameos and florentine mosaics, has the piercing eyes, the excessive thinness as well as the aimless, twitching movements of a very uneasy temperament, while her neighbor at the left, beautiful and young, lazily crumpling her striking toilet, leans back among the cushions, the embodiment of dissatisfied indolence. a student with a bright red cap occupies the small seat opposite. on the box, usurping the coachman's raised seat, is a short individual with a crimson cravat between a blue shirt and purple face, a short, bright yellow foulard coat and large panama hat. he smacks his lips incessantly at the horses, in driving holds his elbows far out from his sides so that one could easily place a travelling bag under each arm, and groans and puffs from exertion and attention. near him, faultlessly erect, arms solemnly crossed on his chest, sits a majestic coachman, every feature expressing the despair of a distinguished servant who, in a weak hour, had let himself be persuaded to enter the service of an ordinary millionnaire. "who is this elegant gentleman?" asked the baroness, raising her lorgnon, still wholly absorbed in contemplating the interesting foulard back. "felix lanzberg's future father-in-law, mr. harfink." "he?" sighs the baroness, emphatically. "poor felix! he does not deserve such punishment." the colonel shrugs his shoulders. "what punishment? he is not marrying the father, and the daughter is charming--a refined beauty, a truly aristocratic girl, and i do not believe that she will ever worry lanzberg by especial clinging to her parental house. now i must part from you, _nolens volens_, baroness--regret it deeply--i have a letter to deliver to the countess dey." "i will go with you, i will go with you," cries the old lady, animatedly. "give me your arm and imagine it was forty years ago." and he, in his quality of man of the world condemned to perpetual politeness, gives her his arm and walks on laughing and chatting, at the side of the colossally stout woman with the servile, nodding little head--a martyr of _bon ton_. the colonel and his friend were both fond of gossip--with the difference that the colonel, an independent man, related scandal for his own pleasure, while the baroness very often did so to please others. her name was baroness klettenstein, but usually she was simply called _klette_ (burr) because she could never be shaken off. she also had a second equally pretty nickname. in consequence of her indestructible life at the cost of others--she was remarkably robust for her sixty-six years--she had been christened the "immortal cantharide." hungrily she crept from one house to another, gained admission by a budget of malicious news, which, as we have seen, she collected indefatigably, at times even invented. she always rendered homage to the rising, never remembered even to have known the setting sun. and when, weary of her tiring parasitism, she rested in her tiny room at prague, which was the only home she possessed, she swore that she would have been just as unselfish, just as truth-loving and discreet as others, if only her income had sufficed for her needs. out of breath and panting, she entered the park on the arm of the colonel. the bandmaster, a pole with an interesting, revolutionist face, swings the baton with graceful languor. the ladies, leaning back in their white chairs on either side of the broad gravel walk, look weary, limp, and melancholy in their gay gowns, like flowers which a too hot sunbeam has withered and faded. they are worn, thin, and colorless, but for their toilets; but the transparent paleness of their faces, the excessive thinness of their forms lends them a certain charm, something fairylike and distinguished, refinedly aristocratic and undine-like. invalidism is less becoming to the men at the cure; many of them resemble corpses which an enterprising physiologist has exhumed to experiment upon. the first row of tables are already occupied, but an attendant, understanding the klette's glance, brings forward another from the rear and places it where she is told. hereupon the baroness calls for coffee for two, and invites the colonel in the most polite manner to sit beside her, and as he cannot deny that from this spot, purposely chosen by the klette for a fine view of all present, he can soonest espy countess dey whom he has sought in vain, he resolves to await her here. slowly the guests stroll along the promenade: most noticeable of all, admired or at least stared at by all, linda harfink. her large, dark hat with its scarlet feather throws a mysterious shadow on her pale face; a black lace scarf is twisted round her throat and tied in a careless knot behind. her pale green dress clings tightly, and yet in folds around her figure. near her walks a young man, blond and handsome; in spite of his handsome figure and nero-profile, too foppish and dandified, too strikingly dressed in the latest fashion, to be taken for any one but an elegant _parvenu_. "who is he?" asks klette, her mouth full of bread, a coffee cup in her hand. "a young baron rh[oe]den, born grau. the family was ennobled five years ago, and since then only call themselves by the predicate," replies the colonel. "a cousin of linda--very nice fellow--_garçon coiffeur_, but very nice for his sphere--seems to be uncommonly smitten with his cousin." through the evening air floats a sentimental potpourri from the "flying dutchman." the harfinks, who wish to return the same evening to marienbad, where they are staying, have left the park. gazing down in coquettish silence at a rose in her hand, linda has vanished through the gateway of the park, on the arm of her cousin, in the golden light of the setting sun. "colonel!" now cries a gay voice. "ah, countess!" intently gazing after linda's seductive apparition, the colonel had not noticed the approach of the so-long-awaited countess dey. now he springs up, "falls at her feet, kisses her hands," naturally only with words, and searches all his pockets for the letter for her. the countess meanwhile, with lorgnon at her eyes, indifferently gazes at her surroundings. "i just met a little person who is considered a great beauty--hopfing or harpfink is her name, i believe. they say that lanzberg is engaged to her--that cannot be true?" "i have heard so too," says the colonel. "curious match--what do you say to it, countess?" "felix lanzberg is as unfortunate as ever," murmurs the countess. but klette shrugs her fat shoulders and hisses: "what does it matter if a certain lanzberg makes a mésalliance?" ii. a tall form, slender, perhaps too narrow-shouldered, with too long arms, a small head with bushy, light brown hair fastened in a thick knot low on her neck, a golden furze at neck and temples, a pale, almost sallow, little face with large blue eyes, which love to look up and away from the earth like those of a devout cherub, a short, small nose, a little mouth which, with the corners slightly curving up, seems destined by nature for continual laughter, but later evidently disturbed by fate in this gay calling, in every movement the dreamy grace of a woman who, when scarcely grown, had experienced a great misfortune or a severe illness, all this pervaded by a breath of fanciful earnestness, melancholy tenderness, and united into an harmonious whole--elsa--the sister of the "certain felix lanzberg," and since five years the wife of the freiherr von garzin. she is like a flower, but not like one of those proud, luxuriant roses which pass their life amid sunbeams and butterflies, but rather one of those delicate, white blossoms which have grown in deep shadow during a cold spring, and which close their petals from the sun. "mamma, the letters dance again to-day," complains a little voice, the voice of felicie, elsa's four-year-old daughter, who with bare legs, her little form encased in a red embroidered gray linen frock, her towzled yellow curls fastened with a red ribbon, stands before her mamma. elsa sits in a deep arm-chair, an alphabet on her knees. "look very hard at the naughty letters and they will be quiet," says she with a smile. she finds that felicie makes that excuse of dancing letters too often. the child tries to look hard at the letters. "m--a," spells she. "mamma," she cries in great triumph at having spelled out a word which she knows so well. "bravo, litzi!" litzi leans closely, closely against her mother's knees. "mamma, the letters are tired," whispers she, "they want to go to sleep." and elsa this time thinks that one cannot expect too much industry from such a tiny little bit of humanity, so she kisses the child and says, "well, put them to bed, then." whereupon, litzi, with much pretext of business, puts the alphabet away in the drawer, while elsa, leaning back comfortably in her arm-chair, her feet crossed, her arms clasped around her knees, gives herself up to that lazy thinking which with happy people is called reverie, with unhappy ones brooding. the room in which she sits, half boudoir, half library, furnished with tall book-cases, étagères, old faience and japanese lacquer work, and filled with the perfume of the sweetest flowers, is an ideal nest for a young woman of good taste and serious habits. "mamma, why must i learn to read?" asks litzi after a while. "so as to be a wise girl," replies elsa, absently. "mamma, can the dear god read too?" "the dear god can do everything that he wishes," says elsa, with difficulty restraining her laughter. "everything?" asks the little one, with great, surprised eyes. "could he make fido into a cow?" fido, a white bull-dog with pointed black ears and a black spot on his shoulder, raises his upper lip and shows his teeth pleasantly as a sign that he, clever dog that he is, notices when he is spoken of. "the dear god does not wish to do foolish things," says elsa, very seriously. "but if he wanted to?" the door opens. fido rises from the streak of sunlight in which he has been lying. "papa!" cries litzi, and a young man, blond, with unusually attractive dark eyes, seizes her under the shoulders, and raising her to him he says: "litzi, litzi, you are a dear little mouse, but a great big goose. accustom yourself to the conditional." "what is conditional?" "a form of expression which leads one to much useless conjecture." "but, erwin!" laughingly admonishes elsa. "perhaps you did not wholly understand me, litzi?" he asks, drolly staring at the child. she shakes her head, and says somewhat vexedly, "you are laughing at me, papa." "only a very little bit, so that you may get used to it, you pretty little scamp, you," says he, tenderly pinching her cheeks, "and now you may go to mlle. angelique, and ask her to put a clean dress and a pretty sash on you, for uncle felix is coming to dinner. can you find the way?" he has placed her on the ground, and led her to the door, then looks after her until, calling "angelique! angelique!" she is met by a pretty french _bonne_. "and how is your highness?" he now turns to his wife, who holds out both hands to him. "how long it is since one has seen you to-day," says she. "has 'one' missed me a little?" "do not ask such foolish questions!" "thanks! i was very busy or else i should have burdened you with my presence sooner," says he, gayly. "and now give me your keys, so that i can put away your money." "oh, my quarterly allowance. how much is it?" he hands her a little bundle of bank-notes. "count!" "i do not understand, it is different every time. you always give me more than is due me," replies she, shaking her head. "leave me this innocent pleasure. you are always in debt," says he, while he locks the notes in a drawer of her writing-desk. erwin never would acknowledge the equal rights of woman with regard to the cares of life. he was pleased that elsa, who read the most abstract treatises on political economy, did not understand an iota of business. he had purposely left her in this darkness, and she did not fight against it. he paid her the interest of her property, insisted that she should spend it exclusively upon her poor and her own fancies, and she never asked what he did with the capital. "may i write here?" he asks over his shoulder, sitting down at her writing-desk then, without waiting for an answer. "a lady's writing-desk without invitations and charitable circulars. the inspector has become confused about that farm business of your little _protégé_ in johannesthal." he writes quickly. "the inspector is good for nothing," grumbles elsa. "that is to say, he is newly married." erwin defends his bailiff. "there, that is done. you can tell your little friend that it is all arranged. hm! elsa! do you think that i would have been much more practical during our honeymoon than my inspector?" "ah, you," says elsa, who evidently does not understand how her husband can compare himself to his overseer, cibulka. he has laid aside his pen and now pushes his chair lazily up to hers. "you will make marks in my carpet, you careless man," says she. "do not cry," he says, consolingly. "i will buy you a new one, as the banker said to his daughter when her husband died." "i congratulate you on your fine comparison," says she, kissing his hair lightly. "now i must dress for dinner." "already? am i to be sentenced to read the paper?" it was a little more than five years ago that erwin garzin had come to his estate of steinbach adjoining the beautiful lanzberg traunberg in order to arrange his business after the death of his father. elsa, with whom he had as boy played many a trick, he had found a grown girl. at that time nineteen years old, her mind, matured by pain, was far in advance of her years, her body far behind. she had the slender, undeveloped form of a child too quickly grown, and carried her head always bent forward, like a young tree over which a cold storm has passed, and was always sad and depressed. at times, to be sure, she smiled suddenly like a true child, but only for a moment, and her eyes were almost always moist. she spoke little and had a hollow, almost too deep voice. and yet the first time that erwin heard this hollow voice his heart beat strangely, and that night he lay awake and was angry at the sweet song of a nightingale which disturbed him in his efforts to remember that hollow voice. it was spring-time then, a mixture of showers and rainbows, flowers heavy with dew, bright foliage and mild air. erwin fell hopelessly in love with the pale daughter of old mr. lanzberg. she, however, avoided him, not with that pretty maidenly reserve behind which the coquetry of the future woman usually lurks, but with the shy despondency of a sick owl dreading the light. when he had at length accustomed her to his society he was still miles from his aim. she did not think of what most young girls do. she was wholly absorbed in consoling her bowed father, in pitying her unfortunate brother, at that time dwelling in a far distant land. her heart was full, longed for no other feeling, suspected none, and yet slowly her whole being warmed; something like a cure was effected in her, and the day came when she laid her small hand firmly and confidingly in erwin's and for the first time he whisperingly called her his betrothed. but he had not yet won. soon she expressed her scruples at dragging the shadow which made her so sad under his roof, then at leaving her father. when they proved to her that nothing could so help the bowed man as the consolation of seeing at least one of his children happy, the wedding day was at length appointed. a strange turn suddenly seized her when erwin one day asked her in what part of vienna she would prefer to live. "in vienna?" cried she. "we are to live in the city?" whereupon he replied: "my treasure, you know that i am not a rich man, and the rents of steinbach only just suffice for the support of a very economical couple. therefore i, and you with me are dependent upon my career. but i like to work. i have fine connections, and the times are favorable to ambitious people. you will yet be the wife of an excellency, elsa!" from her pale face it could be read that she did not see the slightest pleasure in being the wife of a governor, ambassador, or minister. her hand grew limp and cold in his, she evaded his caresses, and every time that evening that his glance met hers, her eyes were filled with tears. her exaggerated aversion to the world disquieted him, without seeming to him other than a symptom of diseased nerves; he thought that his loving patience must vanquish it, and when the next morning his servant brought him a letter from elsa, he admired the strange, energetic, large letters of the address, and played with it, firmly convinced that it could not contain anything important. it contained the following: "above all things, many, many thanks for the sympathizing friendship which you have always showed to us, my father and me. never should i have allowed myself to be persuaded into an engagement with you. i should be a lamentable wife for you. i will not hinder you in your career, and i cannot live in the world even for your sake. therefore i give you back your word. i wish you all joy and happiness in the world, and as to me, when you have become a great man, keep a little friendly remembrance of the spring of ' . elsa." what could he do but rush over to traunberg, overwhelm her with tender reproaches, represent to her subtly and incontrovertibly that her shyness was morbid, her yielding to this mood fairly wrong. "am i then nothing to you?" he finally cried, vexedly. then she raised her large eyes, eyes such as raphael has painted in the sweet face of the little john, as he kneels near the sleeping child jesus, his god and his king. "i believe you love a quite different person from me--you do not know me!" she whispered, shaking her head. and erwin flushed crimson and was ashamed of his brutal egoism. he kissed her hands, he would torment her no longer--but he could not give her up. he gave her eight days to consider it--all that remained of his vacation. but he did not gain a step during these eight days. with a heavy heart and hoarse voice he took leave. she smiled. and yet he never felt more plainly that she loved him. her love was that emotion which is above earthly considerations, which is capable of the most painful sacrifices, the most complete renunciation, although, or perhaps because she scarcely thought of marriage; in a word, it was the love of a very young girl. it did not resemble his in the slightest. how shallow his life in vienna and his career now seemed to him; how unattractive, how far away and vague his aim, and even if he did attain all for which he strove. the justifications of a true, warm, longing love are always quite incontrovertible for him whom it guides. elsa stood before the park, under one of the black lindens. it was summer, the lindens bloomed, and a dreamy hum of bees pervaded their gnarled branches. elsa looked through the clear summer air in the direction in which castle steinbach shone white above the wooded valley. then she heard a step--she looked around. it was erwin, thin, in spite of the flush of heat, looking very badly, but with sparkling eyes. "where do you come from?" cried she, trembling with surprise, with happiness. "from the castle, where i sought you in vain. your father did not know where you were." "he was asleep--did you wake him?" "very possibly, but i had no time to reproach myself! oh, elsa, are you not in the least glad to see me? i have resigned--i cannot live without you!" she stood there with loudly beating heart, and embarrassed smile, like a surprised child before a christmas tree. "you pay a high price for a miserable little thing," murmured she, and fairly wept. "happiness desires to be paid dearly for--it seems to me a small one!" whispered he. thereupon she was silent for a moment, looked at him anxiously, solemnly; was it possible that he clung to her, such a weak, insignificant creature? then suddenly, with her lovely look of embarrassment, she threw both arms around him. "oh you----" she cried, and paused because she found no word that in her opinion was great and splendid enough for him. "how i will love you!" it was a risky experiment, to tear himself away from his customary occupation and society, and wish to pass the rest of his life at the side of a nervous misanthropical wife. how did it succeed? he had feared having too little to do, had provided himself with books, quite like a diplomat sent to japan. to his astonished delight, he soon found not only how much there was to occupy him but how much he could accomplish with the income from steinbach, which he had been accustomed to estimate at two or three per cent., and which now daily increased; for the many lives around him whose weal and woe he held in his hands, from the overseer and farmers to the day-laborers, and then elsa! how beautiful she grew after he had slowly kissed away the deep sadness from her face--and how lovely! the frivolous love of pleasure and gayety which is considered normal in young women never developed in her; she always remained quiet, but a dreamy happiness shone continually in her eyes, she was so blissfully happy. what a charming companion! she rode with the endurance and indifferent courage of a man, read everything, was interested in everything, noticed everything, spoke of the most forgotten historical characters as if she had met them yesterday. she rather spurred him on than dragged him down. instead of, as he had feared, growing rusty in the country, he had time for making good much that he had neglected. she went on long journeys with him, but at home associated as little as possible with her neighbors. in these years elsa was apparently one of the happiest women in the world. she was only sad when she thought of felix. her father, shortly after her marriage, blessing her a thousandfold, had died in her arms. felix had returned to his home. iii. the two brothers-in-law sit alone in the circle of light which a garden lamp throws in a corner of the garden shaded by elder trees. dinner is long over, they have ceased laughing at litzi's childish pranks and remarks; she has become sleepy, and elsa has taken her away to lay her in her pretty little white bed. the two men, meanwhile, are smoking their cigars in the open air. "erwin, do you happen to know these harfinks?" felix asks his brother-in-law quite suddenly, in the embarrassed tone of a humiliated, bored man, and with the slightly husky voice which distinguishes all generations of indulgent and effeminate races. the "certain lanzberg" is indisputably of an attractive appearance--the beauty of his sister in a man--and yet softer. all the lines of his face are rounder, less decided; the features of a faultless regularity, the eyes still bluer, and yet the whole face lacks elsa's lovely, evident peace; the eyes are always weary and half closed; his full lips wear a suffering, tormented expression, and the light brown color of his complexion, in its natural color like elsa's, is nevertheless ashy in comparison to her healthy pallor, and furrowed with little wrinkles. "do you know these harfinks?" he asks, softly. "harfink fitted up my sugar factory," replies erwin, and glances closely at his brother-in-law. "in consequence i have met him several times. recently, in marienbad, he reminded me of our acquaintance, and introduced me to his wife and daughter." "strange man!" says felix, shaking his head. "yes, strange, silly! his wife is repulsive, both are very ordinary." "yes, both," repeats felix, and with the toe of his boot draws figures in the sand. "but the daughter?" "well, the daughter?" erwin glances still more attentively at his brother-in-law's face. "she is very well educated," murmurs the latter, indistinctly. "her education was probably acquired in a very noble boarding-school," remarks erwin, dryly. "during the ten minutes of our acquaintance, she used the word 'aristocratic' three times, and twice complained that society in the kursaal was so mixed. besides that, she found the country monotonous, the weather dull, the music '_agacante_,' and concluded by saying, one rails at marienbad and yet it was tiresome everywhere, for her friend laure de lonsigny wrote her quite desperate letters from luchon." felix has flushed more and more deeply during this pitiless account. "poor girl, how embarrassed she must have been," says he, excusingly. "embarrassed?" erwin shrugged his shoulders. "she had a great deal of self-possession." "is not a certain kind of self-possession only a form of embarrassment?" asked felix, shyly. but erwin evidently has no inclination to be lenient to linda's faults. he suspects the approach of something which must shatter felix's undermined existence, and seeks a means of meeting it. "you, perhaps, do not even think her pretty," says felix, vexedly, hesitating. "pretty, no; but dazzlingly beautiful. it is a pity that she has parents who, with all their perversity, are yet so respectable," says erwin with unmistakable emphasis. then felix bursts out: "it is not only horrible, but absolutely indecent to speak of a girl with whom, by your own account, you have spoken for scarcely ten minutes, in such a repulsive manner." and as his brother-in-law, astonished at such an unusual outbreak from felix, yet looks at him without the slightest harshness or coldness, the "certain lanzberg" grows red and murmurs, "pardon that i ventured to reprove you." erwin clenches his fist and opens it again with the gesture of a man who has conquered a painful excitement. such feelings often came over him in intercourse with his brother-in-law, although he felt great pity and much sympathy for the good, shy fellow; but his association with him was never wholly free, open, but always contained a tinge of sympathetic politeness, and there was never that warm abruptness which is a healthy symptom of manly friendship. sad yielding on one side; on the other good-natured advances. this, after a half year's acquaintance, was the relation of the two brothers-in-law. one must--alas! it could not be otherwise--treat felix as a precious but broken and only artificially mended cup of sèvres porcelain. "why does my opinion of the harfinks interest you?" asks erwin, now going straight to his object. for a while there is perfect silence, only animated by the soft voices of the night, and the fluttering of a moth which has wandered behind the tall shade of the garden lamp and has been singed. "erwin!" cries felix, his hands convulsively clasped, in his large feverish eyes a look such as erwin had only once before seen, and then in a dying man's who suddenly longed to live. "do you think that a man like me has a right to marry?" [illustration: "do you think a man like me has a right to marry?"] "no!" sounded harshly and firmly. it was not erwin who answered. in the circle of light which the garden lamp shed amid the gray moonlight, a tall white form had placed itself opposite felix, behind erwin's chair. "no!" erwin himself shudders; his wife seems uncanny. so beautiful, so pale, with such deathly tenderness, must have looked the angel when he drove the beings whom he loved out of paradise. felix lets his head sink in his hands. elsa bends over him and caresses him like a sick child. erwin wishes to withdraw, but felix calls him back. "stay, there are no secrets between us. i should have never dared take the hand which you held out to me, had i not been convinced that you know---- yes, elsa," he continued, very bitterly, "you despise me, it was cowardly, it was unconscionable to even think of it, but if you knew what it is to be weary and alone, with no one on whom to lean for support! to have no one to whom one can be anything, for whom one can sacrifice oneself, to be perpetually condemned to think of oneself when thought is torment and loathing--to be sometimes permitted by pitying people to look on at happiness which awakes all the furies in one--yes, at first it was a comfort to me to flee to you, to breathe the same air with two happy people--but then--your beaming eyes, the little tendernesses of your child, even the alms of love which you gave me, all made my blood hot and me giddy. my god! i have injured no one but myself! must i be condemned for life? ten years is usually considered enough for a heavy crime, and i would gladly exchange these last ten years with any galley slave." since his return to his fatherland no one had heard him say so much; the gentle, quiet man is not to be recognized. elsa stands near him, white and sad, tears are in her eyes, but the severe expression of her mouth has not softened. erwin is more moved than she. "felix," says he, "you go too far. you must not marry the young harfink; she is worldly and selfish, and would seek in a marriage with you only the satisfaction of her social vanity." felix laughs bitterly. "but the world is large. you must find a girl who loves you for yourself, who will raise you above yourself, who----" felix's eyes rest on his brother-in-law, then they turn to elsa. "it is all of no use, erwin;" he suddenly interrupts him and rises. "and even if i found what is not to be found, and even if an angel came down from heaven to console me, i must repulse her. i have no right to marry for the sake of the children who would bear my name. ask elsa for her opinion." elsa bows her head and is silent. he gives erwin his hand, seizes his hat and, without having bid elsa good-night, with the bearing of an offended man, takes a few hasty steps--then he turns, and as he sees elsa still standing motionless, her face drawn with deepest misery, near the chair which he has left, he hurries back to her and takes her in his arms. "i was wrong to be angry, elsa," murmurs he. "i know you must love me to have forgiven me. it may well be indifferent to him," with a half nod to erwin. "i was not myself to-day; have patience with me." the tears of the brother and sister mingle. then felix tears himself away. "will you come back to-morrow?" asks elsa. "yes, to say farewell." "my god! what are you going to do?" "i am going away--it is better for me elsewhere--and you, you are very good to me, but----you do not need me." with that he goes. erwin accompanies him. then he returns to his wife, whom he finds where he had left her. she is not one of those who for long yield themselves to the weak enjoyment of tears. her eyes are dry again, but so indescribably sad and staring that erwin would rather see them wet. he draws her on his knees and whispers a thousand calming words of tenderness to her, but she remains absent. "so the young harfink has robbed him of his senses?" she murmurs interrogatively. "so it seems!" "poor felix!--i was very hard to him--i dared not be otherwise. i fear, i fear it is all in vain--he will yield. you have the same thought!" "to dissuade any obstinate man is hard, but sometimes at least successful--to dissuade a weak man is quite easy, but always unsuccessful," replies erwin. "nevertheless let us hope." "concerning felix, hope fails," said elsa. "o erwin, erwin, often it seems to me that father had no right to persuade him to live at that time!" iv. felix rode home. it was a moonlight night, but none of those which remind one of theatre scenery and silver-flecked green paint, such, as painted in oil, endanger all german art societies; the objects did not float in that universal green-black indistinctness; on the contrary, they stood out in sharp relief. the tall poplars and the short bushy grass at the edge of the road, the yellow fields of grain with their dark piles of sheaves, the pale flowers in the ditches, the red and black roofs of a distant village sleeping between green lindens, a round church cupola and a cemetery with its low, white wall, and the dark rows of crosses and monuments--all could be seen plainly, only with somewhat faded colors, and over all was a misty veil like thin smoke, and a white light shone on the poplar leaves, rustling and turning in the night wind. the reapers were still working. through the mild air sounded their song, hollow and monotonous, with the quiet sadness which characterizes slavonian folk-songs. their scythes sparkle in the moonlight; occasionally the pleasant face of a young woman, nodding to a youth, rises before felix's eyes from the crowd of workers, irradiated by the mystic half light. felix watched them as he slowly rode on. he would gladly have been one of them, and would have taken upon himself all their burdens in exchange for the one he bore. he could have wished that the night had been less beautiful, that a dead, winter stillness had prevailed around him instead of this strange charm of the mild july moonlight. the night wind, warm and gentle, caressed his face and his hands, and awakened the strangest longing in his heart. his head grew heated; the allurements with which his imagination tormented his despondent heart grew more and more intense. the monotonous pace of his horse, the melancholy reaper's song lulled him not to sleep, but to that half slumber which produces dreams. he did not wholly lose the consciousness of motion; the open road, the trees, the wheat-fields, with everything, was mingled a light form; two large eyes sparkled half in sadness, half defiantly, and two full red lips smiled at him. an indescribable breath of youth and fresh life met him. the yellow fields and the reapers have sunken into the earth--folk-song and the swing of the scythes have long sounded only like a vague murmur of waters to his distracted ear. his horse stumbles, a twig strikes him in the face, he starts. the white dream-form has vanished, all is dark around him, a solemn, far-distant murmur breaks the stillness, and gigantic trees meet over the head of the solitary rider. the horse trembles under him, then rears suddenly, and as he checks it he sees in the distance something low and black hurrying away in great leaps, sees there--there, close before him, a light figure which slowly rises from the ground. he breathes heavily--for heaven's sake is he still dreaming? that is surely she--linda! "ah! baron lanzberg, you here? thank god," cries she. "you seem to have met with an unpleasant adventure," says felix confusedly, coughs and springs from his horse without thinking what he is doing. "a very unpleasant one," says she in her high, fresh, girlish voice. "that is what comes of insisting upon riding a donkey. we set out on foot, my brother and i, to the burned mill, to have the great enjoyment of seeing charred beams and skeletons of hens, and devouring black bread and sour milk, we---- have you a weakness for sour milk, baron?" looking up at him with a childish glance and smile. "no, not exactly." "i was not at all satisfied with my expedition," she continued, with the self-satisfied fluency of all young girls who are accustomed to have their chatter listened to for the sake of their pretty faces. "not at all. then i discovered two donkeys, one of them had a saddle like an arm-chair. raimund must hire them. i left him no peace! his donkey goes splendidly, but mine! i cannot move him from the spot. i call to my brother, but he does not hear, he is singing college songs, thunders like a whole chorus and has ears for his own voice only. i do not love raimund's singing, but as it gradually sounded further and further away, and finally ceased entirely, i had quite a curious sensation. then my donkey threw back his ears, opened his mouth, and--here i lay. i am so glad that i met you." the moonlight breaks through the green net-work of the woods, shines between the rushes, flowers and brambles of the ditch along the road, lights up linda's face, the beautiful white face with the large dark eyes. her hair is tumbled, she has lost her hat, her gown is torn, the affectation which usually conceals her inborn grace completely vanished. "i do not know the way," says she, "and what will mamma think when raimund comes home without me?" after he has overcome his first fright, felix tells himself that his dread of her charm must not prevent him from helping her. "if you will trust yourself to my guidance and will take this path across the fields, you can reach marienbad in a half hour," he remarks, and tries to fasten his horse by the bridle to the low branch of an oak. "ah, it will inconvenience you so; if you will only point out the way----" "you surely do not imagine that i could let you go alone, in the pitch-dark night? no." he smiles at her encouragingly. "what a child you still are, miss linda. come." he goes ahead, carefully pushing aside all branches for her. the air becomes more and more sultry, an enervating damp odor rises from the ground, in the tree-tops rustle wonderful melodies. an intoxicating shudder runs over him at the thought of being alone with her in the great, silent, lonely woods. then he becomes alarmed, quickens his steps, in order to run away from his thoughts and shorten the way. then a voice behind him calls laughingly and complainingly: "how you hurry--do not make fun of me, i am tired--one moment, only one moment!" linda stands there out of breath, heated, with half-closed eyes and half-opened mouth, her hair loosened by the rough caresses of the thicket, hanging over her shoulders. how beautiful she is. shall he offer her his arm? no, no, no! he is one of those warm and weak natures in whom passion in one moment drowns everything, annihilates, crushes everything, intellect, honor and duty. he has more conscience than others, but not that prudent, warning conscience, which withholds one from a wrong deed, but only that malicious, accusing one which points the finger, grins and hurls sly insults in the face after the deed is done. "if you wish to spare your mother a fright, we must hurry," says felix, with the last remnant of prudence which is left in him. they go on. before their feet opens an abyss, barely ten feet broad; in its depths filters a small thread of water which the moonlight colors a bluish silver. at the edge of the abyss, curiously looking down into it, bending deeply down to it, grows a bush of wild roses, covered thickly with white blossoms, trembling slightly, like a living being; with outstretched wings it vibrates over the depths, as if it hesitated between the longing to fly up to the sacred mystery of heaven, and the desire to plunge down into the alluring enigma of the abyss. a small plank leads over it, slippery and tottering. felix strides across it quickly and then looks around for linda. there, in the middle of the board, trembling, her teeth set in her lip, stands linda, and cannot advance. "i am giddy!" she gasps. there are few more attractive things in the world than a pretty, frightened woman. felix rushes up to her, takes her in his arms and carries her over. all is forgotten, he holds her closely to him, his lips lose themselves in her loosened hair, burn on her forehead, seek her mouth, but then he suddenly pauses. the enormity of his deed occurs to him. "for heaven's sake pardon me!" cries he. whereupon she replies with a naïve smile and tender glance: "pardon? ah, i knew that you loved me." "that indeed a blind man could have seen," murmurs he bitterly. "but, linda, could you resolve to be my wife?" "could i resolve?" she murmurs with tender roguishness. "and why not?" "in spite of my past?" past! the word has a romantic charm for her. it wakes in her an idea of baccaret and mabille, of a brilliantly squandered fortune, of ballet-dancers and duels. a "past" in her mind belongs to every true nobleman of a certain age. "if your heart is now wholly mine, what does your past matter to me?" says she softly. then he kisses her hand. "linda you are an angel," whispers he, and silent and happy, they finish their walk. ten minutes later, before the ambitious singer, raimund, reaches home, linda was in the house. she stood on the balcony of the "emperor of china," between dead-looking oleander trees which exhale a tiresome odor of bitter almonds: she stands there, her arms resting on the balustrade when raimund and his donkey emerge from the shadows of the street. his red cap pushed back, his face shining as if freshly shaven, with glance directed upward in terror he comes along, the picture of bankrupt responsibility on a donkey. a gay laugh greets him. "linda, where are you?" "here." "here! i have been looking for you for an hour," says he, scarcely believing his eyes. "where? in the sky apparently--i have not been there, and have no wish to go. do not stare at me so, please, as if i were my own ghost. come up here, i have such a lovely secret." with that she withdraws from the balcony, but the secret with which she has enticed him she does not tell him when he comes up. "to-morrow, to-morrow," says she, clapping her hands, leaning far back in an old-fashioned arm-chair. raimund cannot get a word from his pretty, capricious sister. "who brought you home then?" he asks finally. "ah! that is just it, ha-ha-ha!" answered she. "linda! you have met lanzberg--he has declared himself!" cries raimund, excitedly. "will you be silent?" replies she, laughing--triumphant. meanwhile her parents, who have been to the farewell performance of a famous vienna artiste at the theatre, enter. "hush!" cries she with a decided gesture to her brother. "good evening, papa and mamma!" without leaving her arm-chair. "i am frightfully fond of you, for, if you only knew of it, i am to-day, for the first time, glad to be in the world." papa harfink smiles delightedly, mamma harfink asks, "what is it?" and all her cameos and mosaic bracelets rattle with excitement. "she----" begins raimund. "hush, i tell you!" cries linda, then laying her arms on the old-fashioned arms of the easy-chair, her head thrown teasingly back, she asks: "is baron lanzberg a good _partie_?" "his affairs are very well arranged. i saw in the country register. he has scarcely any debts," says papa harfink. "and he is of the good old nobility, is he not?" asks linda. "did not his father receive a tip in the form of an iron crown from some tottering ministry?" "the lanzbergs descend from the twelfth century," says mamma. "they are the younger line of the counts lanzberg, who are now known as the counts dey." "oh! and what was his mother's maiden name?" linda continues her examination. "she was a countess böhl." "why does he associate so little with people, and is so sad?--because of his past?" linda's eyes sparkle and shine, and capricious little dimples play about the corners of her mouth. "what do you know of his past?" bursts out mamma. "oh, nothing; but i should so like to know something about it--it is not proper, eh?" "he had at one time a _liaison_, hm--hm--was deceived"--murmurs mrs. harfink--"never got over it." "ah!--but it seems so--for--in a word, if all does not deceive me, he will come to-morrow to ask for my hand." without leaving her arm-chair, her little feet dance a merry polka of triumph on the floor. "and do you love him?" "i?"--linda opens her eyes wide--"naturally; he is the first man with a faultless profile and good manners whom i have met--since laure de lonsigny's father!" old harfink, wholly absorbed in gazing at his tongue in a hand-glass, has not heard the bold malice of his daughter. raimund, on the contrary, says emphatically, "i find your delight at marrying a nobleman highly repulsive," and leaves the room. and felix? he does not undress that night. motionless his face buried in the pillows, he lies on his bed and still fights a long-lost battle. the air is heavy with the fragrance of linden blossoms and the approaching thunder-storm. a massive wall of clouds towers above the horizon like a barrier between heaven and earth. v. susanna blecheisen, now mrs. harfink, usually called madame von harfink, was a famous blue-stocking. as a young girl she was interested in natural sciences, studied medicine, complained of the oppression of the female sex, and wrote articles on the emancipation of woman, in which with great boldness she described marriage as an antiquated and immoral institution. in spite of the energetic independence of her character, in her twenty-eighth year she succumbed to the magnetic attraction of a red-cheeked clerk in her father's office, and generously sacrificed for him her scorn of manly prejudice and ecclesiastical sacraments--she married him. hereupon she moved with her husband to vienna, and soon enjoyed a certain fame there on account of her fine german, and because she subscribed to the _revue des deux mondes_, and had once sat beside humboldt at a dinner, perhaps also because her husband was a very wealthy manufacturer. soon convinced of the inferior intellect of this man, she did not give herself up to cowardly despair at this discovery, but did her best to educate him. she patiently read to him works on capital, during which he incessantly rattled the money in his pockets, as if he would say, how does the theoretical analysis of capital concern a practical man, as long as he relies solely upon the actual substance? this rubbish furnished occupation for poor wretches, he thought to himself, which opinion he finally announced to his wife. but when she told him that carl marx and lassalle were both very wealthy men, he listened to her dissertations with considerably heightened respect. from political economy, which she treated as a light recreation, fitted to his case, she led him into the gloomy regions of german metaphysics, and plunged him confusedly into the most dangerous abysses of misused logic. he listened calmly, without astonishment, without complaining, with the lofty conviction that to cultivate one's self, as every kind of tasty idleness, was a very noble occupation, and, like many more clever people, he made a rule of despising everything which he did not understand. instead of any other comment, during his wife's readings he merely rubbed his hands pleasantly, and murmured as long as he was not asleep, titteringly, "this confusion, this confusion." yet, however mrs. susanna strove, his mental wings did not strengthen, and his digestion remained the most absorbing interest of his life. he always fell back again into his insignificant commonness, like a dog whom one wishes to train to walk upon two legs, but who always falls back upon four again. at an æsthetic tea, for which his wife had most conscientiously prepared him, most generously lent him her intelligence, she heard him, in the midst of a conversation upon schopenhauer and leopardi, say to his neighbor: "have you a weakness for pickles, ma'am? i have a great weakness for pickles, but--he-he-he!--i--it is really very unusual--i always feel such a disagreeable prickling in my nose when i eat anything sour." with years, susanna somewhat neglected the difficult education of this hopeless specimen, and transferred her pedagogic capabilities to the bringing up of her son, of whom she tried to make a genius. she designed him for jurisprudence. he, however, devoted himself to song. instead of poring over law books in consideration of his examination, he passed two-thirds of his time at the piano, diligently trying to attain the summit of his ambition, high c, while he did not fail to twist himself into the original contortions which on such occasions all particularly ambitious but faulty voices find so effectual. with linda, mamma harfink from the first could do nothing, and in consequence she sent her to a swiss pension. there she learned, besides a little french and piano thumping, to carry her head very high, learned to go into nervous spasms over creaking boots--in a word, she acquired the refined delicacy of feeling of the "princess with the pea." what torture when upon her return home she lay upon not a single pea, alleviated by comfortable mattresses, but upon a whole sack of undisguised peas! her home was frightful to her. the unrestrained, coarse admiration which the young men of her circle offered her seemed unbearable to her. discontented, weary of life, without an aim that was not bound up in vanity, she vegetated from one day to another; in desperate moments thought of going on the stage, or perpetrating some outrageous act to make herself notorious. the only consolation of this desolate time was the intercourse with her cousin, eugene von rhoeden, who had been educated in the theresanium, had learned to turn up his nose more frequently and with more fine distinction than she herself, but to her misery, had his brand new title of freiherr, and a couple of intimate friends of very old family beside. a passionate enemy of his relatives, he had greeted her enthusiastically with the words, "_sapperment_, you are wholly different from your family, linda!" "do not call me linda, that sounds so operatic," she had answered him. "my friends always called me linn!" eugene rhoeden immediately perceived that linda had a knowledge of _bon ton_--evidently knew that all austrian countesses are called piffi, pantschi, nina, like _grisettes_ or little dogs. her romantic name was odious to her, but in a circle where the women called each other theresa and rosalie, she must rejoice at being named linda and not rosalinda. a superficial confidence arose between her and her noble cousin. so stood matters when felix "accidentally" made the acquaintance of the harfinks while walking. this was the family into which fate and his weakness had thrown him. vi. is marienbad cheaper than franzensbad because it is not so select, or is it less select because it is cheaper? i do not know. but certain it is that marienbad does not possess the same stamp of distinction as franzensbad, which latter, together with all the guests, seems about to slowly perish of its excessive distinction. the guests at marienbad also lack that transparent thinness of the franzensbad invalids, which so claims sympathy: they all look "not ill but only too healthy." as the marienbad invalids do not look like invalids, so marienbad does not look like a water cure. it wholly lacks that fairylike appearance of a cure where invalidism is an elegant pastime. it is so severely commonplace, so ordinary that one is forced to believe in its reality. fortunately there is some compensation in the country round about, and when the guests look from the windows of the miserable hotel rooms, beyond the plainness of the dusty streets to the green beautiful woods, the most pretentious are satisfied. the marienbad woods are so charming, not those barbaric gloomy woods like the bohemian forests for example, which with their black branches grumblingly bar the way to the sunbeams, and groan so continually that the song birds from pure terror have all died or gone away. in the woods near marienbad, the trees sing the whole day in competition with the birds, and the sunbeams fall between gay, dancing, quivering shadows, and the blue sky laughs through a thousand breaks in the lofty, floating leafy roof. the harfink family live in the mühle strasse, and have a view directly into the woods. it is half past eight in the morning. papa harfink, who is taking the cure, and every morning at six o'clock stands beside the spring, has drunk his seven glasses, taken the prescribed walk, and afterwards breakfasted; now he has gone to be weighed. the student, his son, is amusing himself by following a young lady who travels with many diamonds but without a chaperon, and who is entered in the register as a "singer." linda is still at her toilet. mamma harfink is busy in the drawing-room with a medical pamphlet. then the maid brings her a note. "a messenger from traunberg brought it; he is waiting for an answer," declared the maid. before mrs. harfink had opened the letter linda enters and asks: "we need expect no visitor before twelve o'clock, mamma? if the baron chances to come, you know where i am--in the kursaal. at twelve o'clock i take my turkish bath. adieu! i shall be back at one o'clock." with that she vanished. mrs. harfink had concealed the letter from her daughter. she secretly suspects that it contains matters of which linda need know nothing. scarcely has her daughter vanished when she hastily opens it. in an uncharacteristic handwriting, occupying a great deal of paper: "my dear madam: you have surely already learned from your daughter what has occurred between us. that i ventured, under the circumstances which you, madam, certainly know, to offer her my hand, seems to me now, upon calm consideration, incomprehensible and unpardonable." mamma harfink starts. will the baron take back his word? what can he mean by "under the circumstances"? linda's unprotectedness in the great lonely woods? or does he, perhaps, refer to his fatal past? she resolves to read further. "your daughter's manner proves to me plainly that she has no suspicion of the stain upon my honor. i have not the courage to make my confession to her myself; do it for me, my dear madam, and kindly write me whether miss linda, after she has learned all, will yet hear anything of me, or will turn away from me. in the latter case i will go away for some time. "with the deepest respect, your submissive "lanzberg." "absurd, eccentric man! he will yet spoil everything with his foolish scruples!" cries she, then, looking at the letter once more: "horribly blunt, awkward style; no practised pen, but undeniably the sentiments of a refined gentleman." mrs. harfink folded her hands and thought. should she read this letter to linda? she had been so pleased at the prospect of linda's advantageous match. but the strange girl was capable of giving up this brilliant _parti_ for the sake of a trifle like this spot in lanzberg's past. mrs. harfink, in intercourse with the world very sensitive and wholly implacable, possessed theoretically that far-reaching consideration for any individuals attacked by scandal which has become so fashionable among the philanthropists of the present time. she always treated all city officials as calumniators and all accused as martyrs. "oh, if i were only in linda's place, i would be angry that i had so little to pardon in him," cried she dramatically; "but linda is so narrow, so petty. her intellect does not reach to the comprehension of the eternal divine morality; she understands merely the narrow prejudiced morality of good society, which divides sins as well as men into 'admissible and not admissible;' to-day calmly overlooks a crime, to-morrow screams itself hoarse over a fault which offends against its customs." while the harfink satisfied her philanthropic heart with this subtle, humane eloquence, the girl stood waiting at the door. "the messenger begs an answer," she remarked shyly. mrs. harfink bit her lips impatiently. she was not capable of a decided deception, she must twist and turn it before her conscience until it took on a quite different aspect from the original one. must, in a word, carry it out in such a highly virtuous manner that she could later deny it to her conscience. "the messenger begs an answer!" mrs. harfink seated herself at her writing-table and wrote: "my dear lanzberg: come, if possible, at once--in any case before twelve. linda expects you. "with cordial greeting, yours sincerely, "s. harfink." two, almost three hours passed. susanna's excitement became painful. what should she tell felix? the best would be to tell him that linda knew all. and did she not indeed know all? she had conscientiously told her daughter of a _liaison_ which had formerly been the unhappiness of the baron. the _liaison_ was, on the whole, the principal thing, everything else only a detail. only chance, which did not in the slightest accord with the whole life of the baron before and since, and of which respectable people hesitate to speak, and which one should not exhume from the past in which it lay buried. she was in duty bound to conceal the affair from linda, as one must conceal certain things in themselves wholly innocent from children, because their intellect, not yet matured by experience, is not capable of rightly comprehending them. in all her circle of acquaintances, mrs. harfink was the only one who knew anything definite of lanzberg's disgrace. by chance, and through the acquaintance of a high official of the law, she had learned the sad facts. she thought of the envious glances with which all her friends had followed lanzberg's attentions to linda. linda had somewhat forced the acquaintance with him. the good friends were horrified at her boldness--at her triumph. mrs. harfink remembered her sister, rhoeden; what had she not done to marry her daughter to a coughing, bald-headed, wurtemburg count, a gambler, whose debts they had been forced to pay before the marriage. quarter of twelve struck--was lanzberg not coming, then? in a short time linda would be back. then a carriage stopped before the "emperor of china." a minute later there was a knock at the door, and felix lanzberg entered the room, pale, worn, with great uneasy, shy eyes. mamma harfink reached him both hands, and merely said, "my dear lanzberg!" then she let him sit down. he was silent. many times he tried to speak, but the words would not come, and he lowered his eyes helplessly to his hat, which he held on his knees. at last mamma harfink took his hat from his hand and put it away. "you will stay to dinner with us?" "if you will permit me, madam," said he, scarcely audibly. "oh, you over-sensitive man!" cried she, with her loud, indelicate sympathy. how she pained him! "does linda think that i am an over-sensitive man?" said he, almost bitterly, and without looking at his future mother-in-law. mamma harfink pondered for a last time. "i do not understand how you could doubt linda for a moment," replied she. he scarcely heard her, and only cried hastily "was she surprised?" "my dear lanzberg!" mrs. harfink called the baron as often as possible "her dear lanzberg," in order to show him that she already included him in her family--"a man who can oppose to his fault a counter-balance such as your whole subsequent life is, has not only expiated his fault but he has obliterated it." madame harfink very often spoke of her husband's views, and liked to allow him to participate before the world in her wealth of thought. if she herself could no longer cherish any illusions about him, she nevertheless carefully concealed his nullity from friends as well as she could in a sacred obscurity. "that may all be true," cried felix, almost violently, "but nevertheless i cannot expect this philosophical consideration from a young girl. oh, my dear madam, do you not deceive yourself?" from without sounded the gay click of high heels. linda had returned sooner than her mamma had expected. the blood rushed to her face, she trembled so with excitement that, thanks to her cameos, she rattled like a rickety weather-vane in a storm. "linda pardons you everything," cried she, hastily. "linda loves you, she only begs you one thing, that you will never speak to her of your past. that would be too painful for her!" the door opened. linda entered, her hair in charming disorder, and her large straw hat carelessly pushed back from her forehead. when she perceived felix she started slightly and joyously, then she rested her large eyes, radiant with happiness, upon him. "_a tantôt_, you dear people," cried mrs. harfink, and, gracefully waving her hand, this courageous and philanthropic liar left the room. for a few seconds there was utter silence. linda gazed in astonishment at felix, who stood there deathly pale and motionless, his hand resting on the corner of the table. that the charm of her person so confused him flattered her, it seemed to her interesting and romantic to cause such deep heart wounds, still his manner remained enigmatical to her. she tapped her foot in pretty impatience and coughed slightly. then he looked up, his eyes full of pleading tenderness and dread. "linda, will you really consecrate your young, blooming life to me?--me--a broken man who----" he paused. the situation became more dramatic, and pleased her better and better. she came close up to him. "if you ever permit yourself, in the presence of your betrothed, to remember your past, and look so sad, i will run away, do you hear, and will never know anything more of you." her voice sounded so gentle, so sweet, her warm little hand lay so coaxingly and confidingly on his arm. "poor felix!" murmured she, looking up at him tenderly. he closed his eyes, blinded with tears and happiness, then he took her violently in his arms, and kissed her. her hat slipped from her head and fell to the floor. she laughed at it very charmingly. he released her in order to look at her better. he was happy--he had forgotten. he drew a ring from his finger. "it was my mother's engagement ring," he whispered, and placed it on her finger. then it proved that the ring was almost too small for her. "what slender fingers you must have!" cried she, and gazed with pride at his slender, aristocratic hand. then there was a knock at the door. "ah!" cried linda, with a displeasure which her _fiancé_ found bewitching. eugene von rhoeden entered, a bouquet of white flowers in his hand. "gardenias, lin! gardenias!" he cried, triumphantly. "what do you say to this progress of marienbad civilization? ah, baron--excuse me--i really had not----" he glances from one to the other, sees the diamond ring sparkling on linda's hand. "what a magnificent ring you have, lin!" "a present," replies linda, with a pretty gesture toward felix. "may one accept gardenias from a relative?" she asks him, coaxingly--and takes one from the bouquet to place in his buttonhole. "ah!" cries eugene, suddenly changing an acid expression into a polite smile. "may i congratulate you, or will my congratulations not be received?" felix gives him his hand with emotion. "congratulate me, congratulate me," he murmurs. "i do not know which of you is more to be congratulated," says eugene, with tact and feeling. in the adjoining room is heard a selection from the huguenots, which breaks off in the middle, then a great, terrible howl, whereupon the improvised rarol, red as his cravat, bursts in and cries, "did you hear, linda? that was c." "unfortunately," says she, laughing. raimund starts back. as he notices guests, he cries, "i will not disturb----" and vanishes. "and i also will not disturb you," says rhoeden, with indescribably loving accent. "adieu!" and kissing linda's hand, whereupon he says to felix, "your betrothed, my cousin," he disappears. vii. the music-stand in franzensbad is torn down, the whining potpourries have ceased, the park is deserted, legions of dry leaves whirl on the sand, and exchange cutting remarks with the autumn wind upon the perpetual change of every earthly thing, which short-sighted humanity calls transitoriness. it is the th of october, the "certain baron lanzberg's" wedding-day. the week of torture in which he could not resolve to tell the severe elsa of his betrothal is past, and when he at length resolved upon it, he received only a sad glance and a silent shrug of the shoulders as answer from her--past are the happy hours of the betrothal time--almost past. if the intoxication, the confusion which never becomes consciousness is happiness, then felix was very happy in this time. passion had numbed everything in him which did not refer to the present or to the th of october. he existed only in a feeling of longing and expectation. he had no time to tell himself that linda's happy coquetries proved a very flippant conception of the serious situation--he himself had forgotten the gravity of the situation. he did not think, he only felt and saw a white, ever-changing face, a face which can smile in at least two hundred ways--felt a perpetual warm excitement, felt something like an electric shock when two soft lips touched his temples and left them quickly like butterflies which will not be caught, when two soft hands played round his neck. yes, ft is the th of october, felix lanzberg's wedding-day. the wedding was to be solemnized at castle rineck, the harfinks' new possession, and in a white circular chapel, with small windows shaded by ivy, and an altar-piece which was dark as the catholic religion. the castle is crowded with guests, mostly honest manufacturers, who are proud of their fortunes acquired by their own ability, and others also less honest, who, after they have retired from business, wish to know nothing more of their money-making past. needless to say, the wedding preparations were unpleasant to the infatuated felix. the bride had joined in his request for a quiet wedding, for the contact with so much industry of which a considerable part had not yet become "finance," little pleased her; but the parents could not let the opportunity pass without displaying their wealth to the astonished throng. the afternoon is gray and moist. mrs. von harfink--for the past week, no longer through the obligingness of her acquaintances, but through the obligingness of a democratic ministry thus titled--mrs. von harfink, then, composes a toast for her husband to deliver at the wedding dinner. raimund stands beside the piano--to sing while sitting might injure his voice--and strives to render the cry of the valkyrs in wagner's worthy accents; a sympathetic poodle seconds him in this melodious occupation. outside in the park linda wanders alone through the damp october air. the dead foliage lies thick on the lawn, and between the leaves shines the grass, bright and fresh as hope which lies under all the load of shattered joys of broken life, undisturbed. the bushes, glowing in autumnal splendor, look like huge moulting birds who shiveringly lose their feathers. many flower-beds are already empty, only a couple of stiff georginias and chrysanthemums still raise their heads proudly and solitary in the universal desolation. linda is quite alone; her friends, none of whom are very dear to her, are too zealously busied with cares of the toilet to disturb her solitude; they are also afraid to expose their complexions to the morning air. linda feels no anxiety about her complexion, it is too beautiful for that. with her loosened hair which, brown as the dead leaves, falls over her back, and with the red cloak, in which she has wrapped herself, she is a bright spot in the park. [illustration: she is a shy bride and not at all melancholy.] she is not a shy bride, and not at all melancholy. her eyes shine, her lips quiver with excitement--distinguished acquaintances, foreign entertainments of which she will be queen. in mind, she already sees herself on the arm of one and another prince of the blood royal. she could clap her hands with joy that to-day at six o'clock she will no longer be called harfink. she remains standing beside a pond where near the bank four swans, shivering and melancholy, swim round a yellow bath-house. then a hand is laid lightly on her shoulder. "felix!" whispers she with the charming smile which she always has in readiness for her betrothed. "no, not felix--only eugene," replies a gay voice, and blond, handsome, with clothes a trifle too modern, and a too pronounced perfume of ylang-ylang, her cousin and former admirer stands near her. "ah, have you really come?" says she, joyously. "why naturally," replies he. "you do not think that for the sake of a few forlorn chamois i would stay away from your wedding?" rhoeden has come from steinmark, to be the cavalier of his cousin's second bridesmaid. "we had already begun to fear--that is, emma was afraid," said linda, coquettishly. "naturally it was indifferent to me." "wholly indifferent? i do not believe it," said he. his arm has slipped down from her shoulder, he has seated himself upon a low iron garden chair, from which, with elbows on his knees, his face between his hands, with the boldness which she likes so well in him, he can look at her as much as he pleases. "wholly indifferent!" she repeats, and throws a pebble between the swans, who dip their black bills greedily in the green water. "o lin! you naughty lin! and nothing that concerns you is indifferent to me!" he groans. "the trauns did not wish to let me go from them--but rather than not see you to-day i would have fought a duel with all the trauns in the world!" linda has slowly approached him; flattered vanity speaks from her shining eyes and glowing lips. he seizes her hand and draws her to him. "do you know, lin, that i was once absurdly in love with you?" she nods. "yes, i know it." "and you?" "and i? do not ask indiscreet questions, eugene!" "but this question interests me so much," he excuses himself. "tell me, lin, if lanzberg had not come between us--yes, if i only, most unfortunately, had not been born a grau," he continues sighing, "could i have cherished a little, very little hope?" "it is quite possible," says she, shrugging her shoulders, and coquetting with him over her shoulder. "but it is better so for us both." "for you, certainly," says he, "but i shall feel quite peculiarly to-day when i see you with your bridal wreath, lin! you will drive people mad with your beauty. you are the most beautiful person whom i have ever met in my life. where the devil did you get your look of high breeding?" eugene rhoeden, with his gay boldness and graceful impudence, his unconscionable aplomb, and his denial from principle of all personal dignity, is what is called in the vienna slang a _gamin_. gamin as he is, no one knows how to bewitch linda's small nature, how to feed her excessive vanity with such delicate bits as eugene von rhoeden. he understands her, she understands him; they are fairly made for each other, and for one moment, one very brief moment, linda thinks almost with repugnance of the black raven in the red field which greets her from the lanzberg coat-of-arms. "eugene!" murmurs she. "ah!" with that she suddenly turns to an elderly maid, who comes out from among the bushes. "are you looking for me, fanny?" "yes, miss." "i am probably to try my train for the twenty-ninth time. ah, eugene! there is something tiresome about a wedding-day!" then she breaks a red chrysanthemum as she passes, throws it to him, and vanishes. about seven hours later the wedding takes place in the castle chapel, adorned with greenhouse flowers. the blossoms tremble as if they were cold or afraid. their sweet, exhilarating fragrance mingles with the odor of wax candles, and that of perfumery and cosmetics, which is always noticeable in select assemblies. the wind creeps curiously through the window cracks, creeps up to the altar, makes the flames of the candles flicker, and blows cold upon the bare shoulders of the bride and bridesmaids. the bride, loaded with the richest jewels, resembles a proud narcissus in the morning dew. elsa is deathly pale, even her lips are colorless. erwin displays the inexpressive gravity which the occasion demands of a well-bred man. mrs. von harfink looks continually at the decorations, and starts when a white rose falls from the wall. mr. von harfink looks as if his collar were too tight for him. eugene von rhoeden, his bridesmaid's wrap on his arm, a sceptical smile on his lips, his hand at his mustache, his glance resting now on his uncle, now on the priest, now on the bride, stands there, the image of a little society philosopher of the nineteenth century, who laughs at all vanity and cannot himself give up his own. raimund looks like a radical who is paying an immense tribute to prejudice, and tries to look more distinguished than his brother-in-law. and felix? felix is as if paralyzed. the moment is here; his feverish longing nears its aim--happiness. then the ivy taps on the window, the wind seizes him with ice-cold hands. felix shudders and glances at his bride. how beautiful she is, and--how proud. proud? felix lanzberg's bride proud? it is impossible--it cannot be. a suspicion which, however he may deny it to his conscience, has occurred to him again and again during their whole engagement, strikes him for the last time and becomes certain that linda's mother has deceived him; linda knows nothing! then the priest demands his "yes!" he hesitates; hesitates so long that linda looks at him in surprise; two large, greenish eyes shine at him through the filmy, white bridal veil. "yes!" says he firmly and shortly. a long dinner follows, a long, complicated dinner, which no one enjoys except papa harfink, who studies the menu with the tenderest pleasure, and with a small pencil marks the numbers for love of which he thinks to extend considerably his elastic appetite. he sits between elsa and the wife of his nephew, the freiherr, the elder rhoeden, and, as he gulps down his _potage à la reine_, tells both ladies of his new achenbach, which cost him , gulden, which does not seem at all dear to him; as, besides a great deal of sunset, there are thirty-four figures in the picture--he has counted them--and in the background something else, he does not know whether it is a buffalo or ruins. "they almost persuaded me to buy a daubigny, a frenchman, i think--a green sauce--what a sauce! i said no, thank you. i like spinach and eggs, i said; but spinach and cows--but--and such cows! without tails or horns--regular daubs of colors. these frenchmen are tricky. really, people are cheated by them." thus concludes papa harfink, the art critic. elsa only half listens to him. her eyes wander wearily over the table with its stiff floral decorations and its heavy silverware, "real silver, and not plate," assures papa harfink. of the men, the last generation are broad-shouldered, red-faced; a sparse beard curls around their full cheeks, a sharp glance, on the lookout for profit, shoots from their small eyes. the past generation breathe loudly, pick their teeth continually, wear too tight rings on too fat fingers, and without exception, a thick gold chain with a diamond medallion over their stomachs. the present generation are sickly, dissipated, and have something of the jockey and something of the valet who copies his master. the pride of the whole family is centred in eugene von rhoeden, the blond good-for-nothing, who has as many debts as a cavalier, who was educated in the theresanium, and once had a quarrel with a watchman. of the women, some are pretty, none are pleasing; they have all good dressmakers; none are well dressed. the usually pale face of a "certain baron lanzberg" begins to flush feverishly; without eating a mouthful he hastily swallows one glass of wine after another. "try this delicious salmon; permit me to help you," the charming host turns to elsa. she makes a desperate attempt to do justice to the salmon. "strange," remarks von harfink, "my mother used to say that when she was young salmon was cheaper than beef, now it is very dear." elsa has laid down her fork in despair. "i am behind the times," says she. "i still am frightened by a telegram, and always feel nervous at a wedding." she smiles sadly, and two charming dimples appear in her cheeks. papa harfink continues to urge her to eat. "you must taste this salmi, baroness," he entreats. "monsieur galatin, my cook, would be unhappy if he learned that every one had not eaten some of his salmi. _pâte à la kotschubey_, he calls it. only to-day, this galatin said to me: '_ah, monsieur le chevalier_, when i think how often prince kotschubey got his stomach out of order with my salmi. the physicians said he died of gastrosis, ah! he died of my salmi.'" "you have a dangerous cook," says elsa. "but i understand this kotschubey, do you know," continues papa harfink. "since i have had this cook, i really have to go to marienbad twice every year. and besides, he is a splendid fellow, talks politics like a deputy. he formerly served only with the highest nobility. i took him with the castle from count sylvani. a peculiar fellow--this galatin; will not stay away from the swans and the park. a poetic creature; do you know, baroness, he reads victor hugo and the medisations of lamartine." "ah really, the medisations of lamartine," says elsa, smiling. susanna harfink rushes to the assistance of her distressed husband. "ha! ha! ha!" says she, with her shrill laugh. "my husband always calls meditations medisations--very malicious, do you not think so, but a good joke." papa harfink, sadly conscious that it always means a curtain lecture when his wife before people laughs so energetically at one of his "jokes," of which he feels innocent, with much grace and melancholia licks his knife on both sides. his wife looks as if she were weary of pulling the lion-skin again and again over the long ears. the moment has arrived when he is to speak his toast. he rises hesitatingly, the glass trembles in his hand. fear and champagne have made him lose the last recollection of the few words prepared by his wife. "this is a great day for me--a day of pride and pain--no, that is not it!" thoughtfully raising his hand to his upper lip. "i hope that my brother-in-law, no, my son-in-law--su--su--sanna!" he murmurs, helplessly. his cheeks seem to inflate, his eyes grow smaller and more shining, he has set down his glass, and twists his napkin like a conscientious washerwoman. susanna rises, she is fairly roman. "as my husband, overcome with emotion, cannot speak," she begins. "i will say, this is for----" for a moment she hesitates, then for the first time in her life, she resolutely denies her husband, emancipates herself from the "us" with which for long years she has protected him, and says: "this is for me a day of pain and of joy. i lose a daughter, gain a son; may my children always find the highest happiness in each other, and a safe retreat in their parental home." "he is getting a dreadful mother-in-law, this lanzberg," whispers eugene rhoeden to his neighbor, a gay, more than audacious brunette. "something between a roman matron and a quarrelsome landlady from a bachelor boarding-house." the tasteful raimund contributes a toast to the fusion of nobleman and citizen. the older rhoeden hopes that his beautiful cousin will lend a new charm to the noble name of lanzberg. much similar follows. eugene, for whom this rosary of _parvenu_ platitudes becomes too long, murmurs: "shall we not soon have paid sufficient thanks for the honor of being allied with baron lanzberg?" this mocking remark was only meant for his neighbor, its bitterness was only meant for the fawning of the harfinks. but felix heard it; ashy pale, with glowing eyes, half rising from his chair, he stares at the impertinent young man. the latter says good-naturedly and thoughtlessly: "yes, lanzberg, i will jeer at myself. _parole d'honneur_, i am a little ashamed to be quite so delighted at receiving an honest man into the family!" thereupon the "certain baron lanzberg" lowers his eyes to the table-cloth, and remains silent. viii. three years have passed since linda left her father's house, and was no longer condemned to be called harfink--three years and seven months. the trees have only recently lost their snowy blossoms; all are wrapped in soft young green, the whole earth seems bathed in new hope. it is a day in which death and misfortune seem like ghost stories, invented by old women--no one believes them. the birds twitter joyously, and without all is fragrance, sunshine and flowers. fragrance and sunshine fill the room where elsa sits, her youngest child in her lap. elsa looks youthful and girlish, quite as much so as at the time when we first made her acquaintance. the same heavy brown hair, as if sprinkled with gold, clusters at her temples, and her eyes still shine with the old dreamy light of happiness, but her cheeks are thinner, her figure frail and thin. the existence of the little creature in her lap has deprived her of so much health. she has not yet recovered since baby's birth, and has not had time to think of her health, for baby was a sickly child, and great skill was required to bind the little soul, which seemed so anxious to fly back to heaven, to this earth. day and night, in spite of her own delicateness, elsa has nursed and cared for the child, holding her tender mother-hand protectingly before the little light which every breath of air threatened to extinguish. erwin, who usually had such influence with her, this time could not induce her to spare her weakened strength. now the little girl is a year old, and laughs and smiles at her mother gayly, and the physician said recently, "you may be proud of the child, baroness. how you have raised her, god only knows. all doctors can learn from a mother. but now think of yourself a little." and the physician shook his head as he looked at the young woman. yes, the air is full of perfume and sunshine, but, in the midst of the charming spring life, elsa looks like a frail white flower. she has bathed baby, put on her little embroidered shirt, and wrapped her in a flannel slumber-robe, and now, with a fine towel, wipes the last drops from the tender pink little feet, and the little neck on which the water drops down from the small golden head. the nurse is meanwhile busy removing the bathing utensils, while litzi, who is now a big girl, wearing long stockings, stands near her little sister and holding perfectly still, allows her long hair to be pulled. "fie, you wild little thing, you will hurt her!" cries elsa at last, as baby pulls harder and harder, and winds her tiny fist in litzi's hair. then baby throws her head back, shows her four teeth, laughs with all her little body, and finally leans her cheek sleepily against mamma's shoulder. "go down-stairs, my litzi, go to miss sidney; baby wishes to go to sleep," whispers elsa to her big daughter, whereupon litzi goes away on tip-toes. dreamily humming a lullaby, elsa cradles the child in her arms, and then lays it down in its pretty white bed. but when she thinks it asleep, it opens its blue eyes, and stretching out its arms, murmurs something which, with a vivid imagination, one can declare to be "papa." "did you hear him come sooner than i, baby?" says elsa, while garzin, sitting on the edge of the bed, strokes the child's head until she closes her eyes. there she lies, her hair full of golden lights, the unusually long, black lashes resting on the round cheeks, lengthened by their own shadow, the full little mouth half open, like the calyx of a red flower, one fat little arm thrown up over its head. "she is pretty, my little one, is she not?" says elsa proudly, as she sees the quiet smile with which her husband watches the child. "and the doctor thinks i need have no more anxiety about her." "yes, the little rogue is healthy enough," says erwin, sighing, as he softly leaves the nursery with elsa. "i wish i could say the same of her mamma. poor elsa, how thin you are." "do i not please you any longer?" she replies, half laughing. "you are not very sensible!" "probably not," replies she seriously. "with such old married people as we are, there can be no more talk of 'pleasing.'" "do you think so?" "and if i should have small-pox, would it make any difference to you?" she asks him, looking at him curiously; the noblest woman is not ashamed to be loved a little because of her beauty. "certainly," he replies, "i should love you just as much as before, but i would be bitterly sorry for your pretty face." jestingly he passes his finger over her cheeks. they go into the garden; all is gay as if for a feast, the whole earth with her blooming mixture of white, blue and violet elder, golden rain and red acacias--a gay, shimmering picture under an endless blue sky. everything lives and breathes. the birds twitter, the insects hum, every blade of grass seems to have a voice, and join in the great triumphal chorus of the newly-risen nature. there is a rustling, a murmuring, a whispering, a nodding, a quiver of life and pleasure, and in the enchanting music suddenly mingles a soft crackling, the crackling of dead leaves, which play at the foot of the trees. garzin has led his wife to a bench, over which an elder tree bends its branches of bushy white blossoms. elsa gazes before her at the lovely nature, the mixture of luxuriant green and gay blossoms, of short black shadows amid dazzling light. "how young the earth looks," says she dreamily. erwin draws her to him. i do not know whether he loves her even more now when she is pale and ill; at any rate he is more conscious of his feeling for her, and treats her more tenderly, is more thoughtful of her, and she leans on him like a sick child. her whole being has become softer, less independent. "i received a letter from felix to-day," says garzin after a pause. "ah!" murmurs elsa somewhat bitterly. "does he write for money again?" "yes, i am to raise some money for him," says erwin looking troubled. "ah!" "he has a fine property, but that cannot last," he remarks thoughtfully. "if it makes him happy," elsa shrugs her shoulders, and her voice sounds harsh. "hm! to ruin one's self is at the time a very pleasant occupation, but to be ruined--a very unpleasant condition, especially with a wife like linda. i do not believe that felix will be willing to live on the income of his wealthy wife." during this remark elsa continues silent. "do you believe that felix is happy?" erwin continues; "his letters give a desperately depressed impression. did you ever hear a really happy man assure one in every letter: 'i am very happy'--'everything goes well with us'--'i am very contented.' happy people are silent about their happiness." elsa lowers her head, and remembers that in the first years of her marriage she had never written anything to her brother but: "i cannot express how i feel!" "as i know him," continues erwin, "his present frequent contact with the world must be a continual torment."' elsa frowns and grows very pale. "i do not understand linda!" she cries. "how can she under--under the circumstances rush into society? i no longer try to understand felix. hm!--he is weak--could never refuse a woman anything; if one had asked him for his hand, he would have let it be cut off for her. as far as i am concerned he can give her his hand--but--but----" a strange fire glows in elsa's eyes, her face takes on a rigid expression and she grows stiff and clutches both elbows convulsively. "poor devil!" murmurs erwin. "you pity him for my sake!" cries elsa, bitterly. "it is not necessary. i know that you think his conduct unanswerable--that you must think so. he has forfeited all the sympathy which his blameless conduct for years had won. i will never forget the tone in which marie dey said to me last spring, when she returned from rome: 'i have often met your sister-in-law; she goes a great deal into society--one sees her everywhere. your brother does not seem to find as much pleasure in society as his wife!' and marie was always a friend to felix. i know that in parisian society felix is called '_le revenant_,' for which name he has naturally to thank some kind austrian. evidently the whole story, which was forgotten, has been warmed up again." "the world is very malicious," says erwin, evasively. "certainly! but after one has passed sixteen years, one knows it, and guards one's self!" cries elsa, and adds with a bitter smile: "i suppose he is a great philosopher and thinks nothing of it." "elsa! elsa!" admonished erwin. she shook her head. "see!" said she, dully, "to spare felix a humiliation, i would give my life, but now i cannot think of him without anger. heavens, when i think of his return i tremble! i know he will be very badly received, and as his wife's whole existence turns upon being received----" erwin bites his lips. "felix writes me that his wife plans to return in the latter part of june or the first of july. he will come to traunberg with his little son somewhat sooner." "he will return?" murmurs elsa, slowly. "well, he must sooner or later." "certainly!" cries elsa, with a shudder. "erwin, what will strangers think of his return, if i myself am not able to rejoice?" "strangers do not take the situation so tragically," says erwin, hastily and precipitately, looking away. "well, to be sure!" sighs elsa. "it is of no consequence to strangers whether he has acted without any tact, yes, unresponsibly. to think evil of one who is far from one is a pleasure to malicious people, and to the best is simply indifferent. but to be forced to think evil of one whom one loves is the most painful thing in the world." for a moment she is silent. "if felix insists upon coming," she then continues, "i will do my utmost to make life endurable for him and his wife. i cannot persuade him to return." ix. about a week after the conversation between erwin and elsa, recorded in the last chapter, a bowed man appeared in steinbach whom at first elsa did not recognize, but into whose arms she fell with a cry when he stretched out two trembling hands to her with a sad smile. she had forgotten his unsuitable behavior; every bitter word which she had pronounced against him fell heavily on her heart; she no longer felt anything for him but boundless, compassionate love. the sight of him shocked her, his hair had grown gray, his voice hoarse. an anxious habit of raising his shoulders, and pressing his elbows against his ribs, that shy manner of poor tutors and other despised individuals, who seem to strive to make themselves as small as possible, to deprive others of as little room as they can--lent his figure a sickly, narrow-chested look. he spoke a great deal, with forced fluency, often repeating himself. he whom for so long elsa had at most only heard laugh fondly at litzi's little wise sayings, now laughed continually, loudly and harshly at the slightest provocation, whereupon the wrinkles grew deeper in his face, the shadows under his eyes darker. often after such an outburst of nervous hilarity, his face suddenly grew flabby, as if wearied by too great exertion, and for a moment displayed the stony features, the rigid pain of one who has died a hard death. he had travelled in advance of his wife, who was staying with friends at the italian lakes, in order to prepare everything for her reception. he talked a great deal about his son, whom he could not bring to elsa because the day was cold, and the little fellow was somewhat hoarse. all the little habits of the child, his manner of pronouncing words, he told his patiently listening sister. his voice sounded sadder than ever when he spoke of the child, and from time to time he sighed, "poor boy, poor boy!" "what he must have suffered!" sobbed elsa, when she was alone again with erwin. "what he must have suffered!" yes, what he had suffered! not even those who saw the evident traces of suffering in this thin, gray, feverish man, could imagine the greatness of his misery, could judge the darkness of his soul which his intercourse with the world had caused. immediately after the intoxication of the honeymoon, even during the wedding trip, which at linda's wish they had made to egypt, when he began to learn to know his wife, he came to the sad conviction that the most trivial acquaintance would have offered him as much distraction as this marriage. pretty, coquettish, graceful, seductive. linda was all these, but she had absolutely no mind. like all narrow women without intelligence she became, after continued acquaintance, tiresome. incessantly occupied with the ambition to appear a true aristocrat, in whom one could not perceive the _parvenue_, she had no room for other thoughts. her joy at being now a "lanzberg" was fairly naïve. he really could not be angry with her when she displayed her little vanities to him. she wished to flatter him. he looked at her compassionately at such times and turned away his head. from cairo she had dragged him to paris. there, at first, they had led an irregular, stranger life, with half-packed trunks in the grand hotel, went to the theatre and drove in the bois de boulogne. linda for a while was satisfied with the acquaintances which she made in the hotel reading-room, at the skating-rink, etc. felix always avoided a _table a'hôte_, which linda, even if the _tête-à-tête_ meals were at times a bore to her, never opposed, as an elegant custom. then she was one day accidentally asked by one of her friends whether she should attend the last _soirée_ of the austrian ambassador. a pang went through linda's heart. she enveloped her denial of the simple question in a confusion of excuses and explanations--she had only recently married, she had not yet thought of paying visits. scarcely was she alone with felix when she asked him if he knew the ambassador. yes, felix knew him, but had not seen him for years. naturally linda ascribed his evident objection to visiting his excellency to the shyness which his _mésalliance_ caused in him. a scene followed, tears, cutting remarks--headache. the next morning, felix stood mournfully before one of froment-meurice's windows and asked himself whether he should not buy his wife a diamond cluster of wheat to calm her anger, when some one seized his arm and cried, "why, how are you, felix?" felix turned, discovered an old friend, who, many years younger, had served a degree lower in the same regiment with him at that time. now the friend was attaché at the embassy, and a favorite with the parisian ladies, a gay, hot-blooded comrade for whom some one had found the nickname, "scirocco." "how are you, felix?" he cried a second time, offering his former comrade his hand. felix started. no one in all austria knew his story better than this very scirocco, and scirocco offered him his hand. "thank you, rudi," he murmured softly. "it is very good in you to still remember me." poor scirocco grew very hot and uncomfortable. lovable and impulsive, he had spoken to felix without thinking for a moment how hard it is to associate with "such a man." felix looked so miserable, so depressed that scirocco would have told all the lies which might occur to him to talk him out of his sadness. "i was going to run after you in the bois the other day," he went on, "but you were walking with your wife, and i did not wish to intrude. _sapristi!_ how long have you been married? here in foreign parts one loses all austrian news. your wife is a sensational beauty. do not take it amiss that i do not even know who she is. i absolutely do not remember to have seen any one who could remind me of this fairy-like apparition a few years ago in short clothes." "you certainly never knew her," replied felix. "she is the daughter of a viennese manufacturer--harfink." "ah!" somewhat robbed of his self-possession scirocco, hastily leading the conversation from an unpleasant subject, stumbles upon yet more dangerous topics. "do you live in jealous honeymoon solitude, do you not go out at all?" felix looks pleadingly at him. "you know that i cannot go out," he murmurs. and scirocco hurries over that--he will not understand. "nonsense!" he cries. "people are wiser here than with us at home. mind and beauty count for as much as nobility." poor scirocco, he was never guilty of a more trivial platitude. "you must take your wife to the x's," he continued. x was the ambassador at that time. "never!" said felix, violently. they had reached the grand hotel now. "when may i call upon your wife?" asked scirocco. felix had averted his face from his former friend. "when you wish, rudi," he murmured, then, suddenly turning towards him, "god reward you for your kindness, but do not force yourself." scirocco saw that tears rolled over the cheeks of the "certain lanzberg." scirocco did not philosophize over the weakness of his former comrade, he was far too deeply shocked. the result of his great cordiality to felix was an uneasy conscience, the feeling that with the best intentions he had acted with a want of tact, and the need of inflicting punishment upon some one for felix's tears. "poor felix! such a splendid fellow!" he murmured to himself. scirocco, whom we must introduce to our readers by his name count sempaly, was noted for his good-natured precipitation and thoughtless generosity, by which he was often subsequently forced pitilessly to harshness which would be spared a less lovable but more prudent man. for instance, at one time there was the american smythe, who had been guilty of a breach of etiquette in a parisian circle at cards, and whom society had avoided, without harshness, with the assurance that he had assuredly been only stupid. they bowed to him on the street, they invited him to large entertainments, but they hoped that he would not accept the invitations; they cut him dead when he accepted them. then there was the marquis de coup de foudre, who was accused of cheating on the race-track, and who, from indignation--hm!--retired from the track. he was not wholly given up, but every one would only see him as far off as his neighbor did, in the beautiful bond of mutual responsibility which holds society together. then finally there was lady jane nevermore, who had permitted herself several little irregularities with her husband, and who now, divorced, with a grown daughter, rendered paris and nice uneasy. how he had defended these people, with what deep respect, with what sympathy he had spoken of them--showed himself with them on public occasions, made good all their lack of tact (people in an uncertain social position always develop a particular genius for this). he lent them more of his shadow than the devoted bendel lent his master, peter schemil, procured the widest social credit for them. he made a legion of enemies, but the clouds which rested on lady jane, coup de foudre and smythe--their names here stand for many--rested on him. people said at last that he must have his reasons for defending these people. weary, angry, he then suddenly withdrew from his _protégés_, whom by this he injured much more than he had benefited, and who now could, without opposition, proclaim their social bankruptcy. like many foolhardy heroes, at the last moment he was forced to beat a shameful retreat, when a perfectly respectable withdrawal would have been possible before. but with however a wounded heart he might return from his campaign against public opinion, he always ventured into battle again. after this philosophical interlude, we would perhaps do better to return to scirocco, who is meanwhile breakfasting in the "café riche." he was not hungry--he pondered. lanzberg's fall did not in the least remind one of smythe's, coup de foudre's, or lady jane's. in regard to these people, to a certain extent, prejudice had been justified, as if prejudice is not always to a certain extent justified! scirocco's pondering ended in the resolution to launch lanzberg in parisian society as one launches an unpopular _débutante_ of the theatre. the next day he called upon linda, and the day after count x---- paid his visit. how high she held her head among her acquaintances of the reading-room and skating-rink: "x----, an old friend of my husband," etc., etc. she took an apartment in the avenue de l'imperatrice, an apartment with a large cold _salon_ which was distinguished by gilded mouldings and white walls, pink doors, conventional chairs, and sky-blue satin upholstering. linda very soon understood that this dazzling elegance, which at first had blinded her inexperienced eyes, was intolerably "_dentiste_," as they say on the boulevard. she surrounded herself with old brocades, with modern bronzes, with smyrna rugs--an irregular confusion of picturesque treasures whose unsuitableness justified the temporary look of the whole establishment. scirocco helped her in everything. he found out auction sales in the hôtel drouot for her, stood for half the afternoon on an old flemish chair, to drive a nail with his own hands in the wall for her to hang a diaz or a corot upon--procured all the invitations for her which she wished--in short, was unweariedly obliging, and, _nota bene_, he only paid her enough attention to make her the fashion. she was clever enough to take with him the good-natured, brusque tone of a woman who may permit herself little liberties because she is sure of her heart and of the respect of the man with whom she associates. she lived in the seventh heaven. to drive every day, leave orders with worth and fanet, not to dine at home a single day, to attend two balls and three routs in one night, never to have a moment for reflection, to be always out of breath with pleasure, and besides this, to be surrounded by a crowd of young men with distinguished attractions and fine names, animated by the consciousness that for her sake an attaché, in despair over her virtuous harshness, had had himself transferred to persia--oh! in her romantic boarding-school dreams she had never suspected such a lovely life. and felix. scirocco had proposed him in the most exclusive club. felix had not resisted this, and came seldom to the club. he could not avoid playing little games of _écarté_. he won. his opponent doubled, increased tenfold the stakes--felix continued to win. the sweat stood on his brow; he was deathly pale. "do not play with me--i always win--it is a curse!" he cried suddenly, throwing down the cards and completely losing his self-control. scirocco grew embarrassed and nervously bit his nails. "if he had anything to reproach himself with!" he thought to himself. "but that is absolutely not the case, absolutely not!" the others who did not know baron lanzberg's history only laughingly called him "_un drôle de corps!_" the story went that felix lanzberg had once lost his mind from an unfortunate love-affair, and had spent two years in an insane asylum. scirocco had probably invented this rumor and set it in motion to take away room for other rumors. except scirocco and count x, none of the austrians in paris at that time knew the true state of affairs. a single one had a suspicion, wrote to vienna to inform himself, and received for answer--this and that. but this one was a _parvenu_, and when he wished to spread his news the others listened to him with mocking smiles, shrugged their shoulders arrogantly, and condemned the communication so harshly that he never again referred to it. he noticed that it was considered the thing to believe in lanzberg. felix grew daily more unsociable, and liked to go to places only where he was sure of meeting no one whom he knew, no people of society. he took long trips on the steamboats, passed the afternoon in the quiet peace of the gardens, sometimes stood for a quarter of an hour gloomily before a half-decomposed corpse in the morgue, or wandered through the quiet rooms of the louvre, which are so persistently avoided by certain parisians. formerly knowing as little of art as any other austrian uhlan officer, he now daily found greater pleasure in the pictures. his natural taste for glaring coloring, _décolleté_ cigarette beauties, humorous or sentimental _genre_ pictures disappeared. the soft harmonies of the old masterpieces had a strangely soothing effect upon his sick nerves. with slow, dragging steps, his eyes dreamily wandering from one picture to another, he sauntered through the long rooms. the gallery officials soon knew him, and with french talkativeness often spoke to him of the weather or politics. he never became a critic, but he had his favorites. for instance, he felt a quite inexplicable preference for greuze, the guido reni of the eighteenth century, of whom one might think that he had mixed his colors of tears, moonbeams, and the dust of withered flowers, and instead of beatrice cenci had painted a "cruche cassé." every day he stood for a while before the "cruche cassé" and murmured "poor child!" in one of the galleries there was the gloomy portrait of a woman from the hand of the jansenist, philippe von champaigne, pale with dark, mournful eyes; in the carriage of the emaciated frame the weary rigidity of vanquished pain. everything in the appearance was so dead and ethereal that one almost fancied one could see the flesh dying around the soul. felix stood before this picture every day. he loved the samaritan and the christ on the road to emmaus--masterpieces in which the sublime mystery of the rembrandt colors glorifies the harsh reality. he could not gaze often enough at the mysterious eyes of the christ, the eyes in which compassion is as large as the world, the eyes which pardon all, and yet ever sad, despairing, seek the means of salvation for sinful creation. but the picture which beyond all attracted and repelled him, which he loved and which yet terrified him, was watteau's pierot, pale, ghost-like, with glassy eyes in a rigid face; it looks down from the wall of the salle lacaze. to-day he has gone to a mask-ball to distract himself, and his weary eyes ask in disappointment, "is that all?" to-morrow he lies perhaps in the morgue, and his glassy eyes gaze with the same look at the solved riddle of eternity, as yesterday, at the hollow show--the same gaze which asks, "is that all?" felix almost daily passed a couple of hours in the louvre. "_bonjour!_" a diligent little artist cried to him here and there, some little person whom perhaps he had given some small assistance, and who greeted him as an habitué. except for this all was silence. no one speaks in the louvre; one only whispers. a hollow mutter and murmur woven of a thousand soft echoes pervade the old rooms in their vast monotony like the faint echo of the great tumult of the world, or like the murmur of the eternal stream of time. a year later, in a pretty country-house in ville d'avray, where they had passed the summer, a little son was laid in felix's arms. the tiny creature, wrapped in white lawn, grew indistinct before his eyes; he scarcely saw it, only felt something warm, living, between his hands, something the touch of which caused him a wholly new, tender sensation, and lightly and carefully he kissed his son's little rosy face. then remembrance smote his heart, a convulsive sob overcame him, and in a broken voice he murmured, "poor child! poor child!" from ville d'avray linda dragged felix to biarritz, then to rome, where they passed three winters. these were still worse than the winter in paris. rome is the city of social consideration, a kind of free city for dubious characters. felix's martyr nimbus had vanished through his intercourse with society in paris. scirocco who had been removed to rome, was vexed with linda for following him. her manner of chaining herself to his protection irritated him, but he still assisted her social advancement where he could. the other austrians were not exactly unfriendly to felix, but cold and distant. on their faces could be read, "we are surprised that you show yourself," or even, "we will not turn our backs upon you--we are in rome." with the certain feeling of kinship which characterizes the austrian nobility, they, to be sure, never spoke of his affairs with a stranger, but so much the more among each other. at last rome was tired of, and even london, where linda spent a season and enjoyed her greatest triumph. but one place remained to try--traunberg. it was a cool, unpleasant evening when felix returned to traunberg from his short visit in steinbach. gray and white strangely scattered clouds rose along the horizon, the lindens shivered, and threw long pale shadows over the smoothly-shaven lawn and the yellow gravel. the sun hung on the horizon almost without light, behind a pale mist like a half-faded spot of blood. life had never been as hard to bear for a "certain baron lanzberg" as on this evening. slowly he wandered through the large, gloomy rooms of the castle, in which the cold air was as close and mouldy as in a cloister, and where every step seemed to charm a remembrance from the floor. he saw elsa, tall, somewhat pale, with the charming awkwardness of her fourteen years, hurry to meet him, shy before her handsome, brilliant brother who, a week before, had won a race--her brother of whom she was so proud. he saw his father, as he smiled joyfully at him, and pulling his ear, cried: "do you amuse yourself, my boy? do you amuse yourself? have you debts? out with it--not many? always tell me what you need; i no longer know what circumstances require. you are my golden boy, you are your old father's joy!" he remembered the expression with which the freiherr had surveyed him, a glance in which a kind of exaggerated paternal pride was glorified by the deepest love, and the gesture with which he had merrily cried to the old family portraits, "are you satisfied with my boy?" his memory did not spare poor felix a word. he had passed through one after another of the large rooms. in some of them stood great piles of furniture which linda had sent here. suddenly he found himself before a picture which hung in a dark corner, concealed by a curtain, in his father's former room. hastily he drew back the curtain, then he clutched his temples and turned away from the painting with the short, dull groan of a dying animal. what had he seen? the portrait of an unusually handsome, merry, good-tempered young officer, who smiled at him through the twilight. felix hurried away. in the lofty, arched corridor, the echo doubled the sound of his footsteps. it seemed to him as if that gay comrade had stepped down from the frame, and now, relating old stories, wandered at his side. the sweat of terror was on his brow. he met a servant, and hastily commanded him to remove the picture from the green corner room. his voice was always sharp when he spoke to servants, and yet he was the best, most generous master in the world. he entered his child's room. the french _bonne_ laid her finger on her lips to signify to him that the child slept. he bent over the little creature, who, with one little arm under his cheek, with the other clasping a gay gilded doll to him, lay in the embroidered pillows. without, the lindens, sighing compassionately, shook their great black heads, the tower clock, indifferent as time which it serves, played its old piece in a flat tone, hesitating and pausing--a minuet to which the grandparents had courtesied and bowed. felix listened, listened, like an old man who suddenly hears once more the cradle song with which he used to be lulled to sleep. it overcame him. he bent down deeper over his little son, and murmured softly, "poor child, poor child!" and the words woke the child, he opened his large eyes and lisped, unabashed, "why, poor child? is gery sick?" x. "elsa, dear elsa, this is lovely in you! what an surprise! i only know you from my husband's accounts, and from my wedding-day, but i shall love you frightfully, that i feel already." crying out these words, linda had jumped out of the carriage with which felix had met her at the railway station, and greeted elsa, who, at her brother's wish, had come to traunberg to welcome the young wife to her new home. then leaving elsa, linda let her eyes wander over the façade of the castle. "_charmant! magnifique!_" she cried. "a portal like a church, gray walls, cracked window-sills, balconies and volutings, small-paned old cloister windows! i am charmed, felix--charmed! _c'est tout a fait seigneurial!_ if you knew, elsa, how tired i am of modern villas, stucco and plate glass. ah, you poor, little creature! i had half forgotten you;" with this linda bends down to her son, who had first stamped his little feet with joy and excitement at his mother's arrival, but then, ever more and more abashed by the flow of words which had carelessly been uttered over his head, with his finger in his mouth, now seemed to take a mournful pleasure in crying. "have all children a habit of sticking their fingers in their mouths, or is it an invention of my young hopeful?" asks linda, after she has hastily kissed and caressed the child. "he will be pretty, the little brat. it is a pity that his hair will not grow. when he had typhoid fever or measles--what was it, felix?" "scarlet fever," he replied, tenderly raising the tiny man in his arms. "oh, yes, scarlet fever; we had to cut his hair, and since then it has never grown long." "i think you can be satisfied with him as he is," says elsa, looking approvingly at the handsome child. "yes, he is a nice little thing," admits linda; "he has splendid eyes, the true lanzberg eyes. oh, i am so glad that he resembles felix." "well, his beauty would not have suffered if he had resembled you," replies elsa, with an admiring glance at her sister-in-law. linda's physique has developed splendidly. the discontented expression which formerly disfigured her face has vanished, has given place to a bewitching smile and brilliant glance. negligence and grace are united in her carriage. she displays the gayety and cordiality of a person who is satisfied with herself. laying her arm caressingly around elsa's waist, she whispers: "so you really do not find me too homely for a lanzberg; one would not guess from my looks where i come from, eh?" "where you come from?--from the world of society--that certainly," says elsa. "bah! from an iron foundry!" cries linda, laughing. elsa glances once more at the picturesque distinction of the slender figure near her. "no," says she, decidedly. indeed linda does not look like the daughter of a self-made manufacturer; rather like a parisian actress with a talent for aristocratic rôles. "and now you must show me everything in my new domain, elsa, everything," cries the young woman, and elsa says, "are you not tired, will you not first have a cup of tea?" then linda says animatedly, "no, no, i must first see everything, everything!" felix has disappeared with his little darling. elsa leads her sister-in-law through the rooms of the ground floor and first story, shows her the elegantly furnished rooms which elsa has herself helped arrange for her. "oh, you poor elsa, how you have tormented yourself for me!" cries linda, and finds everything splendid and charming, with the affability of a newly married queen who, entering her kingdom, wishes to make herself popular. "there! i will reserve the attic rooms. i begin to feel the dust of travel. it is now much too late to take tea; as soon as i have changed my clothes, i will join you in the drawing-room. i do not yet know the way to my room--oh, yes--that is the room for my maid---_parfait, parfait--au revoir_, my dear heart!" and before she leaves her, linda presses another kiss upon elsa's cheek. on her way to the drawing-room, elsa heard a little voice prattling and laughing behind one of the tall doors which open on the corridor. "may i come in?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer, she entered the room where felix, his child on his knee, sat in an arm-chair and held a sugar-plum high in the air, while the child climbed up on him, half laughing, half vexed at his vain attempt to overcome his father's teasing resistance. both were so absorbed in their occupation that they did not notice elsa's entrance. she gazed at the pretty group with emotion--the gray-haired man, the blond child, until finally felix surrendered the sugar-plum, and the child ate it with a very important air, smacking his lips, and with contortions of the face by which he seemed to show the ambitious desire of resembling as much as possible his little friend the monkey in the london zoo. then elsa laid her hand lovingly on her brother's shoulder. "oh, how you play with the child," said she. he raised his face to her, the pale face with the sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, in which everything was old but pain, which appeared fresh and young every morning, and said hastily: "i must love him doubly now. who knows whether later he will have anything to do with me?" xi. "i could not resolve to dress; to appear at dinner in a _peignoir_ is a fault which is pardoned in convalescents, and after twenty-four hours of railway travel, i feel at least like a convalescent. ah, how pretty it is here!" so cried linda, entering the drawing-room where felix and elsa awaited her, a half hour later. what she called a _peignoir_ was a confusion of yellowish lace and india muslin with elbow sleeves and the unavoidable watteau plait in the back. her soft hair hung loose over her shoulders. "i have a headache, and cannot bear a comb, and as we are _entre nous_----" she excused herself smilingly at elsa's astonished glance, as she pushed back the heavy waves from temples and neck. her gestures were full of seductive grace, and her whole form was pervaded with a moist, sweet perfume which reminded one of a summer morning after a storm, and which exhales from a woman who has just taken a perfumed bath. in her whole appearance lay something which excited elsa's nerves without her being able to explain it--which wounded her feelings of delicacy. linda suspected nothing of the impression which she made. "it is pretty here," she repeated, with a lazy glance of satisfaction around the room--"i thank you so much, elsa! one sees everywhere that a woman's tact has superintended the furnishing--a workman never produces such an impression. everything looks so cosey, so irregular. how happy i am to be home at last!" and linda took her sister-in-law's slender, sallow hand in her white, rosy-tipped one, and kissed it with childish exaggeration. "who is already here besides the deys?" she asked then. "before next week i must really think of paying calls." elsa was spared an answer by the quick rolling of a carriage. springing up she cried--whether her emotion betrayed merely a severe feeling of propriety, and did not also display an unconscious premonition of jealousy i cannot say--"linda, it is erwin who has come for me. put up your hair; it would be unpleasant for you to meet a strange man so!" with a peculiar expression in glance and smile, linda fulfilled her sister-in-law's wish. elsa quickly helped her to twist up her hair, and thereby breathed the peculiar perfume which baroness lanzberg used. she will think of this perfume in many terrible hours which fate has in store for her. with both hands at her neck, her beautiful figure clearly outlined, her white arms exposed to the elbow by the falling back sleeves, linda is just fastening a pin in her improvised _coiffure_, when erwin enters the drawing-room. "i did not think that you would take the trouble to come over here," stammers linda, childishly, shyly offering him her hand, "or else you should have found me in more correct toilet." elsa starts. instead of answering, erwin has kissed the warm white hand of his sister-in-law. the garzins remained to dinner in traunberg. linda would not hear of their return to steinbach, she was so happy at last to have an opportunity of learning to know her relations better. she asked advice and indulgence so childishly, was so gay, so amusing, so charming, that elsa's antipathy to her increased and erwin's rapidly lessened. soon he fell into the tone of indifferent gallantry with her which in society almost every man takes with every woman who does not inspire a direct repugnance in him. but elsa, inexperienced as she was, did not know this tone, did not know that one can listen with an expression of the most intense interest to a woman without having the slightest idea half an hour later of what she had said; that one pays her the little flatteries for which she hungers as one picks up her handkerchief--from polite habit; that for the time which one devotes to her, one is obliged, if not absolutely to forget the charms of all other women, still in no case to remind her of them. linda behaved very cleverly with her brother-in-law, displayed a naïve wish to please him--no forward coquetry. she knew that naturalness, lack of reserve in a really pretty woman is always the most dangerous charm--she was refinedly natural. she told the drollest parisian stories, made the drollest faces without the slightest regard for her symmetrical features; she made use of a momentary absence of the servants to throw a bread-ball in felix's face with all the skill of a full-blooded street-boy, and as felix frowned and erwin could not conceal a slight astonishment, she excused herself so penitently, told with so much emphasis of how marie antoinette in her time had bombarded louis xvi. with bread balls in trianon, that erwin was the first to console her, while there was something in his conventional courtesy of the encouraging consideration which a mature man shows to a spoiled child. after dinner linda offered to sing something. "she had to be sure no voice, not even so much as a raven or mlle. x----" she remarked smilingly, "but she relied upon her dramatic accent and----" as she remorsefully admitted--"she had taken such expensive lessons. would not elsa accompany her?" elsa refused gently, almost with embarrassment. she could scarcely read the notes, and erwin? he could read notes and could play enough to strum his favorite operatic airs by ear in weak moments. he would try to accompany linda if she would promise to be very patient. "the worse you play, so much the more excuse will there be for my faulty singing," cried linda gayly, and opened that charming, foolish cuckoo song from "marbolaine." a pretty confusion followed, a laughing, correcting, her little hands playing between his. "can we begin?" she cried finally, and still half leaning over him with one finger pointing to the notes, she began to sing "cuckoo!" her voice, in truth, did not remind one in the least of the gloomy organ of a raven, or the passionate hoarseness of the x----, rather of a child's laugh, it was so clear and boldly gay, even if somewhat thin and shrill. felix, who had meanwhile been telling elsa of gery's scarlet fever with most interesting explicitness, grew silent, not, perhaps, because the cuckoo song was even half as interesting to him as gery's parched lips and little hands--no! but because he noticed that the usually so patient and sympathetic elsa no longer listened to him. her eyes were fixed on linda; that thin, flippant voice pained _her_, could it please erwin? then the last note ceased. "i am so sorry that i have hindered you by my miserable playing," he excused himself. "you sing so very charmingly! another one, i beg you." for the first time in her life elsa was vexed that she was not musical. xii. "cuckoo," hummed erwin absently to himself as he drove back with his wife to steinbach through the capricious, flickering evening shadows. a filmy confusion of pink and white, a tumbled knot of pale brown hair, two large, cold eyes, mysterious greenish riddles in a flattering, open child-face, a seductive, rococo figure which leaned over the stone balustrade of the terrace, and threw gay kisses after the departing carriage, this is the last impression which erwin takes away with him from traunberg, in the landau in which he now sits beside his pale wife. "she has changed greatly for the better. it is a pity that she has such bad manners," he breaks the silence after a while. "do you really think that she has such bad manners?" replies elsa, without looking at him. "there can scarcely be any doubt as to that," says he. "some people may certainly think that it is becoming to her. nevertheless i should wish that she gave them up. you must undertake her neglected education, child!" "oh, i will leave that to you," she replies, coldly, almost irritably. "linda is not a person who will learn anything from women." "do not be harsh," he whispers, reproachfully, perhaps with a trace of impatience. the gloomy traunberg lindens are far behind them, only show as a dark spot on the horizon. the carriage rolls on between gigantic poplars; the sun has set and the shadows have vanished with it. over the earth is that dull gray light which might be called dead light. the new moon floats in the heavens, small and white, like a tiny cloud; pale yellow and reddish tints are on the horizon, above the violet distant mountains. at the left, only separated by a blooming clover-field, is the forest. "elsa, do you feel strong enough to walk home through the woods?" whispers erwin to his wife, coaxingly, and as she nods assent he stops the carriage, and they take a path through the clover to the shady woods. "now, was not that a good idea of mine, is it not pretty here?" he asks, gayly and proudly, as if he had made the wood, surveying all its beauties. "lovely," whispers she, but her voice sounds sad. at her feet the ground is blue with forget-me-nots; under the wild rose-bushes already lie many white petals. a sob and a sigh pass through the gloomy trees as if spring mourned that the first roses were dead. all is grave and solemn, the air spiced with the odor of withered generations of leaves, with the perfume of fading or still blooming flowers. erwin teasingly waits for elsa to speak to him--he waits in vain. with head thrown back and earnest eyes she wanders near him, and does not rest her little hands tenderly on his arm as usual. what is the matter with her? that she can be jealous does not occur to him. they have almost crossed the forest; the meadow which separates it from steinbach park shines between the sparse trees, then erwin discovers a striking trace of game; he bends down to observe it more closely. "a roebuck," he murmurs. "strange--in this region." "is there no other way across?" asks elsa, who has meanwhile crawled close to the edge of the meadow, and casting a somewhat anxious glance over the knee-high, dewy grass. "no, wait a moment," he replies, still absorbed in contemplating the strange trace. "it will cost me a pair of shoes," she murmurs somewhat vexedly, raises her gown, and resolutely prepares for a very cold foot-bath. "elsa, what are you doing?" cries he, perceiving her intention, and, leaving his hunter's problem, he hurries quickly up to her. "with your genius for taking cold." before she has time to answer he has taken her in his arms and carries her through the dew. he has wholly forgotten linda lanzberg, and also that he had been vexed with his poor nervous wife's unjust, childish antipathy for linda. he looks down tenderly upon the dear head, which rests with half-closed eyes on his shoulder. "how light you are," he remarks softly and anxiously; "you do not weigh much more than litzi now, my mouse." elsa does not answer, but her slender arms twine round his neck, and as his lips seek her pale face, he feels that she is crying. "what is the matter, my darling?" he asks. "i do not know myself," she murmurs with a slight shiver. "i am afraid." xiii. "we really must invite her," says, in a mournful tone, countess mimi dey, a large stately woman, with a too high forehead, a feature which has the proud advantage of being a family inheritance in the sempaly family, an aristocratic, small, turn-up nose, a benevolent smile, and a near-sighted glance. the countess is the best woman in the world, of proverbial good nature and unfeigned condescension in association with music-teachers, governesses, companions, maids, tutors and officials, and such poor devils who are paid and supported by the aristocracy, and politely courtesy to them; but she is unapproachably stiff to the upper middle classes, those persons who demand a place in society. she belongs to that exclusive coterie which considers itself the sole patented extract of humanity, and looks upon all the rest of the world as only a common herd, a mob which, under certain circumstances, permits itself to pay its servants better, and to give more to charitable aims than princely houses, a mob which speaks french, wears swedish gloves, and lives in palaces. she has a vague idea that it speaks incorrect french, that under the gloves coarse hands are concealed, that the palaces are always furnished with the taste of first-class waiting-rooms, but knows nothing definite about it, does not know "these people" at all, does not see them, although they are everywhere--they do not exist for her. they tell an amusing anecdote of her: that once at the opera on a patti evening, her cousin pistasch kamenz entered her box, and asked her, "is any one in the theatre to-night?" she, after she had glanced around the crowded building, answered mournfully, "not a soul!" what particularly amuses the countess is that, as she hears, this great class of _bourgeoise_, "which one does not know," is, on its side, divided by various differences in education and condition into classes which do not "know" each other. "i really must invite her," she repeats, mournfully. she leans back in a deep arm-chair in a large drawing-room with brown wainscoting and numerous family portraits, and smokes a cigarette. "pardon me that i really cannot so deeply pity you as you seem to expect," replies scirocco sempaly, who, now on leave, occupies a second armchair opposite his sister. "hm! i do not care about the positive fact; last week i dined with my bailiff's wife, but--it is a matter of principle." "_cent a'as_," says, with indifferent gravity, an old acquaintance of ours, eugene von rhoeden, who sits by an open window before a mediæval inlaid table and plays bézique with the above-mentioned cousin of the hostess, count pistasch kamenz. "_cent d'as_," he says, apparently wholly absorbed in his cards, and moves an ivory counter. a mild gentle rain is falling, the perfume of half-drowned roses and fresh foliage floats into the room. in one corner sits the only daughter of the widowed hostess, countess elli, a dark little girl in a white muslin frock, and near her, in a black silk gown, the governess. the obligatory half hour which elli must spend in the drawing-room so as to become accustomed to society, is over. elli is rejoiced, sixteen-year-old girl that she is. she takes no particular pleasure in the society of grown people, who can no longer pet her as a child, and who must not yet treat her as a young lady. a rustle of silk and muslin, a shy "_bon soir!_" and mademoiselle retreats with her charge. scirocco rises to open the door for the governess, makes her a deep bow as she disappears. rhoeden also rises, only pistasch indolently remains seated. "pistasch, you might trouble yourself to say good evening to mademoiselle," says the countess half jokingly. "pardon," replies pistasch, "pure absent-mindedness, mimi, and then she is so homely." "that simplifies matters ten-fold," replies scirocco, hastily. "one can never be too polite to homely governesses--it is only the pretty ones that are troublesome." "i do not understand that," says pistasch, and marks double bézique. "one never knows how one can be attentive enough to them so as not to vex them, and yet reserved enough not to impress them," says scirocco, dryly. "hm! you have very virtuous principles, rudi; for some time you have moved wholly in the icy regions of lofty feelings of duty, where the tender flowers of the affections never bloom," laughs pistasch. "i admire you, upon my word, but--hm--i do not trace the slightest desire to follow you into this rare atmosphere," and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction. he considered his cousin's conscientiousness either feigned or morbid. how could one be conscientious with women? conscientious in regard to debts of honor, that is something quite different, that is self-understood; but regarding governesses--bah! "count pistasch kamenz is a charming man." so at least say all the ladies and also all the men who have not yet come in conflict with him. he has the handsomest blond cinque-cento face, speaks the viennese jargon with the most aristocratic accent, and possesses the most enviable talents. he rides like renz, dances like frappart, and more than that, in private theatricals he is like blasel, matras and knaak in one person. in all austria, no man has a greater talent for representing polish jews, poverty-stricken czechs, drunken valets, provincials of all kinds. but his greatest triumph is the "vienna shoemaker's boy." what accuracy of costume and grimaces! the ladies say he has a pug nose when he plays the shoemaker's boy, and a way of sticking out his tongue--ah! he has played for benevolent objects a hundred times, and in vienna is a universally known and boundlessly popular individual, because he is intimate with actresses, occasionally from a freak rides in an omnibus, or another time is seen in the standing place of the opera house (for a half act), because one sometimes meets him in sausage houses, because in rainy weather he walks with an umbrella and upturned trousers, because once even--the gods and a pretty girl alone know why--he travelled from salzburg to vienna second class. the public see in him a pleasant, affable man without pride, and feel drawn to him like a brother. poor public! i would not advise you to stretch out your hardened hand to him, for between ourselves count pistasch is one of the most arrogant of austrian cavaliers. the actors with whom he one evening drinks friendship, and the next greets with "hm!--ah--you, mr.---- what do you call him," can tell this. one of them once challenged him. this was a great joke to the count; he laughed until he cried, could not control himself, and finally settled it thus: "you are a fine fellow, am very sorry, etc., deserve an order for personal bravery--ah--if i can be of any service to you," etc. he has never been outside of austria, possesses the vaguest ideas of history. the french revolution is a kind of accidental calamity for him, something between the earthquakes of lisbon and the pest in florence. he is a strict catholic from aristocratic tradition, has very good manners when he wishes, speaks french well, and we can assure our readers, that just as he is, without a suspicion of the "principles of ' ," he would be received with open arms in the most republican _salons_ of paris, and would be admired by the ladies for his "_pureté de race_" and "_grand air_." now we need only add that he naturally was not christened pistasch--that this is a humorous nickname which was given him as a boy, by reason of his idealistic "greenness," but which now, when this greenness has long withered, is preserved for the sake of contrast. "well, have you decided upon the day when you will invite the lanzberg?" asks scirocco of his sister, who, after long pondering, gold pencil in hand over a little velvet-bound book in which she enters her social obligations, now closes it. "it is very hard," complains the countess. "when did this unfortunate madame lanzberg call upon you? oh, yes. wednesday. have you returned her call yet?" "no; i must show her from the first that i am in no hurry to associate with her," says the countess. "hm!" says scirocco, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. "do you not think, mimi, that as quite a near relation of lanzberg it would be the thing for you to smooth the way a little for his wife? it would be an act of christian charity." "the matter is very complicated, rudi," replied mimi dey. "i was always very sorry for felix--you know i decidedly took his part. i have nothing against his wife; her manner is indeed deplorable, but on the whole, if some little poverty-stricken sempaly or dey had married her, i should have been the last to withdraw my protection from her. in felix's unfortunate circumstances, he has proved by his marriage that he no longer belongs to his caste; he has abdicated, _voilà_." rhoeden and pistasch have finished their game of bézique, and now devote themselves to the building of interesting card-houses. they spice this intelligent occupation by considerable wagers, which he shall win whose card-house remains standing the longest. up to now rhoeden has had the advantage. but the countess's words seem to have excited him a very little--his card-houses no longer stand. scirocco bites his lips, every finger quivers--how can he counsel his sister to silence or at least consideration? in vain he turns his back to rhoeden, so as to make an impression upon her by energetic scowling. soon he notices, like many subtle diplomats, that he has naïvely exposed himself to the enemy. his energetic play of expression beams at him from a mirror in which the attentively watching rhoeden could certainly solve the interesting riddle--but it wholly escapes his short-sighted sister. "as she, nevertheless, must be invited, it would perhaps be better to fix the day," cries scirocco, somewhat impatiently. "it cannot be this week," answers the countess, counting over the days. "thursday, friday and saturday are the days of the fair for the flooded people in marienbad; sunday, the ladies of the committee dine at the m----'s, monday there are private theatricals at the m----'s, thursday, the l----'s dine with me----" "well, invite them for thursday," cries scirocco. "she is really very nice, sings chansonettes like judic; she will amuse you greatly." "do you think so?" cries the countess. "before felix was married, l---- would hardly bow to him, how will it be now? no, wednesday. wednesday will be the best, but still i cannot exactly invite her _en famille_." "hardly," says scirocco, dryly. "and whom can i ask to meet her? one has an antipathy to felix, others to her----" the countess laughs lightly and kindles a fresh cigarette. "one must be so careful--it would be very disagreeable for me if toward evening some one should accidentally come over from marienbad, and should meet her here." "have a warning fastened over the door as when one has small-pox in the house," laughs pistasch. "invite the garzins," proposes scirocco. "yes, that is something, but a strange element is still desirable," remarks the countess. "what do you say to the klette?" scirocco frowns. "i do not understand how respectable people can tolerate this poisonous old gossiping viper under their roofs," he answers, angrily. "neither do i," replies mimi dey, obligingly, "but still every one does." "i make you another proposition, mimi," cries pistasch: "invite old harfink by telegram; i think he will come by special train." the countess smiled. "i should certainly do it," remarks she, "but i believe the lanzberg would look upon it as a mortal insult. besides, when did you make his acquaintance?" "i met him once on the train, and thereupon he invited me to dinner," explains pistasch. "and you accepted?" asks the countess, raising her eyebrows. "why of course--i thought i should amuse myself as well as at the carl theatre. yes--that was what i fancied. what a disappointment! the dinner was not bad, perfectly correct, alas! the wife spoke of nothing but the evils of the social question. i did not know where to look, and the husband spoke of nothing but the evils of his stomach. except for that, they were both very charming, on my word. paid me compliments to my face with a _sans gêne_. bah! i was never very kindly disposed to felix, but i pity him on account of this match. for my part i should rather marry into a hottentot family than such people." i do not believe that during this speech eugene rhoeden felt exactly upon roses. there are _parvenus_ who listen in society to such speeches with self-satisfied indifference; yes, even laugh at them, and applying the english proverb, "present company always excepted," to their own case, fancy themselves unreferred to. but rhoeden does not belong to these enviable ones. he smiles slightly to himself, and after the conversation had continued for some time in a similar manner he begins: "there was once a french poet named voltaire, and once when he went to london the street boys laughed at him, and sang mocking songs about frenchmen. then the poet turned round and said: 'you good people, is it not hard enough not to have been born among you? really, you should pity us, not despise us!'" after this little anecdote a universal silence followed, then scirocco cried, "bravo, rhoeden!" the good-natured countess dey blushed and said: "we had entirely forgotten that you are related to these people," which sounds like a _betise_, but is balm for eugene's vanity. pistasch, however, puts on an irritated expression, and cries with his colossal impertinence, "i pity you uncommonly!" half an hour later the countess is conferring in her dressing-room with her maid concerning her costume for to-morrow, and pistasch has seated himself in a bad temper at the piano, where with his handsome, unpractised hands he thumps out the march from norma, the only achievement of a ten years' study of music. scirocco and rhoeden stand below on the rain-wet terrace. "your cigar bores me," cries scirocco, "throw it away and fill your lungs with pure air," and he draws a deep breath so as to enjoy the fragrance of the summer evening after the rain. eugene does as he is invited, and then asks, "do you not admire my compliance?" "you are a good fellow; one can get along with you," answers scirocco in his abrupt manner. "thanks for the acknowledgment," says rhoeden, not without bitterness. "sometimes i ask myself whether it would not be better and more sensible for me to pack my trunk." "don't see the necessity," growls scirocco. "i am really not sure," says rhoeden; "for between ourselves it is pleasanter to hear pistasch make fun of my uncle than to hear my uncle rave over pistasch when the latter has accidentally met him and said: 'ah! good day, mr.---- what is your name--mr. harfink?'" "curious world!" murmurs scirocco, smiling to himself. rhoeden, seeing him in a particularly good temper, makes use of the opportunity to ask him: "say, what is the story about lanzberg?" scirocco is silent for a while; looks apparently absently before him, and then suddenly cries brusquely, "what did you ask?" "whether you think we will have fine weather to-morrow," replies rhoeden. scirocco glances at him peculiarly with a half smile, behind which the words "clever dog" may be read. that evening eugene writes in the diary in which, instead of sentimental impressions, he notes down all freshly-acquired worldly wisdom: "never ask society, except concerning things which you already know." xiv. klette was invited after all, or rather invited herself. at the fair in marienbad she met mimi dey, and upon the latter remarking carelessly: "how are you, caroline; when are we to see you in iwanow?" assured her generously, "i am at your service as soon as you send the horses for me. i have been intending to spend a few days with you." and she stays a few days; the first of these, the eventful wednesday, has already dawned, is in fact nearly over. klette and the countess are chatting in the drawing-room. the three gentlemen are firing at sparrows in the park, quite a bloodless occupation, which the sparrows seem to consider a good joke, and they laugh at the shooting with their ironical black eyes. they flutter about like will-o'-the-wisps. in vain does pistasch, who seems particularly bent upon this sport, approach softly the trees where they crouch--krrm--and they are gone. for probably the tenth time pistasch has cried, "the infamous sparrows are cleverer than i," has at last fixed his eye upon a comfortable old grandfather sparrow, who sleepily philosophizes on the thick branch of a nut-tree, but before he has aimed he hears from the open windows of the drawing-room loud laughter, the gay ripple of the countess, and the deep, rough ha! ha! ha! of klette. "how amused the ladies seem to be," he says, turning to his companions, forgetting the sparrow patriarch. "i do not understand how any one can laugh at that cantharis," grumbles scirocco. "oh, she is surely relating something piquant about us," says pistasch. "it is incredible how greatly interested the ladies are in our doings, that is to say, in our evil doings." now the shadows have become much longer. klette has withdrawn to don a wonderful cap of yellow lace and red ribbons, and the men have returned from their bloodless hunt, to exchange their gay shirts and light summer suits for solemn black and dazzling white. "rudi," cries the countess, as she hears a light and yet somewhat dragging step--scirocco limps a little--passing her dressing-room door. "have you any commission, mimi?" asks scirocco, with his good-natured obligingness, as he enters the room. the countess has dismissed her maid, is already in dinner toilet, suppressed laughter sparkles in her bright brown eyes, the corners of her mouth twitch merrily. "no!" she replies to his question. "what commission should i have for you!--ah! you came from the greenhouse?" pointing to a couple of flowers in his hand. "yes. i wished to give the gardener some directions in regard to the flowers for your guests. i remember that elsa cannot bear gardenias, and linda--hm--the lanzberg raves over stephanotis." "you really might have omitted the bouquets today," says mimi, vexedly. "my greenhouses without this--thanks to the fair and those stupid theatricals--are pretty well stripped." "elsa has never dined here without finding her favorite flowers beside her plate," remarked scirocco, calmly. "i can neither pass over linda, nor will i punish elsa for the misfortune of having a miss harfink for sister-in-law. why are you laughing so, mimi, what seems so amusing to you?" "my own simplicity," cries the countess. "i was so very stupid." "mimi, i do not understand you in the least," says he in astonishment. "oh, i took your protection of this pretty lanzberg for unselfish philanthropy!" the countess interrupts herself to laugh. "unselfish philanthropy! say rather ordinary justice," cries he, becoming somewhat violent. "what are you thinking of? what are you driving at?" "your discretion is admirable! you understand no hints." "ah, indeed!" cried scirocco, pale with rage. "ah, indeed! and the cantharis told you that--that was what you were laughing over so immoderately?" "but rudi, never mind. i do not take it amiss in you," cries the countess good-naturedly, restraining her levity. "but i take it amiss in myself to have given rise by my thoughtless inconsiderateness to such infamous inventions!" cried scirocco, "for, once for all, mimi, mrs. lanzberg is horribly calumniated by such." "there are cases where perjury is permissible," says the countess, indifferently. "do not trouble yourself, i will never speak of the matter." then scirocco steps close up to his sister. "mimi!" cries he, hoarsely, "do you know that i am wounded, seriously wounded by your suspicion? pray consider the meanness which you ascribe to me! i have worked for felix's rehabilitation so as to be able to carry on a convenient love affair with his wife, on the risk that the world, bad as it is, discredited as he is, should say that he voluntarily paid this price for my assistance. his wife was indifferent to me, but even if she had charmed me i would have avoided her like the plague rather than throw another shadow on felix's compromised existence. poor felix! and i imagined that i had been of some use to him." impossible not to believe in his honest excitement. "pardon, rudi," whispers the countess, "i had not thought." "never mind that, mimi," he murmured, "besides it is better that i know what people say. i can at least act accordingly--to-day. this venomous serpent will surely watch my every glance. however, i must hurry--_à tantôt_, mimi!" with that he rushed out, had only just time to change his clothes when he heard a carriage approach. "poor felix!" he murmured thoughtfully and sadly, "i can do nothing more for you; they have tied my hands." thus the last shadow of pleasure which linda might have had at the dinner has vanished. the lanzbergs arrived a few minutes before the garzins. scirocco received them at the foot of the terrace, offered linda his arm, with somewhat formal politeness, and escorted her to his sister in the drawing-room, not in the cosey, brown wainscoted one, but in a ceremonious chamber hung with gobelins. the countess rose at her entrance and took two steps to meet her, then introduced her to those present with her usual absent-mindedness, naturally to rhoeden also, at which linda began to laugh; but as no one joined in her merriment, her pretty, attractive face suited itself to the universal gravity. poor linda, she so petted, so spoiled, to-day sees not a welcoming face, even among the men. the countess exchanges polite commonplaces with her, while she addresses remarks to klette in between. the chair near the sofa on which linda sits remains empty. pistasch, whose humorous talents are to-day wholly imperceptible, presents the appearance of a distinguished statue, and exchanges a few words with eugene, while scirocco with unnatural liveliness has entered into a conversation with felix. at last the garzins appear--every one thaws. the countess does not walk, no, she runs to meet elsa, kisses her on both cheeks, scolds garzin for permitting his wife to look so pale, accidentally steps on linda's train, turns round and says, "ah, pardon me, baroness!" a perfectly polite little phrase which makes linda feel as if cold water had been thrown over her. the dinner is announced. scirocco takes linda in with the same strange formality which she perceives in him to-day for the first time. at the table a charming surprise does indeed await her--a bouquet of stephanotis and gardenias. "oh, scirocco!" cries she, perhaps a very little too loudly, "that is too lovely! it reminds me of rome," she adds softly. she is already so nervous that she would like to burst into tears at the pretty attention. her eyes sparkle, and a fleeting blush crimsons her cheeks. scirocco is sorry for her. "i am glad that you appreciate my good memory," says he, bending slightly towards her. then he notices how suddenly no less than three pairs of eyes watch him closely, those of klette, pistasch, and rhoeden; he feels that linda's excited manner is most suited to strengthen this distrustful trio in their suspicion, and immediately turns to elsa. "i could not conjure up any white elder, unfortunately, snowdrop," says he, shaking his handsome head vexedly. "even with the assistance of all the seasons, you could hardly have found anything more beautiful than these white roses," she replies. she sits at scirocco's left. linda cannot eat, and finds no opportunity to speak, and relate the gay little stories which are her specialty. pistasch, who sits at her right, contents himself by from time to time dutifully making some remark to her concerning the weather, the country, and such perfectly neutral subjects, excluding all intimate conversation, and scirocco, her old friend, on whose homage she had relied so surely, to-day has nothing but etiquette for her. she listens to his conversation with elsa. elsa and he were playmates together. she calls him by his given name, he calls her snowdrop, which pretty nick-name he had discovered for her years before. both laugh lightly over old reminiscences which they share, and ask each other about old, half-forgotten friends. pleasant confidence on her part, smiling courtesy on his, marks their manner to each other. linda feels more and more depressed. felix, more gloomy and embarrassed than usual, scarcely raises his eyes from his plate. except scirocco, who absolutely cannot help her, nor dares, only one notices and pities her misery--erwin. "what has become of your wild gypsy, snowdrop?" asks scirocco, among other things. "my wild gypsy has become a very tame gypsy, who lets my little daughter ride her very good-naturedly," replies elsa. "ah, litzi rides already; then i must accompany her some day soon," says scirocco. "do not break her heart. she likes you better than any one else now," says elsa. "that is quite mutual," he assures her. "i hope you will bring litzi up for me." "since we have been at traunberg i have not yet been able to find a suitable saddle-horse." linda turns to scirocco. "if you are not a grandfather before litzi thinks of marriage," elsa laughingly answers his last remark. "do you know that you are beginning to grow gray?" whereupon be, turning to his right, says: "you will find the country very pleasant for riding, baroness--many meadows," and to the left: "you always were accustomed to discover the mote in my eye, snowdrop!" "why did you never mention your wish to me, linda?" asks erwin across the table. "i can place a horse at your disposal which might suit you." "riding is a very pleasant pastime--will be a great resource for you, baroness," remarks pistasch. "ah! do you think that i will need many resources in traunberg?" asks linda, bitterly. "well, life in the country is always monotonous," he says politely but somewhat hesitatingly. "these _pâtis_ are excellent, mika," now says the bass voice of klette, at his right. she has known him all his life, has dandled him on her knees when he wore short dresses, still calls him by his christian name, and is one of the few people who remember that he was really baptised michael. he gives a servant a sign. "shall i help you?" he asks with droll gallantry. "i have nothing against it--two, please," she replies. "how is marienbad looking? any new beauties?" he asks. "don't be so lazy, and come over and see for yourself," says she with her mouth very full. "i was there saturday at the fair. ruined myself buying cigar-cases. i place six at your disposal, caroline. but on my word, it is astonishing what trash they had at the fair." "you distinguished yourself," cries the hostess, laughingly. "yes, unfortunately i took a ring street beauty for the f---- from the carl theatre, and asked her how much a kiss cost. her ladyship entered into the joke, and answered that she only sold cuffs, and as i persisted--_pour la bonne cause_, she replied in perfectly good french, '_la bonne cause s'en effaroucherait_,' then i grew urgent. 'count kamenz!' cried a warning voice near me. i look up, and behold beside me, the picture of offended dignity, the husband." "and how did you get out of the scrape? what did you say?" asks klette. "i?--what could i say?--'ah, pardon'--and decamped!" "cool! very!" remarks rhoeden, who has been reconciled to pistasch again, laughing. "i only wondered that he knew my name so well," says pistasch, meditatively, with feigned simplicity. "i do not know to this day what his name is. his wife was a magnificent creature, on my word--what a pity!" "i think she was sadder at the interruption than you," says rhoeden. "possibly," replies pistasch, calmly. the trivial little story has seemed diverting enough to all present except linda. is that the way in which young people of society speak of pretty women out of their sphere, to whom they pay attentions? she asks herself. xv. now the dinner is over. they have left the drawing-room to wander through the park. there are thunder-clouds in the sky, the air is close and breathless, sultry, but at times a sharp gust of wind rises. the birds fly close to the ground, as if the black sky frightened them, and the flowers smell strangely sweet. in vain has linda sent inviting glances at scirocco; he clings to elsa as a sinner might cling to a saint through whose protection he hoped to gain admission to paradise. rhoeden who, whether from policy or convenience, plays the rôle of an injured man and is very reserved, polite and attentive as he is, has undertaken to be the young elli's partner at lawn-tennis, by which game he can meet her in the park. erwin has good-naturedly joined his pretty sister-in-law; chatting gayly, he tries to drive away her bitter mood. there is something in the shape of his eyes which makes them look sentimental, one might almost say loving. his temperament is such that he can be with no one, especially no woman, without trying to make her existence agreeable. elsa who, walking with scirocco, meets her husband, linda on his arm, remembers neither the one thing nor the other; the smile with which, with head slightly lowered, he listens to her chat, the glance which he rests on her, are in elsa's eyes half crimes. after a few superficial words the two couples separate again. erwin as he goes turns round and calls to scirocco, "see that you do not take my wife into a draught, sempaly. she is strangely imprudent." "what admirable thoughtfulness," says elsa, half aloud, and draws down the corners of her mouth so deeply that scirocco, as an old friend, permits himself to remark laughingly, "i did not know that you could look so gloomy, snowdrop!" whereupon elsa blushes. linda and erwin join the lawn-tennis players. linda has studied this modern pastime thoroughly in england, and likes to play; besides that, she knows very well that nothing is more becoming to her slender yet voluptuous figure than the quick litheness required in lawn-tennis. her voice reaches elsa from a distance, gay, shrill, then the soft half-laughing voice of erwin. "you look so tired, snowdrop," says sempaly, sympathetically, "will you not rest a little?" with that he points to a bench in a niche of thick elder-bushes. "yes, i am tired," says elsa, dully, and sits down. "tired after a two-hour drive and a little stroll through the park, snowdrop," remarks scirocco, anxiously. "i do not recognize you any more. you used to endure so much. do you know that your health makes me anxious?" "nonsense! my health interests you about as much as that of the emperor of brazil. if you receive notice of my death some day you will shrug your shoulders and sigh sympathetically, 'poor garzin!'" "you are intolerable, snowdrop," says scirocco, laughing. "besides, the wind is rising and you are beginning to shiver. let us go to the house." "no, i like it here," she cries with a pretty childishness. "i should like to see the sun set from here, and am curious as to whether the flora there"--pointing to a statue--"will become flushed pink. prove your friendship and get me a wrap." he goes away, but remains longer than the nearness of the castle seems to justify. elsa does not notice his long absence. she prefers to be alone in this spot. the bench reminds her of old times, and is therefore dear to her. whether the flora becomes pink or not is perfectly indifferent to her--she does not look outward, she gazes inward. she thinks of the day when she sat there with erwin, her betrothed. (count dey was still alive then.) she remembers--oh, something foolish--the little beetle which had fallen in her hair and which erwin had brushed away with light hand; his caressing touch; how he looked lovingly at the beetle because it had touched his love's hair; how, instead of throwing the insect away, he had carried it with him when they left the bench, and had placed it carefully in the heart of the most beautiful rose which they passed. how he loved her then! how passionately and at the same time how tenderly! "ah! those were such lovely times," she sighs with the old song. the voices of the lawn-tennis players are still heard. how can they play in such a gale? suddenly she hears her name spoken near by. "how this poor mrs. garzin has gone off!" cries the klette's bass voice. "i scarcely recognized her." "she looks badly," replies count pistasch's distinguished husky voice. "she has grown old, fearfully old; she looks as if she were forty," asserts the klette. "ah, bah! she looks rather like a consumptive pensioner," replies pistasch. "what can be the matter with her? i hope no trouble is worrying her." "don't you think that this good garzin is a little too fond of his pretty sister-in-law?" "nonsense, caroline!" says pistasch, reprovingly. "you are always imagining something. recently you asked me whether poor rudi----" "well, that is evidently over;" the klette heaves a sigh of disappointment; "but she must coquet, poor mrs. lanzberg, to amuse herself, there is not much else for her to do; and say yourself--i do not assert that the good garzin has already knelt to her, but would it not be natural? it would really serve this arrogant elsa right. to force garzin, a man of such a gay, sociable nature, to absolute solitude; to take away from him his career, his occupation, in short, everything." elsa springs up; she listens breathlessly. what does she care that it is ill-bred to listen? but the voices die away. pistasch and the klette turn into another path without noticing the white form in the dark elder niche. scirocco at length comes back. "i could not find either your things or mimi's maid all this time," he excuses himself for his long delay. "i hope this belongs to you," offering her a white crêpe shawl. she takes it, but immediately starts back with a violent gesture. "that belongs to my sister-in-law," she cries; "my things are never so strongly perfumed. only smell it, how strange!" "yes, truly," says he, holding the shawl to his face; "that is a harem perfume which some one brought her from constantinople. but what is the matter, snowdrop?" "i feel the storm approach," she murmurs, tonelessly. "let us go to the house." they go. the swallows fly yet lower, the clouds hang heavier, almost touch the black tree-tops. there is a whistling and hissing in the leaves. elsa hears nothing. with dragging, and yet overhasty, steps she walks near sempaly. "who knows whether he would even say 'poor garzin' if i should die?" she thinks to herself. the lawn-tennis party, which pistasch and the klette have now also joined, growing more and more animated, has lasted until the first drops of rain have driven them away. somewhat dishevelled and heated, her morbid self-consciousness healed by the admiration which pistasch, escaped from his cousin's control, had unreservedly displayed for her, linda enters the drawing-room where the countess, felix, elsa and scirocco are assembled. "how did your lawn-tennis come on?" asks scirocco, as the countess, vexed at linda's triumphant look, does not condescend to address her. "oh, excellently," cries linda. "count kamenz and my brother-in-law display the greatest talent for this noble occupation." "to whom do you give the palm?" cries kamenz. "i cannot decide that to-day," says she with as much gravity as if she were deciding upon the fortieth _fauteuil_ of the paris academy. "one judges talent not from what it first offers, but according to its subsequent development." this pedantic phrase from her fresh lips is so irresistibly droll that pistasch and erwin laugh heartily, and even scirocco cannot suppress a slight smile. "we have come to the conclusion that the ground here is not favorable," continues linda, turning to scirocco, "and the gentlemen are coming over to traunberg to-morrow to practise. will you be one of the party, count sempaly?" "if you will permit me, i will have the pleasure, baroness," he replies with a bow. "you are as full of phrases as an old copy-setter to-day," cries she, shrugs her shoulders, laughs lightly, and sinks into the arm-chair which pistasch pushes forward for her. pistasch seats himself opposite her. his light laugh as he leans forward, her satisfied leaning back, the continuous conversation wholly incomprehensible to the others, indicated a dawning flirtation. what did it matter to pistasch whether linda's father's name was harfink or schmuckbuckling? a man never troubles himself about such a thing when he is paying court to a pretty woman. poor mimi! for years she has treated pistasch as her exclusive property, she grows nervous, glances discontentedly in the direction of the two. "rudi, will you order the carriage?" asks felix, uneasily. scirocco stretches out his hand to the bell, but asks politely, "will you not wait until the rain has ceased?" "i have no desire to get wet in our open carriage," interposes linda. "i could place a close carriage at your disposal," remarks the nervous countess, irritated even more by pistasch's manner than by linda's victorious expression, and adds constrainedly, "however, i really see no reason for haste." hardly can permission to remain be given in a colder tone. but linda replies with astonishing aplomb, "neither do i," and has a sweet, naïve smile for the countess, and for pistasch, on the contrary, a comical, expressive glance which delights him. he finds it quite in order that she should refresh herself with a little impertinence. "she is piquant as an actress," he thinks. then the door opens; unannounced, like very old friends, a lady and gentleman enter. she, small, fat, lively, cries out, hurrying up to the countess, "we flee to thee, mimi, the rain has surprised us. ah, you have guests--how are you, elsa? do i really see you at last?" he, tall, thin, with a velasquez nose, don quixote manner, and arrogant eyes, looking out through glasses, has meanwhile chivalrously kissed the hand of the countess. now he looks round, recognizes erwin, greets him heartily, comes up to felix, starts slightly, goes past him to rhoeden, as if he had never seen felix in his life before. felix stands motionless, ashy, rigid, with bluish lips and half-closed eyes. scirocco has lived through many unpleasant moments, but never a more painful one. still he rapidly collects himself, takes the new guest by both shoulders and turns him toward felix. "that is lanzberg. did you not recognize him, max?" he cries. after that nothing remains for count l---- but to murmur in apology, so as not to insult the guests of the house in which he is, "i am so near-sighted," and to stretch out two arrogant fingers to felix. "order the carriage, rudi," begs felix, very hoarsely. linda, who has not noticed the little scene, gives pistasch a glance at the interruption of their _tête-à-tête_, which flatters his vanity. xvi. "you have slept badly, mouse; look at your poor eyes. you worry me, you pale person." with these words erwin greets his wife the next morning at breakfast, kisses her lightly on the forehead, then reads his letters, swallows a cup of coffee in great haste, greets miss sidney, who enters with her little pupil, absently though pleasantly, lets himself, still pleasantly but somewhat passively, be embraced by his little daughter, puts his letters in his pocket and hurries away, but turns at the door and cries: "do not expect me to lunch, elsa; i have a great deal to do in radewitz." now he has gone, elsa's eyes have grown sad. for a few minutes after miss sidney has led litzi away elsa remains at the deserted breakfast table and crumbling a roll, murmurs, "he has forgotten." to-day is their wedding-day, a day which erwin has always made much of, which has always been a day of sweetest recollections. she had remained in her room this morning longer than usual, because she had hoped that he would seek her. in vain! then she, poor elsa, had expected a little surprise at the breakfast table--in vain! so now she sits there and hopes that perhaps he will return. yes, he returns--his steps rapidly approach, her heart beats fast, the door opens, erwin bursts in with hat on his head, and cries: "elsa, don't forget to send the white duchess to traunberg. i have not time to give the order," and disappears. "he has forgotten--decidedly forgotten!" cries elsa, "for the first time!" then she leaves the breakfast room. time passes slowly and sadly for her. "it is a trifle not worth speaking about," she tells herself again and again. "i should have reminded him," but then she feels herself grow hot. "he did not forget linda's horse," she murmurs bitterly, and adds still more bitterly: "he is bored. every diversion is welcome to him. poor erwin!" the day passes--the dinner hour draws near, several minutes before five erwin at length returns. heated and irritable he seeks her in her room. "how vexed i have been!" he cries as he enters. she smiles, a little excitement overcomes her. but soon it turns out that he has not been vexed at his forgetfulness--oh, no!--only at the cheating and roguery of his sugar factory director. "it serves you right," remarks elsa, coldly. she cannot deny herself the satisfaction of making some sharp remark to him. "when he introduced himself to you, you told me 'the man is repulsive to me!' and when he came back again you engaged him. you always do so. at the first glance you judge men according to your instincts, and very justly; at the second glance you judge them by the universal statutes of lofty philanthropy, and always falsely. i know no one for whom it is more unpleasant to believe ill of his neighbor than you." "god be praised and thanked that the counterbalance of a desperately distrustful wife is given me, then," cried erwin, somewhat irritably. then a pair of large eyes meet his gloomily. "my distrust is a disease, and you know the cause," says she, earnestly. the shrill dinner-bell at this point interrupts the conversation. after dinner--miss sidney has gone into the garden with litzi to play grace hoops--the husband and wife sit vexedly silent in the drawing-room, when a servant presents a letter to erwin from traunberg. elsa has at once perceived that it is in linda's, not in felix's handwriting. erwin has opened it, apparently indifferently, then suddenly the blood rushes to his cheeks, almost violently he throws the letter away, kneels before elsa and takes both her hands in his. "how could i forget the th? elsa, are you very angry with me?" he cries. it would be hard to remain angry with him, if he had not been reminded of his duty by just linda. but this vexes elsa so much that she answers his warm glance and pleasant smile only with a cool "why should i be angry?" as indifferently and calmly as if the th no more concerned her than the date of the battle of leipzig. "had you forgotten, also?" he asks, wounded. "forgotten?--what?" asks she, dully. "that to-day is my lucky day--the loveliest day of all the year for me? oh, elsa! has it become indifferent to you?" his voice goes deep to her heart, but she is ashamed to be so moved by his first warm words--is ashamed to show him how his forgetfulness has pained her. in proud fear of having shown too much feeling, she hardens her heart, and with the peculiar histrionic talent which is at the disposal of most women in critical moments, and which they love to display, so as to thereby ruin the happiness of their life, she says calmly, pleasantly, half laughingly: "ah, indeed!--i should tease you for your lack of memory!" "elsa!" confused and surprised he looks in her eyes. "do you not remember how we have always valued the day; do you not remember the first year? you had forgotten it, then?--and when i put the ring on your finger--perhaps you do not wear it any longer?" "oh, yes;" and elsa looks down at the large diamond which sparkles like a dewdrop or a tear near her wedding-ring. "well, you were ashamed, then, not to have thought of me," he continued, "and then--then you repeated to me, half crying, half laughing, very tenderly a little childish wish: 'had i an empire i would lay it at thy feet, alas, i can offer you nothing but a kiss,' do you not remember, elsa?" but elsa only replies coldly, almost mockingly: "it is very long ago--hm! what does linda write to you besides that to-day is the th?" "i have not read all of her letter, read it yourself if you wish," and with that he hands his wife the letter. elsa at first struggles with herself, but then she reads it, and half aloud: dear erwin:--it is really too charming in you to so kindly gratify my thoughtless wish. many, many thanks for the beautiful white duchess. felix just tells me that to-day is the th, a day on which you will have no pleasure in playing lawn-tennis with me. you might perhaps force yourself to come so as not to vex me, solitary as i am now. therefore i release you from your promise. kiss elsa for me, and, with most cordial greetings, sincerely yours, linda lanzberg. "how well she writes," says elsa, who is sorry that she can find nothing to complain of in the letter, and with the firm resolve not to let her jealousy be perceived in the slightest, she continues: "i should be sorry if our foolish lovers' traditions should prevent you from amusing yourself a little, my poor erwin." she had taken up some fancy work and seemed to ponder over a difficulty in it. "pray go over to traunberg and invite linda to dinner sunday." erwin gazes angrily before him. "you send me away, elsa--you--to-day--on our wedding-day?" says he then, slowly. she laughs lightly and threads a fresh needle. "ah! do not be childish, erwin," cries she. "it is not suited to our age now." he pulls the bell rope violently. "elsa," he whispers once more before the servant enters, but with such intolerable cordiality she says, "well, erwin?" that he turns away his head and calls to the servant, who just then appears, "tell franz to saddle my horse." xvii. a small room with large windows opening on the park, innumerable flowers in vases of different forms standing about the room, a perfume as intoxicating and painfully sweet as poison which gives one death in a last rapture; on the walls, hung with silver-worked rococo damask, a few rare pictures, only five or six; two greuze heads with red-kissed lips and tear-reddened eyes, eyes which look up to heaven because earth has deceived them; then a corot, a spring landscape, where dishevelled nymphs dance a wild round with dry leaves which winter has left; a watteau, in which women, in the bouffant paniers of the time of the regents, with bared bosoms and hair drawn high up on their heads, touch glasses of champagne with gallant cavaliers, a picture in which everything smiles, and which yet makes one deeply mournful; a picture in which men and women, especially women, seem to have no heart, no soul, no enjoyment on earth, no belief in heaven; but in deepest _ennui_ float about like butterflies, tormented by the curse of the consciousness that their life lasts only from sunrise to sunset; a rembrandt, a negress, brutally healthy, bestially stupid, with dull glance, broad, hungry lips, huge, homely, and wholly satisfied with herself and creation; about the room soft, inviting furniture; no dazzling light, pale reddish reflections; draperies in roman style, artistic knick-knacks and soft rugs--this is what erwin finds as, pushing aside the drawn portières, he enters linda's boudoir without announcement. amid these surroundings she sits at an upright piano, and softly and dreamily sings an italian love-song. erwin comes close up to the piano. "ah!" cries she, springing up. it would be impossible not to see what unusual pleasure his visit gives her. her eyes shine, and a faint blush passes over her cheeks. "erwin, did you not receive my letter?" she cries almost shyly, and gives him a soft hand which trembles and grows warm in his. "certainly," he replies. "it was very nice in you to consider our foo----" in spite of all the bitterness which for the moment he feels toward elsa, he cannot use the byword foolish, and rather says--"little traditions. i only came for a moment, i----" he hesitates. "elsa hopes that you will do us the pleasure of dining with us sunday." "sunday?" repeats linda, letting her fingers wander absently in dreamy preluding over the keys. "have you planned anything else?" asked erwin, who had meanwhile taken a very comfortable chair. "what should i have planned?" asked she, shrugging her pretty shoulders. "no, no, i will come gladly. you are very good to me, erwin, and i am inexpressibly thankful to you." a strangely exaggerated feeling was in her accent, in her moist glance, and the quick gesture with which she stretched out both hands to him. "where is felix?" he asked, turning the conversation. "felix is, i believe, over in lanzberg," she answered. "he has 'something to attend to.' he always has 'something to attend to' when i expect people," she added, bitterly. "it makes my position so uncommonly easy, erwin! can you account for his behavior? would you, if you had once resolved to choose a wife of unequal birth, afterward be so passionately ashamed of her as felix is?" "how can you talk so foolishly, linda?" erwin interrupted the young wife, uneasily. "foolishly!" linda shook her head with discouragement. "if you only saw him! lately he made a scene before i could be permitted to accept the deys' invitation; then, at the last moment, he had a headache, and expressed the wish that i should join elsa and go without him." "strange idea to hang this monster in your pretty rococo nest!" cried erwin, growing more and more embarrassed, and abruptly changing the conversation from felix to the rembrandt negress. "the monster pleases me, i like contrasts--but to return to felix----" "you expect pistasch and sempaly, do you not?" "they wished to come this evening--alas--i could renounce their society; to-day i should like greatly to confide in you, erwin. you are the only person who is sorry for me." there was a pause in the conversation of the two. without, a murmur like a sigh of love sounds through the trees, and a few withered rose-leaves are blown into the room. erwin's glance rests dreamily upon the young woman. she pleases him in somewhat the same manner as the greuze head on the wall; no, differently--there is always something dead about a picture. a picture is either a recollection preserved in colors or a dream, and has the charm of a recollection, of a dream; while linda has the charm of a foreboding, of a riddle, and above all things, the charm of life, of full young life. then a carriage approaches. "pistasch and sempaly," cries erwin, looking out of the window and seizing his hat. "on sunday, eh, linda?" says he in a tone of farewell. "now you run away from me just like felix," cries she, pouting. "please stay; it is so unpleasant for me to receive young people without a protector." and he stays. "you have come late; we have scarcely three-quarters of an hour of daylight left." with these words, spoken in a very indifferent tone, linda receives the young men. "shall we set about it at once?" she continues. the lawn-tennis court is in a broad flat meadow in the park. the ground is not yet dry from yesterday's rain, still the players are unwearied, erwin, after a short time, as animated as the others. he competes vigorously with pistasch, whose skill he soon surpasses, and enjoys the society of the two agreeable and to-day good-tempered young men, who are both old acquaintances of his. pistasch in old times he has pulled by the ear, paid his youthful debts, and on holidays taken him away from the theresanium; with scirocco, who is but little younger than erwin himself, he has taken an oriental trip, they were both overturned in the same drag, both raved over the same dancer, etc. merry reminiscences pass between the players almost as quickly as the tennis balls, and linda encourages all these reminiscences most charmingly; her smile lends a new spice to the play and the conversation. erwin is of a much too lovable nature, is far too much occupied with the happiness of others and too little with his own, to think of what might have been if he had not, for love of elsa, renounced the world. he possesses a decided disinclination for the "if," always looks straight before him, never behind him. it does not even occur to him to-day, when he is vexed with elsa, to complain of the serious monotony of his life, to philosophize, but he feels well, likes to amuse himself again, laughs frequently, and is not unsusceptible to the evident wish to please him which linda shows. no objection can be found to her behavior to-day--it is animated without being loud, cordial without being coquettish. the three-quarters of an hour are over, the daylight has become first pale, then gray, the balls have flown aimlessly, like plump night birds through the air; they have laughed, ridiculed the opposite side for their faults, finally lost several balls, and come to the conclusion that for the present nothing more can be done. the players have now assembled for a light supper in the somewhat gloomy dining-room, from whose walls a few old portraits, gentlemen with huge wigs and large flowered brocade vests, ladies with wasp waists and immoderately high powdered coiffures, look down upon them. the light of the lamps is reflected in the crystal decanters, in which red and white wine sparkles; the flowers, a mixture of transparent ribbon-grass and wild roses, move softly in their vases in the middle of the table, trembling in the night air which streams in through the open windows. beautiful fruit shines fresh and inviting, in silver dishes, and linda presides, somewhat flushed, cordial and wonderfully pretty. no annoying servants disturb the pleasant little repast. pistasch behaves like the perfect gentleman which he is when he does not consider it his duty to be a perfect boor, or does not take pleasure in representing a perfect street arab. he entertains the little circle by gay anecdotes, is attentive without impertinence to the hostess. scirocco, more serious in manner, nevertheless laughs at his cousin's jokes, and often interposes a witty little remark. erwin is as gay as the two others, but from time to time, however, his conscience reminds him that this is not the place for him, and that it is time for him to return home. "but can i leave my young sister-in-law alone with the two men?" he calms his inconvenient conscience. "impossible!" he must wait for felix to return. that kamenz and sempaly, well-bred as both are, and with no cause for importunity, would both leave as soon as he should start, he does not tell himself. then a carriage rolls up to the castle. linda rises to go to the window. "felix!" she cries in her clear, childish voice. no answer follows. her eyes become gloomy, she listens, evidently listens to see whether he will go to his room without appearing to his guests. then a dragging, stumbling step is heard in the corridor. "felix!" cries linda, excitedly and imperiously. the door opens, felix enters, he stumbles into the dining-room, his face is red and swollen, his eyes have a watery look, his knees bend at every step, and a repulsive flabbiness is betrayed in his whole form. "you have guests?" he says, thickly. "sit down, you are not well," cries erwin, seizing the staggering man by the arm, and forcing him into a chair. "no--but--the----" begins felix, and breaks off, not able to finish the sentence. a pause ensues. the little company seem paralyzed with alarm and disgust. then sempaly rises. "we thank you for a very pleasant evening, baroness," he turns politely to linda, and he and his cousin withdraw. linda is as white as the table-cloth. "come, felix, lie down," says erwin to his brother-in-law, whose condition he does not wish to expose to the impertinent curiosity of servile lackeys. "a cigar," murmurs felix, excusing himself like all drunkards. "come;" erwin urges him more sharply. felix is about to make some reply, when he discovers his wife, turns his head away, and trembling throughout his entire frame, lets himself be taken to his room without resistance. when erwin returns to the dining-room to bid farewell to linda, he finds her still deathly pale, with gloomy eyes, sitting in the same place. "linda, you are wrong to take this so seriously," says he, softly and consolingly; "it is really often an accident, a glass of poor wine----" at his first kind word she has burst into tears. "it is not the first time," she replies, with difficulty restraining her tears. "ah! if it--if it was only because the wine went to his head or--but no--a year ago he was the most temperate man in the world--it began in london. it cannot all be my fault. what is the matter with him? my god! what is concealed from me?" a new light dawns upon erwin's mind; linda's lack of tact is excused; a boundless pity overcomes him. at a violent motion of her pretty head her hair has become loosened and now hangs in silken splendor over her shoulders. "calm yourself, fasten up your hair, be prudent, my poor little sister-in-law!" says erwin. softly and involuntarily, as one would do to a child, he strokes the hair back from her temples. she tries to fasten it up, but suddenly she lets her arms sink, and looking directly at erwin out of moist but not disfigured eyes, she whispers, "i cannot reach so high, and do not wish to be seen thus by my maid--it would be strange." "can i help you?" she nods. simply, but without undue haste or uneasiness, he twists the beautiful hair, fastens it firmly as one who is accustomed to perform such services. she keeps her head covered, breathes regularly, deeply, audibly--accidentally he touches her little glowing ear, then she starts. a clock strikes. "half past ten!" cries erwin, startled. "good night, baroness; poor elsa will not know how to explain my absence," and he rushes out. "your horse must be saddled," says linda, but he does not return--a few minutes later she hears him galloping rapidly away. "when he thinks of his wife he always calls me baroness," she murmurs to herself with a peculiar smile. an hour later erwin knocks at his wife's door. "who is it?" an indifferent, sleepy voice asks from within. "i." "ah, you, erwin!" elsa unlocks the door, and comes out in the corridor, where only a single lamp breaks the darkness. "have you anything particular to ask me?" says she, and her feverish sparkling eyes contradict the indifferent voice. "nothing," he whispers, softly. "i merely could not resolve to retire without having bid you good night; i felt that you must be still awake. do you insist upon receiving me in the corridor?" he asks, smilingly, as she has closed the door behind her. "the baby is asleep," replies elsa, coldly, rubbing her eyes with ostentation. "my voice will not wake her," he says, softly, taking elsa's hand. "elsa, my dear pouting elsa, forgive me," he whispers. "i had no right to be angry and run away, merely because you were intolerable. it has been a horrid day, let it at least have a good ending!" he sees how she trembles, how she blushes, and tenderly he takes her thin little face between both hands. then, then she changes color, her eyes open in wild horror, and she starts back from him with a gesture of decided aversion, but quickly collecting herself, and forcing herself to smile, she gives him her hand and says, "good night!" how she has pained him! is her love dead? he cannot understand her manner. how could he? he does not notice that on his hands, in his clothes has remained the peculiar perfume which a gallant diplomat had brought linda from constantinople. xviii. "one cannot please people," sighs pistasch, several days after the lawn-tennis party, while, cigar between his teeth, a hat adorned with a cock's plume on the back of his head, his smoking jacket open over his broad chest, he tries to solve a difficult problem in billiards. "one cannot please people." "hm! i think this sentence belonged to solomon's _répertoire_ of phrases," grumbles sempaly, who, stretched out in a deep arm-chair, is looking over an old _revue des deux mondes_. "solomon! solomon!" says pistasch, clutching his soft golden hair. "was not that the jew in the leopoldstadt, whose money rate was so cheap, only three per cent, _per mese_?" count kamenz considers it "chic" to have forgotten his bible history. "do not make yourself out stupider than you are," scirocco admonishes him. "we can be quite satisfied without that." "thanks, you see one can never please people," repeats pistasch, shrugging his shoulders in droll despair. "after the sacrificial meal, mimi rejoices me with a remark upon my stiffness to the lanzberg. i show the latter much-calumniated beauty some slight attention and accept an invitation to lawn-tennis at her house. mimi reproaches me concerning my morals. in order to satisfy her demands i yesterday paid court to a sixteen-year-old dove; she reproaches me for my inconsequence, says with feeling, 'one does not trifle with love!'--there, it sounds as if it were a bit from a play." pistasch turns to sempaly. "yes, it is the title of a play in which at the end some one is stabbed," says scirocco, looking up from his reading. "thank you, rudi; one can always learn from you," assures pistasch. "you are the first who has discovered that--i pity you," replies sempaly, sarcastically. "surely not because i am weak in history and literature," says pistasch, phlegmatically. "bah! if one of us only knows who he is, he knows what he needs." "yes, everything else would only confuse him," says scirocco, seriously. "precisely," answers pistasch, coolly. he now sits on the corner of the billiard table, both hands in his pockets, in the large room with its faded leather furniture. "but confess that your sister maltreats me, after i have tried so hard to please her." "too hard, perhaps," says scirocco, and looks gloomily at his cousin. is the latter the only one who does not perceive that the countess would prefer to preserve him in a cage, secure from the attacks of audacious women and mothers? "'_ce sont toujour les concessions qui ont perdu les grands hommes_,' philippe egalité remarked on his way to execution," he continues, and takes his cousin's ostentatious _naïveté_ for what it is really worth. "that might be called forcing history," cries rhoeden, entering at this moment, and hearing the last phrase. "who was philippe egalité?" asks pistasch, with unembarrassed--yes, boasted ignorance. "a man who, in order to make himself loved by the masses, voted for the death of his cousin, the king, made himself riding trousers of the _ancien régime_, and was beheaded by the masses by way of thanks." "ah! my historical knowledge is extensively widened--but if i only knew to whom to make love!" "_il y avait une fois un séducteur qui cherchait de l'ouvrage_," remarks eugene. "_je crois men qu'il cherchait!_" yawns pistasch. "really, it is not only on mimi's and morality's account that i do not dare try it with the lanzberg--but she is so magnificently prudish! now i do not object to a little prudishness, that is piquant, but quite so much! recently she, for really nothing at all----" "ah, really, for nothing at all?" repeats scirocco, looking sharply at his cousin. "well, not exactly for nothing at all," the latter admits, grumblingly, "but on my word, for a very slight cause, she gave me a dissertation upon her dignity, and that she felt bound to keep the honorable name which she bears spotless." "she is quite right," declares sempaly, sharply. pistasch laughs rudely. "well, rudi, between ourselves, it is nevertheless a little droll to think so much of this name, to boast of its spotlessness--hm!" rhoeden displays the indifference of a man who knows that the conversation is upon delicate subjects, and retires to a window recess, where he unfolds a letter. a servant enters and reports that "the countess begs the baron to come to the music-room," whereupon rhoeden vanishes. scarcely has the door closed behind him when scirocco bursts out violently: "you are a muttonhead, pistasch; the little banker is a hundred times cleverer than you." "he needs it," says pistasch, coolly. "can you not be silent before him?" scirocco attacks him. "no," replies pistasch, lazily; "i have never accustomed myself to keeping secrets; respectable people have no secrets. besides, lanzberg begins to be fairly unbearable, his manner has become so unsteady, so nervous; he no longer finishes a single sentence correctly, has not an opinion of his own, and crouches like a whipped dog. he makes me nervous." "are you of stone, have you no heart?" cries scirocco. "i am under no obligations to lanzberg," grumbles pistasch, very defiantly. "i----" "yes, you would be ashamed to protect him a little," says scirocco, cuttingly. "recently when l---- remarked to you that you seemed to associate with lanzberg a great deal, you replied, 'yes, he has a pretty wife!' really, pistasch, at that moment, in my eyes, you stood morally lower than poor felix." "really," pistasch imitates his cousin's tragic tone, "i think i have blundered into an educational institution! lectures and nothing but lectures! first you, then mimi. how you can permit yourself to compare me with a man like a 'certain lanzberg.'" "do not talk yourself into useless heat, my dear fellow," says scirocco, laying his hand on his shoulder. "at present i feel just as inclined to fight a duel with you as i should to cut my own brother's throat. consider a little and you will come to the conclusion that you are in the wrong." scirocco leaves the billiard-room. for a while pistasch pushes the ivory balls over the green table with furious zeal, then he throws himself irritably into an arm-chair. yes, he feels plainly that he is in the wrong, but he cannot resolve to change his behavior to felix. he might at least avoid him, but just now, because and in defiance of linda's prudishness, he does not wish to. his prejudice against linda was nothing but arrogant affectation, but his antipathy to felix is sincere; it almost resembles that aversion which many egoistic men feel for one mortally ill. rhoeden spends an hour in teaching the countess--a totally unmusical woman who does not know a note, has no feeling for rhythm, but possesses a good voice and a great desire to shine in that direction--twelve bars of a new italian romance of tosti. he goes his little way, pursues his little aim, and will attain it. only two years ago young aristocrats invited him exclusively to stag parties, hunts, etc.; then count f---- wrote a little operetta for a society tenor. the tenor, a young diplomat, after the first rehearsal of the operetta was transferred to constantinople--universal consternation. they had about resolved to surrender the operetta, which was to be performed for a charitable object, to a professional when pistasch proposed his old theresanium comrade, eugene. eugene, with his unusually beautiful voice, sang the little rôle charmingly; all were delighted with his singing, his graceful acting. at one stroke he became the fashion. his passion for linda, eugene had long buried under his worldly egoism; he was glad that he had been prevented from the foolishness of a marriage with her. he planned quite a different match, made use of his opportunities, and meanwhile was in no hurry. he knew very well on what footing he stood with society, knew that they wished to fasten upon him countess fifi r----, who was red-haired and somewhat hump-backed, or even countess clarisse, who was scrofulous and had been much gossiped about, knew it and laughed at it. he was still young and could wait. social vanity was his religion, the world his god, to whom, however, he did not pay such passionate, credulous homage as linda, for example, but always with an ironical smile on his lips. after he had gone through the romance with the countess for perhaps a hundred times, had finally taught her text, melody, and even a sentimental mordent, and is now dismissed from duty, eugene looks into the billiard-room again before he goes to his own room, and finds pistasch, between thick clouds of smoke, occupied with a tschibouk. "do i disturb you?" he asks, gayly. "oh, heavens, no! i have long been weary of my own society," sighs pistasch with feeling. "i have an amusing bit of news for you, pistasch," continues rhoeden, approaching him. "my uncle harfink"--eugene always speaks of his relations in a mocking tone, somewhat as one kind of cripples speak of their humps--"my uncle harfink--you remember his first wife, whom you knew, is dead--well, he has married again!" "wish him much happiness," replies pistasch, who does not see why that should interest him particularly. "he has married, and none other than the famous juanita," says rhoeden, with the calmness of a virtuoso who is sure of his effect. pistasch drops his pipe, springs up from his armchair. "harfink--married--juanita, the----" he interrupts himself. "yes," says rhoeden, calmly, "the same juanita who in her day ruined poor lanzberg." "hm! so you know the story?" asks pistasch, breathing freely in the consciousness that now all discretion is unnecessary. "it will go no further through me," rhoeden assures him solemnly. "but is not that delightful? my uncle writes me that he has married the aforesaid celebrity, and as his digestion is still not as good as it might be, they have gone to marienbad for their wedding trip. he begs me to reconcile his daughter to his step, and to find out what kind of a reception his wife may expect in traunberg. piquant, eh? very piquant!" a shrill bell announces lunch. "rudi! mimi!" cries pistasch, rushing into the dining-room, where both these, together with elli and mademoiselle, are assembled, "old harfink has married the juanita, and has gone to marienbad for his wedding trip. is not that magnificent, is not that famous?" xix. "a modern donna elvira!" this sarcastic nickname originated at the time when the charming privy councellor dey, whose wife we are acquainted with, was still alive. count dey was a red-haired gnome, who was continually mistaken for his own tutor which, as the facetious pistasch maintained with conviction to this day, was very annoying to the tutor. besides, count dey was eighteen years older than his wife, who, if not beautiful, was still uncommonly attractive, and still the poor woman embittered her young life with the most painful jealousy, followed her husband about distrustfully, accompanied him on the briefest visits of inspection to his estates, shivering and heroic, shared with him the cold inconveniences of his grouse hunt in the tyrol. the world maliciously delighted in the industry with which she defended her rights, and also in the fact that, in spite of her astonishing and extensive precautions, she was continually deceived by her red-haired spouse. mimi dey now served as a warning example for elsa. she, elsa, had not the slightest wish to undertake the rôle of the "modern donna elvira," and expose herself to universal mockery. therefore she concealed her jealousy from erwin with spartan self-control, and smiled with the most charming loftiness, while the poisonous mistrust tore her bosom as pitilessly as the young fox tore the brave little lacedæmonian. when, the day after the lawn-tennis party, erwin remorsefully sought the cause of her changed manner in his own behavior, and after he had tried to drive away her displeasure by a thousand loving attentions, put his arm around her and whispered to her softly: "elsa, confess why you were so angry with me yesterday--only because i stayed away so long?" frightened that he had so nearly touched upon her secret, she displayed the most arrogant indifference. "you surely do not think that i am vexed if you amuse yourself with linda a little?" she replied, with an irritating smile. "i am glad that you have found a little amusement, my poor erwin," she continued. he looked at her in some surprise. "yes, but then i do not understand----" he murmured. "what is the real matter with you?--does anything worry you?---tell me--two can bear it more easily." "no, no, i have nothing to tell," she replied, hastily. "nothing at all--i am tired, not very well." "yes, that you decidedly are not," he admitted, and anxiously scrutinized her thin cheeks and the dark shadows under her eyes. "we must consult a physician." "we consulted him four weeks ago," she answered, "and he advised me to drink louisen-quelle, and i drink louisen-quelle." she folded her hands resignedly over her breast, with an expression as if to say how little faith she had in louisen-quelle, and how indifferent her health was to her. "perhaps a trip to the sea-shore would do you good," proposed erwin. "could you go away now?" she asked, apparently calmly, but with her heart full of distrust. "now? hardly! but you could take miss sidney and litzi with you, or, as far as i am concerned, both children." "with the necessary servants that would cost a good deal," replies elsa, discouragingly. "well, we are not quite such beggars that we need think of that when it is a question of your health," he cries, almost angry. "we have saved long enough and can now spend something. decide upon cowes; perhaps i can join you there later." for a while she gazes silently and gloomily before her, then a slight shudder runs over her. "elsa! you seriously alarm me!" cries erwin: "something must be done!" "yes, certainly; i will go to cowes," she decides, as if it was a decision to let herself be bound upon the wheel, then she turns her head to look at an approaching carriage. "oh, linda," she cries, and her voice betrays absolutely nothing, not even antipathy to her sister-in-law, and erwin begs, "be a little good to her--for felix's sake. she needs women friends and has none but you." these naïve words may give the impression that erwin is very obtuse. but he certainly was not, only his knowledge of human nature was always bounded by a great good-will, his keen sight blinded by good-nature. he possessed a true passion for making every one who came near him happy, and also the impractical habit of never thinking evil of his fellow-men, except when he absolutely could not otherwise. therefore he saw to-day in linda's visit nothing but a praiseworthy wish of coming nearer to elsa. linda wore a very simple gown, which was very becoming to her; she had brought a work-basket, and sewed almost the whole time of her visit upon a little collar for gery which had a very exemplary appearance. she made the most modest and tender attempts to be friends with elsa, and without the slightest touch of familiarity, took a tone of comradeship towards erwin which pleased him greatly--perhaps so much the more as a charming, childlike smile accompanied this tone, and the merriest little stories. when evening had already become night, and felix had still not appeared, as linda seemed to have expected, to fetch her, and she confessed that she was afraid to return alone with her groom only, in the low pony carriage, erwin good-naturedly escorted her on horseback to traunberg. this was really unwelcome to him, but elsa suspected the contrary, and as he had not the common habit of afterwards complaining of his obligingness, she remained of the same opinion. she herself had behaved perfectly charmingly to linda. no one could have suspected that jealousy could smile so! no one--but linda. and how she triumphed! how flattered vanity quivered in her every fibre, and how the drive home with erwin amused her! she drove herself, and really she did not overdrive the ponies. around them was the sultry, gloomy charm of the summer night. long-drawn sighs and sweetly monotonous murmurs passed through the trees, the short grass trembled as if caressed by invisible hands. from time to time a glow-worm shot through the gray air like a falling star. "how beautiful!" said linda to herself. "yes, charming!" erwin admitted, and secretly looked at his watch. in spite of the fact that he galloped home at a very sharp pace, it was midnight before he arrived there, which confirmed elsa's strange idea. almost every evening after tea erwin was accustomed to read aloud to his wife, and this had originated in their honeymoon, when erwin, very young, very much in love, still shyly coquetted with his little talents. he read well, and liked to read, and elsa had until now always looked forward to the confidential chat, the happy fact of being alone together, which was a part of the reading hour, and both did not know which they really preferred: the wild, stormy winter evenings, in which elsa sat as near the fireplace as possible, and contrary to his sensible prohibition, held one foot at a time over the glowing coals, until he stopped reading, and crouching on a stool, took the little feet from their light house slippers, and rubbed them warm between his hands; or the mild, fragrant summer evenings, when elsa, gazing through the window at the sky, often interrupted the bitter earnestness of st. simon, or the graceful bitterness of voltaire, and with childish joy signalled a shooting star, and as erwin laughingly asked her whether she had availed herself of the opportunity to wish something very beautiful, softly, with lips close to his ear, whispered, "oh, yes, that it may always be so." usually he read serious books aloud, but sometimes he brought the old musset which had accompanied him on his wedding journey, and then they vied with each other in gay recollections of their honeymoon, and laughed when they came to verses the meaning of which had been dark to her, and had made her ask the most remarkable questions. they contradicted each other animatedly as to who had the most faithful memory for every foolish, tender jest, and elsa, whose remembrance exceeded his, faintly whispered softly, "do you see i have not let a single joy be lost out of my life. i have laid-them all away for my old days." the day after linda's visit, elsa made no move to leave the drawing-room when erwin asked her softly, "how about our mahon?" (they were just then reading this knightly pedant's english history), but replied discouragingly, "i am going to retire early this evening," and engaged miss sidney in a conversation upon english philanthropy. erwin smoked a cigarette, glanced over a paper, finally, looking out of the window, remarked that it was a beautiful moonlight night and he was going shooting, kissed elsa's forehead, bowed to miss sidney, and was about to leave the room when from elsa's lips came anxiously: "but----!" "do you want anything?" "are you going to take any one with you?" "why?" asked he, and raised his eyebrows; then suddenly laughing aloud he added, "would you perhaps like to accompany me, mouse? the night is mild, i will find you an easy path; we need not go far." she hesitated, only for a moment she hesitated. she had formerly often gone with him; he had bought her a small rifle, and with anxious carefulness taught her to shoot, and as long as her health was good enough they had often hunted gayly together like good comrades. why must just now mimi dey and the grouse hunt in the tyrol come to her mind? "thank you, i dare not venture out in the dew;" thus politely, but without a trace of warmth she refused his good-natured offer, and he shrugged his shoulders slightly and vanished. english philanthropy suddenly lost all interest for elsa. she took leave of miss sidney quite absently, and went to her room which, since baby's existence, she had shared with the delicate little creature. she passed two tormenting hours; she was tortured by the most nonsensical fancies; she thought only of poachers and assassins; she did not close her eyes until she heard erwin's step creep thoughtfully, softly past her door, but at least she had not been like mimi dey. sempaly and pistasch had accepted the invitation to dine in steinbach on the sunday for which linda was invited. elsa had been able to secure no ladies. never had linda been more beautiful than on this sunday. she wore a dazzling toilet; "from worth," she replied, in explanation to some polite remark which elsa had made upon her dress. "from worth, but i had to change it entirely. i cannot bear worth any longer; he is too american. and how do you like my gown, erwin?" she turned to him. "linda, you surely are not trying to make me think that you care anything about the taste of such a rusty hayseed as i am!" cried he, laughingly. "ah, you know very well that you are the only one, yes, the only one on god's earth from whom i will accept fault-finding," answered linda, and putting her arm around elsa's neck, she whispered in the latter's ear, "your husband has bewitched me, elsa. if i did not wish you the best of everything, i really could envy you him." oh, the serpent! she feels very well that elsa shivers in her arms, and she is happy. during the dinner elsa suffered fearful torments. monosyllabic she sat between scirocco, who, more quiet and melancholy than usual, did not help her to talk, and pistasch who, gazing at linda, forgot to talk. linda, on the contrary, chatted unweariedly, entertained the whole table with her odd little stories, and knew how to absorb erwin so deeply by her artfully naïve flatteries and carefully veiled coquetries that he, the most polite man in the world, scarcely found time to address a few pleasant phrases to the englishwoman who, for the sake of symmetry, sat at his left. after dinner linda sang. erwin accompanied her, and pistasch lost his tongue with enthusiasm, except for the three words, "superb! magnificent! delicious!" which he burst forth with again and again, gasping for breath. elsa, who took no interest in french chansonnettes, and sempaly, who did not care to hear them rendered by respectable women, or those who at least should be so, stood together in a window recess half chatting, half silent, like people who know and understand each other well. but suddenly scirocco was silent, his glance wandered to felix, who sat in the darkest corner of the drawing-room, and in order to give himself countenance, stroked erwin's great hunting-dog. a little rattle of glasses had attracted sempaly's notice. he went up to felix, and after he had spoken a few words to him returned with him to elsa. elsa was frightened at sight of her brother. his cheeks were flushed to his forehead, the features swollen, the eyes shining as in one who has a severe fever. when everything had become quiet again in steinbach, and elsa was alone with erwin in the drawing-room, she went to the table from which sempaly had brought felix away, and discovered there the _corpus delicti_ in the shape of a half-emptied flask of chartreuse. "ah!" cried she shuddering, and turned to erwin. "do you know the latest?--felix drinks!" erwin lowered his head. "drinks--drinks!" he murmured with embarrassment but excusingly. "you must not call it that exactly; it is not yet so bad!" "you--you seem to have known it," cried elsa, staring at him. he looked away. elsa paces twice through the room, her arms crossed on her breast. her short, unequal breaths can be heard. then she stops before erwin; the blood has rushed to her cheeks, and causes there two uneven red spots under her eyes. her hatred for linda suddenly bursts forth. "oh, this repulsive, ordinary, tactless person! how deeply she has dragged him down!" she says, with set teeth. erwin, to whom the cause of this unlovely and immoderate anger is wholly inexplicable, is displeasedly silent. this irritates elsa still more, and in an even more unpleasant tone she continues, "well, do you, perhaps, doubt that she and only she has ruined felix by her incredible lack of tact?" for the first time since erwin has known his wife he lost patience with her, and shrugging his shoulders, replied, "i find it hard to expect tact from a person who does not suspect the complicated difficulties of her position." "erwin!--erwin!--you--you surely do not believe that felix would have married linda without telling her of his circumstances?" she was now quite pale again, she trembled, her voice sounded weak and hoarse. he was terribly sorry for her, at this moment he would have given everything to be silent. he took refuge in vague phrases. "a mere suspicion--i spoke without thinking." but elsa shook her head; an indescribable pain curved her lips. "no, erwin," cried she, "you may not be the demi-god whom for nine years i have worshiped in you, but you are not capable of saying anything so degrading about my brother upon a mere suspicion. from whom do you know that?" she stood before him, drawn up to her full height, and looked him in the eyes with an expression which one could not lie to. "i judge so from questions which she has asked me," he stammers, and immediately adds, hastily, "certainly felix would not purposely have concealed the affair from her; he may have told her mother----" "that is all the same," interrupts elsa. "his action remains unanswerable, for the first as well as the second time. erwin, you poor man, into what a family have you married! why would you have me? i did not wish it--i knew that it would be for no good." she is almost beside herself. "no good! think of the nine years which we leave behind us," he replies, gently. "think of the twenty, thirty years which we have before us," cries she. "the sacrifice which you made for me was too great." "i know of no sacrifice," he replies, warmly. "it is pure childishness which makes you bring that up again. once for all, elsa, i would not exchange a life at your side for the most brilliant career--to which, besides, i could scarcely have been called." with these words he goes up to her, and lays his hand gently under her chin to raise her face to his, but she breaks loose from him. "i thank you," says she, with hateful mockery. she thought of the thousand pretty speeches and charming attentions with which he had satisfied linda's greedy vanity to-day. she was sick with suppressed jealousy. the bright light which erwin's communication threw upon linda's whole manner, and which so excused linda, and on the other hand, so lowered felix, mingled a new pain in all her morbid feelings. she literally no longer knew what she said, her voice became more and more cutting: "i thank you," she repeated. "you are very polite, you have a particular talent for politeness, you are the most charming man i know, but--but, i am sorry you had your way at that time." "sorry, elsa? for god's sake take that back," cried he. the pain which she had caused him was too deep for him to consider how much of her words were to be ascribed to true conviction, and what to her over-excited nerves. she shook her head obstinately. "yes, i am sorry," she continued in her insensate speech. "at that time you could not live without me"--she spoke very bitterly--"yes, you would have been unhappy without me--a month, perhaps a year--who knows?--but then you would have consoled yourself, and it would have been better for you and for me. good night!" and with head held high, with rigid face and trembling limbs she tottered out of the room. x. marienbad at six o'clock in the morning. the air is still fresh and fragrant, the long, slanting sunbeams fall between the damp coolness of the woody shadows. the guests crowd along the narrow spring walk, their glasses in their hands. they form a line before the spring after they have emptied their goblets, considerately turn and conscientiously take exercise. the sand beneath their feet, moist with the night dew, is of a dark reddish color. on the leaves of the graceful trees sparkle little drops of dew like finest enamel. in the turf which borders the sand walk great drops shine like diamonds. a white mist, too transparent to be called a fog, fills the distance. thicker and thicker the guests crowd around the spring. marienbad is overfull this year. pleased landlords rub their fat hands, and push up prices to a most unheard-of amount. guests who have omitted to engage rooms by telegraph can find no decent accommodations, seek shelter in the most miserable private houses, offer gold mines to shoemakers, tailors and glove-makers for one room. a whole excursion trainful pass the night in the waiting-room. the daughter of some reigning family, travelling incognito under the name "comtesse stip," has engaged the greatest part of the largest hotel for herself and her little prince in scottish costume. a swarm of distinguished moths from every country has followed the princely light, and a crowd of _parvenus_, like a swarm of insects of the night, has followed the moths, who pass their time in marienbad bandying strangely unselfish compliments. the famous vienna artists play every evening in the stuffy theatre; princesses and dramatic _coryphées_ meet each other on the spring promenade. to-day a new animation is displayed by the spring pilgrims. all gaze at a couple who have this morning appeared for the first time upon the promenade. the aristocratic curiosity seems even more awakened than the plebeian, and all the thirty or forty pairs of eyes of marienbad "society" are fixed upon the same spot--upon the knight of harfink and his young wife. "that is the juanita, the carini; how badly she is dressed, how fat she has grown, how homely!" goes from mouth to mouth. "and not even an artistic temperament--a woman who could be sensible enough to marry a 'checked' iron founder. when she sees lanzberg--how he must feel!" thus says society. meanwhile, not noticing the voices hissing around her, juanita, the widowed marchesa carini, upright and stiff, with the consequential manner of a retired dancer, walks between the knightly harfink and his son, beaming with pride and satisfaction. how she looked fifteen years ago, at the time when she so fatally crossed the path of life of felix lanzberg, it would be difficult to determine. today she looks like all elderly spaniards, who to our unpractised northern eyes resemble each other almost as much as elderly negresses. an immoderately fleshy form, not very tall, with high bust, and unnaturally compressed waist, the hands tiny, like accidental appendages to her fat arms, the feet still incomparably beautiful, but too short to support the huge figure, the gait waddling, the face yellow and fat, mouth, eyes, and nose almost hidden by a pair of enormous cheeks--that is juanita. she who, in her day, had worn the bandeaux of her nation coming down over her ears, now, probably because this manner of wearing the hair seems to her peasant-like, wears the hair drawn back from her withered temples, falling in black ringlets on her forehead, a hat on the back of her head, a green silk gown and diamonds. her tiny shoes and stockings are the only parts of her costume which are faultless. the former, charming little black satin affairs, the latter of open-work black silk. in consequence of this, she wears her gown short beyond all bound in front, which increases the width of the whole appearance. she continually exchanges the most tender, loving glances with her husband, and a happy honeymoon smile illumines her yellow face when he addresses her. as she uses the cure with the same conscientiousness as he, she stands beside him at the spring. little comtesse l----, a lively lady whom nothing escapes, asserts that every time before emptying her goblet, juanita coquettishly hits it against that of the "retired iron founder." the "checked iron founder" is a name given mr. von harfink on account of his immoderate preference for striking green and blue checked clothes. for two weeks juanita has borne his name--for two weeks he has known how badly he really fared under susanna's rule. the aforesaid susanna had died a year after linda's marriage. linda, who at that time had not fully recovered from gery's birth, expressed no wish to go to vienna for her mother's burial or her father's consolation. mr. von harfink had been left to bear the heavy loss alone. at the funeral baron von harfink shed many tears into a black-bordered handkerchief, and displayed all the symptoms of honest emotion; after the funeral he fell into a condition of silent apathy. the flame which had given light to his mind was extinguished, all was dark within him. he felt like an actor of poor memory whose excellent prompter has died. about a week after the catastrophe, his nearest relatives assembled at a dinner in his house, with the good-natured view of diverting him. he sat in their midst, silently bent over his plate. they had adjourned to the drawing-room for coffee, and still he had not spoken a word. "the poor fellow! it has gone harder with him than we thought," the relatives whispered to each other. then stretching himself comfortably in an arm-chair, and rubbing his stomach, he began, "ah! things have not tasted so good to me as they did to-day for a long time." the feeling of an immense relief had awakened in him. no longer to be afraid of making stupid remarks, no longer, when he had put on his favorite checked vest, to be reproved with, "anton, your vest insults my æsthetic feeling," or, when he had given himself up to the comfortable enjoyment of a favorite dish, to be frightened with, "anton, a day-laborer is nothing in comparison with you;" to be forced to listen to no more articles from the _rundschau_ and the _revue des deux mondes_,--it was very pleasant. scarcely had susanna been three weeks in her grave, when mr. von harfink stopped the subscriptions to the _revue_ and its german cousin, the _rundschau_, retired to his estate, played nine-pins with his brewer and cook, and in his shirt sleeves, ordered those new checked plush vests, and ruined his stomach three times a week. soon he displayed the most peculiar matrimonial intentions. he made love to the former companion of his deceased wife, an elderly spinster with thin hair and a very deep feeling for a blond theology student who, at that time in magdeberg, sued for her hand. the improbable occurred; the companion refused the knight and his three millions, although after his death a settlement of seven hundred thousand guldens was assured her. the family was astonished at this unexpected unselfishness, and from thankfulness, and to prevent the romantic maiden from changing her mind later, married her to her student, with a splendid dowry. after they had met this model of prudence, the relations wrung their hands. if the charms of a forty-year-old, half bald companion had almost brought him to the altar, how should they protect him from a _mésalliance_? only by the sharpest oversight was mr. von harfink prevented from marrying his housekeeper. fearful conflicts burst forth on his estate--the castle became an inn. "susie must have been cleverer than i accredited her with being," once remarked eugene von rhoeden, who indifferently looked on upon his relative's movements. "it certainly takes skill to govern the rhinoceros. none of you equal her!" at length the relatives were weary, and left baron von harfink to the guidance of his son, that is, to his fate. raimund was far too much engaged in cultivating his high c to watch his father. the poor young man, who had been destined by his mother to be a genius, at this time suffered from deep depression. he had failed everywhere--at the university, on the stage, finally in literature. after long efforts, he had obtained an engagement in a bohemian watering-place, and under the stage name of remondo monte-chiaro, had sung raoul in a beautiful pale violet costume of real silk velvet. the audience hissed and laughed; he sprained his ankle by the leap from the window, and appeared no more. then he prepared a comedy which fell through in p----, an accident which he attributed to the lack of cultivation of the audience there; then he wrote essays upon the love affair of george sand and alfred de musset, the murder of the ambassador at rastadt, and the iron mask. these effusions were published in a vienna paper. the superficial public found the themes old, and did not read the articles. the intimate friends of the author read the first five sentences, had the satisfaction of discovering a grammatical error therein, and as, with the malice with which friendship meets every young striver, they sought nothing else in the articles, they laid them aside, satisfied. raimund felt deeply wounded. the world seemed to him nothing more than an immense porcupine, which, with all its quills of prejudice, repelled his genius. he passed his days in gloomy brooding--then a message from his humorous cousin, eugene von rhoeden, in venice, waked him. "help what can be helped," he wrote. "he is going courting again; this time it is in earnest." yes, it was in earnest. in marienbad, the year before, he had first made her acquaintance; he had followed her to venice. she had there, under the name juanita, tried to obliterate the reputation of pepita. later she had borne the name of a marchese carini. she had been obliged to dance even as a marchesa, for the marchese did not disdain to make use of his wife's talent, and had dragged her from theatre to theatre. at one of her brilliant performances in st. petersburg she broke her leg, and since then could dance no more. now she became fat, sleepy, devout and irritable; the marchese gambled away the greater part of her fortune, and died of galloping consumption. ignorant of all business, continually deceived by her lovers, the marchese carini would have come to a sad end if the knight of harfink had not appeared as rescuer in her need. he married her in the beginning of june. raimund, very depressed and deeply in debt, did not refuse to offer to kiss his new mamma's hand dutifully. she knew how so to fascinate him at the first meeting, that he was almost as slavishly submissive to her as his father. juanita desired social position. she insisted upon being introduced to linda. harfink did not know that she had formerly had strange relations with felix--she did not touch upon it; on the contrary, she reserved her power over felix, which she had so boundlessly misused, for a favorable moment. mr. von harfink told his nephew, eugene, when he met him in marienbad, his wife's desire. "i really do not know what to do; linda is so curious," he said. and rhoeden answered with his sly smile, "write linda and ask her when you may bring her new mamma to see her--or, really i see no reason why you should not quietly drive over one of these days without announcing yourself." "i do not understand what any one could have against chuchu!" said the young husband, enthusiastically. "what a woman she is! she has diamonds from the emperor of ---- and a gold coat of mail from the duke of ----, and with all that, she is nevertheless all domesticity and love! she calls me tony, and darns my socks from pure love." xxi. at this time life was for poor felix only a heavy, oppressing burden. he knew that juanita was staying in marienbad; knew that she had married his father-in-law. he felt neither horror nor astonishment at this step; nothing which she did would have astonished him, but he felt oppressed by the sense of her nearness; a true superstitious fear of the magic charm which her beauty had for him weighed upon him. his recollections, his imagination, had been busy with the picture of her which he still possessed--had invested it with the most refined charms. for felix, the only excuse for his inexcusable conduct, by which he had ruined his life, lay in the demoniac fascination of the dancer. linda had written her father, before his marriage, an annihilating letter, to which she had received no answer. she believed her father angry, and therefore expected nothing less than a visit from him. felix, who thought her opinion sensible, nevertheless showed from time to time a certain fear, and thereby excited the spirit of contradiction in linda. "one can be glad that papa has done nothing worse," she remarked once, indifferently. "it is not to be supposed that they will have children--_et pour le reste_, such a marriage with a dancer has a certain _cachet_. i shall make no advances to her, but if she comes i must receive her!" felix shuddered and was silent. bitterly ashamed of himself, for a time he had tried to restrain his thirst for liquor. but he could control himself no longer. when the old remembrance began to burn in his heart like eating poison, he at first tried hard to occupy himself. he read, but, unaccustomed to all mental activity, a book scarcely chained his attention. he took long walks, he was too uneasy to become tired; he rode, he was too good a horseman to have any trouble with his horse. his heart grew more and more heavy, and he drank--drank privately in his room so as not to be surprised in an unreliable condition. he was always temperate at table. no one saw him now with flabby lips and tottering knees, and his friends did not notice that he was really never quite sober now. his hands shook perpetually, there was a watery look in his staring, hollow eyes. a slight bluish flush colored his nostrils, and his voice was quavering. meanwhile linda, careless and indifferent, fluttered around him, bitterness in her heart, on her lips a charming smile and malicious jests. a butterfly with a wasp's sting, scirocco had called her, and pistasch repeated it to her. it had greatly pleased her. at this time pistasch came to traunberg almost daily. linda coquetted with him, but her coquetry was vague and cold, and was neither challenging nor encouraging. he made no progress, as he expressed himself to scirocco. "she has no temperament and no heart," he grumbled, and once he added, "perhaps i am not the right one----" "what do you mean?" replied scirocco, impatiently, remembering the suspicion which had been cast upon him. but pistasch only answered crossly, "garzin!" "impossible!" replied scirocco, unwillingly. pistasch only shrugged his shoulders, and when sempaly began to consider the matter, he must admit that garzin went oftener than was necessary to traunberg, that linda had quite a different glance and voice when she was with him from what she had for others, that she made concessions to him which she granted no one else, never wore again the most becoming toilets if he had once condemned them, and did not sing the most piquant couplets if he shrugged his shoulders over them, and, once on the slippery path of distrust, scirocco told himself also that the charming sisterly confidence which linda permitted herself with her brother-in-law was scarcely in place in such a beautiful woman with such a young man. he was angry with garzin. "he really does not think of wrong, but he should be careful--for----" like all people of his stamp, scirocco, in affairs of passion, did not believe in free will, but so much the more in the compelling influence of opportunity. "you have a new bracelet, linda," said felix one day, after dinner, to his wife as she smoked a cigarette with him in the drawing-room. "do you like it?" said she, and held out her white arm to him. the bracelet consisted of a thick gold chain to which a little coin was fastened. "charming!" answered felix, apparently indifferently. "did you buy it in marienbad?" "no; kamenz gave it to me to-day--he owed me a philopena," replied linda. "hm!" felix looked gloomy, but did not know exactly how to put his vexation into words. he asked himself, "have i the right to reprove my wife?" "ah, the bracelet seems to please you less since you know where it comes from," said linda, smiling maliciously. "poor felix! are you, perhaps, jealous of this handsome, silly pistasch? he is about as dangerous to me as that dandy there," and she pointed to a dainty meissner figure in knee breeches and flowered vest, who with cocked hat under his arm, smiled down from a bracket. "well, i certainly do not wish to disturb your little amusement," stammered felix, "but you do not know how much gossip arises from intercourse between a woman like you and a man like pistasch, and if he is really so indifferent to you--why--then--perhaps you might receive him somewhat less frequently." "hm!" said linda, thoughtfully. "however indifferent that porcelain dandy yonder is to me, i have not the slightest inclination to throw him out of the window." she blew a few whiffs of smoke up to the ceiling. "but there is no question of that," replied felix, "only see him less often----" linda would not let him finish. "but do you not see, my dear felix," said she, knocking the ashes from her cigarette, "to the house of a woman like me, who--let us speak plainly--really does not belong to his set, a man like pistasch either comes not at all or every day. i am of a sociable nature--i must associate with some one, or else i should die of _ennui_. if no ladies will come, then i will receive men." "i cannot understand why you do not get on better with elsa," remarked felix, uneasily. "i was there recently; she has not returned my visit," said linda. "i cannot force her to come. i believe she is vexed with me because erwin amuses himself with me. heaven knows our intercourse is of wholly an innocent nature!" the young woman rocked softly back and forth in her chair and laughed to herself, striking the finger-tips of her loosely clasped hands together. "i do not doubt that for a moment, but you should have some consideration for elsa--she is nervous and sensitive." "ah! and i am to suit my behavior to her interesting nervous condition," laughed linda. "that is to say, i am to be intolerable to erwin. _eh bien, non merci!_ he is the only man of my present acquaintance of whom i think anything." felix was silent. then without was heard a rustling and puffing as of a heavy silk gown and an asthmatic person. a foreboding distressed felix. linda half rose. "that is surely not----?" she murmured, but already the servant had opened the door. "baron and baroness harfink!" he announced. very red-faced, even fatter than formerly, with confident bearing, shining with happiness and perspiration, and with the air of a youthful dandy, linda's father approached his daughter. although she had thought that she remembered him very well, she is still somewhat abashed at his astonishing appearance. nevertheless she makes the best of a bad game, and condescendingly offers him her cheek to kiss. he kisses her loudly on the mouth. "ah, you look splendidly--no matter, you wrote me a foolish letter, but the past shall be forgotten. here i bring your new mamma to you. she was good-hearted enough to pay you the first visit. you have certainly heard of the marchesa carini." "also of juanita," says linda, giving the tips of her fingers to her step-mother. "i am indescribably pleased to make the acquaintance of such a great _coryphée_. i have never yet had the pleasure of seeing a dancer except on the stage." the colossal insolence of her words is lost upon juanita, owing to her stupidity and deficient knowledge of german, but the depreciation in tone and glance is perceptible to the dancer. she feels helpless and irritated. "does marienbad please you?" continues linda, with the insolent condescension which she has studied from the best examples. "very pretty," murmurs the spaniard, twisting her handkerchief between her hands. she speaks poor german. linda is delighted with her pronunciation, and does not take the trouble to speak french, for which cosmopolitan language the dancer had forgotten her mother-tongue. "if i remember rightly, i once had the pleasure of seeing you dance--it was in ' , in vienna--my first theatre evening." "in vienna?" said the dancer. "oh! that was a small performance--that was at first--later, when i travelled with my husband, the marchese carini, _je n'ai jamais travaillé_ except in st. petersburg, paris, london and baden-baden." "ah!" says linda; the conversation pauses. papa harfink, leaning somewhat forward, his heels under his chair, rests in a low arm-chair, and monotonously strokes his leg from the knee upwards and back again. and felix? pressed tightly into a dark corner, where the hope of being forgotten and overlooked chains him, he stands motionless. as light perspiration which does not cool, but rather burns, moistens his whole body, the blood sings in his ears, his tongue cleaves to his teeth. he has not self-possession enough to hear her, he has not the courage to look at her; she floats before his mind, the most seductive siren, the most bewitching woman that ever, trifling and playing with a man, ruined his honor. he still dreads the disturbing might of her beauty. curiosity compels him to gaze at her; he looks and does not trust his eyes. where is the juanita? near his wife he sees a yellow, bloated woman, prematurely old, tastelessly dressed, squeezed into a black _moiré antique_ gown, with folds under her round eyes, little fan-shaped wrinkles on her temples, and black down about the corners of her mouth. common, fat, awkward, she sits there, a double chin resting on her fat bosom, her hands clasped over a lace-edged handkerchief in her lap! felix cannot believe his eyes. that must be a mistake--that cannot be juanita! then, beneath the hem of her gown, he sees a tiny foot in a black satin shoe, and now he knows that this is juanita! he notices a light brown mole on her neck--it disgusts him, but then he remembers how this mole had once pleased him, how often he had jokingly kissed it! his cheeks burn--he has lost his last illusion--the whole vulgarity of the temptress to whom he had yielded is pitilessly exposed to him. involuntarily he makes a movement. papa harfink discovers him. "ah, felix," he cries, already somewhat out of temper, "are you hiding from me? i should think," he adds, relying upon the power of his millions, "that such a father-in-law as i is not to be despised." slowly felix advances. "my husband," says linda to the dancer. but the latter's face has taken on a prepossessing smile, and with the confidential expression which appeals to old times, she says, "i know him already, _tout à fait un ami_ from my _débutante_ period; is it not so?" she gives him her hand. the hand, only covered by a lace mitt, is flabby, and as juanita, half rising, presses this hand against the lips of felix, who is bowing to her, his face changes, plainly expresses disgust, and he lets the hand fall unkissed. juanita trembles with rage. "let us go," screams she--"let us go! oh, sir baron, you think that i am only a dancer--and--and----" speech fails her, she gasps for breath. "let us go, let us go!" she pants. "my chuchu! my beloved wife!" cries mr. von harfink, and not honoring felix and linda with a word, he leads the spaniard out of the room. the carriage rolls away with the wedded pair. scarcely has the door closed behind the harfinks when linda bursts into loud, happy laughter. her husband's stiff manner, his way of ignoring her father, which, under other circumstances, would another time have irritated her from pure capriciousness, have this time chanced to delight her. "you are unique, felix, wholly unique!" she cries to him. "you were so deliciously arrogant! but what is the matter with you? are you ill? _tiens!_ juanita is your great secret! poor boy!" she taps him on the shoulder, she laughs yet. "what a disappointment, eh! but what is the matter? no, listen; it is humiliating for me that the meeting with this comedian has so robbed you of your self-control, felix!" his secret still has a charm for her, surrounds his poor bent form with a romantic light. something startling, shockingly horrible, she seeks behind this, but not something dishonorable! with a teasing tenderness, which she has never shown him since their honeymoon, she strokes his cheeks, and begs, "tell me what distresses you." then felix's conscience torments him; he feels as if he would rather die than keep his secret longer. for a moment he almost counts upon mercy from this soft childish creature who has seated herself beside him on the arm of his old-fashioned chair. "linda," he begins, "when i married you i did not know--that you--suspected nothing of--of this matter. your mother assured me that she had told you of my past----" he hesitates. "oh, my mother spared my youth, and only made the vaguest allusions!" he draws a deep breath. "a terrible story is connected with this spaniard,"--he hesitates--she looks closely and curiously at him; a sudden idea occurs to her: "you shot a friend in a duel on her account?" she cries, and then, as she sees him start but shake his head, she says softly, with indistinct articulation and hollow voice, "or--or not in a duel--from jealousy?" he lowers his head--he cannot speak--then slowly rising he totters out of the room. she remains alone--staring before her--her heart beats loudly--then she was right! all his enigmatical behavior is explained; she now even understands her fellow men, and strangely enough, she almost pardons him. felix, beside himself with jealousy, thirsting for revenge, plunging a knife into the breast of his friend--the scene has something dazzling, something which compels her sympathy. she pictures the scene to herself; the luxurious apartment of the dancer--the two men, both deathly pale--she has seen something similar in the porte st. martin theatre. a peculiar excitement overpowers her corrupted nature, thirsting for strong stimulants. she loves felix! two minutes later she knocks at his locked door. "let me in, me, your wife, who wishes to console you!" felix does not open the door. xxii. it is already twilight. eugene von rhoeden sits with his cousin raimund in the harfinks' drawing-room. as pistasch had ridden to traunberg, where rhoeden seldom accompanied him, the countess dey was in bed with a headache, and scirocco had one of those fits of desperate melancholy which so often tormented him, and was wandering about the woods, eugene had nothing to do in iwanow. for a change he had ridden over to marienbad. at the forest spring, where the guests were assembled around the music-stand, he had met raimund, and had heard from him that "the old man" had driven over with his wife to see the arrogant linda; he, raimund, had spared them his society. eugene resolved to await the return of the pair; it interested him to learn something about the result of the visit. the two cousins soon came to the conclusion that the music and the crowd around the pavilion were intolerable as well as the heat, and betook themselves to the _mühl strasse_, where papa harfink, more conservative than superstitious, and besides wholly secure in his new happiness from indiscreet visits of susanna's ghost, occupied the same apartments in which for long years he had "suffered" every summer with the deceased. with a tinge of bitterness eugene looked about him as he entered the bright room in which he had passed so many sweet hours with linda. there stood the old-fashioned arm-chair yet, with the same covering, now, to be sure, worn at all the corners, the chair in which she used to lean back in the sultry summer afternoons, teasingly pulling to pieces his last gift of flowers with her delicate fingers, while papa harfink snored in the adjoining room; mamma harfink, in her maid's room, discussed the cut of her new toilet with the latter, but he, eugene, crouching at the feet of the young girl, told her gay, trifling little stories, many times half-jokingly interspersing a tender word. then she threw a flower in his face; her hand remained imprisoned in his, and he kissed it for punishment. thus it went on for hours, until papa harfink entered the room with scarcely opened eyes and hair tumbled by sleep, and asked, "are we going to have coffee at home to-day?" eugene had never seen the room since he had rushed into it, now more than five years ago, the bunch of white gardenias in his hand, and had found his cousin lanzberg's _fiancée_. at that time he had not changed his expression, had not by one word betrayed his passion, knowing well that a man like him who wishes to rise in the world is condemned to perpetual agreeableness. how he had felt at that time! his was no sentimental nature, but he had a faithful memory, and remembered distinctly how he had murmured the most polite phrases of congratulation; had drawn a comparison between himself and the man of old family, and beside, felix had seemed to himself like a handsome dry-goods clerk. his love for linda--it had been genuine of its kind--had long fled, but the wound which her vanity had inflicted in his still burned. the wish to repay linda for her arrogance still animated him. the hour was near. outside a carriage was heard, then loud, creaking steps on the wooden stairs; a hoarse, croaking woman's voice gasped out from time to time furious and incomprehensible words; the door opened and juanita entered. crimson, with swollen veins and sparkling eyes, she threw her fan, broken in the middle, upon the table. in vain did papa harfink again and again stretch his short arms out to her and cry, "lovely angel, calm yourself!" she had no time for love. "to insult me!--me--me!" she beat her breast; "me, juanita, the marchesa carini--bah!" she clenched her fist, "he, a criminal--a----" "who has insulted you, who is a criminal?" asks raimund. "he--he--this lanzberg!" she gasps. "oh, i will revenge myself--they shall see--i will revenge myself--caro, caro!" screams the spaniard. caroline is the maid, who enters at her mistress's loud cry. "bring me the little black casket with the golden bird!" commands juanita. the maid disappears; soon she returns with the casket, which she places upon the table before her mistress, whereupon she withdraws. the blood throbs in eugene's finger-tips, but, apparently perfectly indifferent, he stoops for the lace scarf which, with a quick gesture, juanita has thrown from her upon the floor. papa harfink, who took the matter very phlegmatically, rang to order a flask of spring water and a lemon. juanita rummaged for a long time among old newspapers in which her triumphs were recorded. she turned them over more and more uneasily. papa harfink had long since ordered his spring water, when at last juanita "found it." "there it is!" cried she. "will you read it?" eugene von rhoeden refused. raimund read it aloud. it was an article in a scandalous journal which appeared in vienna early in the sixties, but since then had failed or been suppressed. in that impertinent tone of cheap wit which seeks intellect in mockery, knowledge of human nature in cynicism, the story was told of a very arrogant young blue blood who in a weak hour had forged his father's name and who "now could further cultivate his talent for drawing in the prison of t----." the name of the young man was given as baron l----. some one had written "lanzberg" above it. "that is not possible!" cried raimund. "oh, if you please--if you please--possible!" screamed juanita. "it is all true--perfectly true!" "i once heard something of that," declared harfink, senior, whom the whole story troubled very little, and who had not enlightened susanna. rhoeden was silent. "and this despicable rascal has dared to marry into our honest family!" cried raimund, beside himself. "susie knew of it! he-he-he!" burst out mr. harfink, who now only too gladly accused the deceased. "my mother knew it!" raimund struck his forehead. "linda surely does not know it!" "leave her in her delusion," said eugene, sweetly. "one cannot change matters in the slightest, and all these years felix has behaved so blamelessly, so nobly, so----" he knew that his praise of lanzberg would bring forth a new burst of rage from juanita. "indeed!" now repeated the spaniard, with malevolent emphasis, "nobly, blamelessly!" and seized the paper. "no; linda must know it; i shall write to her this very day!" cried raimund. "that you will not do," said eugene, firmly. "why?" "because it would be vulgar." with that eugene rose and took his hat. juanita had meanwhile added to the time-obliterated pencil-mark a new, heavier one, had wrapped up the paper with remarkable deftness, and addressed it. "will you put that in the post-box?" she asked. "no, my dear madam," he replied, gravely, bowed and left. behind him he heard the voice of the spaniard: "caro, caro--to the post--but immediately!" through the damp evening shadows he trotted to iwanow. he enjoyed the pleasant conviction of having behaved throughout as an eminently upright man, and also the pleasant conviction that he had attained his aim. at a turn of the road, castle traunberg shone gray and ghost-like between the dark old lindens. eugene took off his hat, smiling ironically, and murmured, "good evening, linda!" xxiii. linda knocked in vain at her husband's door. in spite of her coaxing requests she had not been admitted. more and more horrible thoughts occurred to her. in ever more interesting colors her imagination painted her husband's secret. she expected that he would appear at tea; he excused himself, and did not leave his room again that day. she grew more and more excited--she did not sleep that night, only towards morning did she close her eyes. felix was no longer in the house when she had risen; he had ordered a horse saddled at six o'clock that morning, and had ridden over to lanzberg. linda grew impatient. "can i find old letters anywhere?" thought she. "in any case i must look through the attic rooms some day." she ordered the keys of the upper story. mrs. stifler, the housekeeper, looked upon it as understood that the young wife would require a guide for her wanderings, and prepared to accompany her. but, pleasantly as she treated all the servants, and especially those who had been in the family from one generation to another, linda declined the old woman's company. at first she had difficulty in finding the right key for the different keyholes. as the rooms for the most part opened into each other, and only the doors into the corridor were locked, that was soon overcome. none of the rooms were quite empty and none were fully furnished. an odor of mould and dry flowers and close, oppressive air filled them. on all objects dust lay like a gray seal of time. some of the rooms had such thick curtains that only here and there a bluish white streak of light lay on the floor, amid the dark shadows; others, and the most, had neither curtains nor blinds, and the light in them was dazzlingly bright. there stood a gilded carved arm-chair with brocade covering of the style brought from france in those days when maria theresa called the pompadour "_ma chère cousine_," and near by a whole row of spindle-legged chairs with lyre-shaped backs in the stiff style of the empire. and the arm-chair looked handsome and arrogant, the chairs hideous and pretentiously solid--and both alike were long ago unavailable and did not know it! alabaster and porcelain clocks with pillars for ornaments, and thin arabian figures on large white dials, slept away the time on yellow commodes with inlaid wood arabesques. many family portraits of long-ago generations hung on the walls, mostly oil paintings, the men all standing in very narrow coats with very large revers, their hands on their hips, their eyes contracted to that narrow exclusive gaze which overlooks all unpleasant circumstances of life and worldly affairs, characteristic of the manly _ancien régime_; the women all seated, with broad sleeves and curls arranged in the english fashion; in the eyes that charming, unabashed gaze which on their side characterizes the women of the _ancien régime_, a gaze which sees in poverty only picturesque objects at the side of their path; a gaze which, mild and loving as it is, yet pains because it is accustomed to nothing but the beautiful, expects nothing but the beautiful, and therefore humiliates misery and hideousness. linda felt embarrassed at so much of the past; a certain hesitation, which did not accord with her indiscreet, egotistical, pushing nature, paralyzed her hands, while she, prying into felix's secret, opened old chests and pulled out drawers. she found trophies of the hunt, an old brocade gown, in a wardrobe a bridal wreath and a half dozen old riding boots; she found old notes, books, albums full of copied poems, books of latin and greek exercises, and an ambitious plan for dramatizing le cid, in round, childish writing, old bills, receipts, but she found no old letters. in one of the last rooms she discovered a newer secretary, which was ornamented with painted porcelain tablets, on which pink and sky-blue ladies walked in brilliant green landscapes. linda opened every drawer, knew how to fathom the most secret compartments, and finally discovered a bundle of old letters tied with a black ribbon. her heart beat rapidly; she was about to hurry away when a picture with face turned to the wall attracted her attention. the dust upon it was more recent than upon the other objects. not without difficulty she turned it around, and uttered a little "ah!" of admiration. the picture was no better painted than most modern family portraits, but it represented the handsomest young man who ever wore the green uniform of the austrian uhlans, of ' . the carriage of the young officer, who sat there carelessly, with head slightly bent forward and sabre between his knees, was well portrayed. linda thought that she had never seen a more fascinating man; the pleasant mouth, the shy and yet confident glance, the naïve arrogance of the whole expression--all pleased her. who could that be? she went down stairs and commanded two servants to bring the picture to the drawing-room at once. one of the servants--it was felix's old valet--permitted himself to remark, "the baron did not like the picture, and in consequence had banished it to the second story." linda insisted that her command should be executed. "do you know whom the picture represents?" she asked, as she passed. the old man seemed surprised and hesitated. "the baron, himself." "ah!" linda bit her lips, and made a gesture of dismissal. when the man had gone away with the servant to fetch the picture, linda laughed to herself, gayly--the joke seemed to her delicious. scarcely was she alone when she bent over the letters. they were written in a flippant, haughty tone which harmonized well with the portrait. the first dated from a polish garrison; in all was evident the naïve selfishness of a good-hearted but uncommonly indulged man. the letters pleased linda very well. from time to time she glanced at the portrait, which, in accordance with her wishes, had been brought in. "what a pity that i did not know him at that time," said she, and then added, shrugging her shoulders, "at that time he would scarcely have wished to have anything to do with me." when felix returned from his ride he found in the vestibule, among other letters arrived in the morning, an old newspaper in a wrapper addressed in very poor writing to his wife. he looked at it, read the post-mark, marienbad--he recognized juanita's writing. his heart throbbed violently. the idea of suppressing the paper flashed through his mind; he seized it, then a kind of fury with himself overcame him. he was weary of striving to prevent his last great humiliation, and like one in deep water who, when the waves reach up to his throat, weary of exertion, defiantly flings himself into the horrible element in order to make an end of it, so he sent the paper to his wife himself, by a servant. then he went to his room. he seated himself at his writing-desk, and resting his head on one hand, with the other mechanically smoothing a newspaper which lay before him, he waited, half with dread, half with longing, like a criminal condemned to death, for the message which should summon him to the gallows. then he heard a fearful, piercing scream. "ah!" said he, "she knows it!" will she come to him? there is a rustle in the corridor, the door of the room is flung open, and linda enters, or rather bursts in. her face is distorted; a lock of loosened hair hangs over her ashy pale cheeks. "it is a calumny, it cannot be true!" she cried, and threw the paper which juanita had sent her before him upon the table. he is silent. her vanity believes in him until the last moment; has expected an explanation from him, but he is silent. she grasps his shoulder. "for god's sake is it true that you were sentenced to two years' imprisonment for forgery?" then he murmurs so softly that his voice seems only an echo, "yes!" she staggers back, remains speechless for a moment, and then bursts into not convulsive, not hysterical, no, only indescribably mocking laughter. "and i was proud to bear the name of lanzberg," she murmurs. "now at last i know how i came by that honor." she feels not one iota of pity for the mortally wounded man who has quivered at each of her words as beneath the blow of a whip; she feels nothing at all but her immense humiliation. the wish to pain him as much as possible burns within her, and for a moment she pauses in her speech because she can think of nothing that is cutting and venomous enough. "and if you had even informed me of the situation, had given me the choice whether i would bear a branded name or not," she at length begins again. then he who had until this moment sat there perfectly silent, with anxiously raised shoulders, his hand over his eyes, raises his head wearily. "linda, i begged your mother to tell you of my disgrace--she assured me that she had done so. on my word of----" he pauses, a horrible smile parts linda's lips. "go on," cries she, "your word of honor. i will believe you--it is possible that you speak the truth. my mother suppressed your confession, good; but every glance and word of mine during our engagement must have convinced you that she had suppressed it. you cannot answer that to your conscience," she hissed. to that he replies nothing, but sits there motionless and silent. she wishes to force him to proclaim his shame by an outcry, a gesture of supplication. "i have borne a branded name for five years--i have brought into the world a branded child," says she quickly and distinctly, her eyes resting intently upon him. at length he shudders; he looks at her with a glance which pleases her, it shows such fearful misery--her eyes sparkle. "and all for the sake of a juanita!" she cries again scornfully, and leaves the room. she rushes down stairs breathlessly; there in the large drawing-room stands the picture, the package of letters lies on a table. tears of rage rush to linda's eyes. she pulls the bell sharply. "take that picture away!" she commands the servant who appears. she would like to declare to the servant that she knew nothing of the lanzberg disgrace when she married a lanzberg. xxiv. "all for the sake of a juanita!" that was the most biting remark linda had made, was what made felix feel most keenly his degradation. he had heard of people who sinned for a good object, who had forged their fathers' names from generous precipitancy to save the honor of a friend, with the ideal conviction that the father himself must declare that he was satisfied with the wrong action on account of the unfortunate complications. but he? no false idea of sacrifice, no desire for martyrdom had confused him; as the cause of his action he found nothing but egoism and search for enjoyment, a brutal passion for an unworthy woman. the explanation of his act lay in the hot-blooded temperament of a thoroughly spoiled and indulged man, whose first ungratified wish robs him of his senses--the excuse of his act lay nowhere. he also had never sought it, and had never for one instant forgiven himself, but all these years, wherever he went, had dragged about with him the consciousness of his degradation. it had weighed so heavily upon him that this in itself had prevented every moral elevation in him. had his sense of honor not been by nature and education so fanatic, so morbidly sensitive, he would perhaps have learned in time to accustom himself to his situation, and become a commonplace, anxiously respectable man who contented himself with playing first fiddle in circles which were a step lower than his own. but however he was situated, he never learned to reckon with his detracted honor. it could not satisfy him to represent an ordinary, respectable man. "how was it possible; oh, god, how was it possible that i, felix lanzberg, could so forget myself?" he groaned. he let his head fall upon his folded arms on his writing-desk. then through his weary mind, like a triumphal fanfare of temptation, rang the melody of a spanish national dance, with its exciting, sharply accented rhythm and perfidious modulations. the portion of his past in which his present grief had root rose vividly and with the most minute particulars to his memory. it dated back--oh, that beautiful unrecallable time--twenty-three years. very wealthy, handsome, of good family, fond of gay life and without any serious aims, he liked to amuse himself, rendered homage to his colonel's wife, as is obligatory in every young officer, supported here a factory-girl, there a glove-maker, but at that time his great passion was really four-in-hand driving. on the whole, he was of too ideal temperament to find enjoyment in light-minded passions, and had no talent for such. in association with all other beings--his superiors, comrades, subordinates, tradespeople and proletaries--full of a certain good-nature, self-satisfied. in intercourse with women he was almost shy, stiff, grave, and well-bred to the finger-tips. he was everywhere considered sentimental and solid. the last easter he had raved over countess adelina l----, the sister of the same count l---- whom he had encountered so unpleasantly at mimi dey's--had danced three cotillons with her, lost two philopenas to her, and passed much time at receptions, seated in a low arm-chair beside her, gazing at her with enraptured eyes, and accompanying his glances with a few anxious, very involved and equally unmeaning phrases. it only required some sharp elderly friend of the countess to make matters plain to him--that is, to call his attention to the fact that he was really betrothed. he seemed made to marry early, to adore his wife, and to bore his intimate friends with accounts of the wonderful peculiarities of his children. then, on a mild, damp spring evening, after a good dinner, and not quite sober, he chanced to go with several comrades to the orpheum, which later, owing to an american who walked a telegraph wire with much ease and grace, became a great attraction, but which then tried its fortune with spanish dancers and a lion-tamer. the dance production began with four spaniards, two women, two men, all four old, homely, and so thin that they did not need castanets to rattle, danced with convulsive charm, smiled like painted death's heads, and on the whole reminded one strongly of certain repulsive pictures of goya, which are usually voted exaggerated, so as to allay the horror which they cause. the officers cried "brava!" with biting irony, the audience hissed, several indignant voices grumbled at the director. then the first bars of the madrilèna resounded through the atmosphere impregnated with tobacco smoke and the odor of eatables. a new apparition stepped upon the stage. a smile--a glance--the deepest indignation changed to the most breathless astonishment. with the voluptuous bowing and swaying of a spanish dance, the most beautiful woman that was ever called senorita floated over the stage. that was juanita! the horrible background of the quartette heightened the luxuriant charm of her figure. she was no practised dancer, none of our conventional ballerinas, whose perfect flexibility destroys all individual charm; her limbs had not been disfigured by year-long torture; they possessed neither the pitiful thinness nor the dazzling rapidity of a race-horse. she did not know how to execute with the lower extremities the most ambitious figures, while--as is considered essential--the upper body remained stiff; she did no gymnastics--she danced! and not only with her limbs--she danced with her whole body. oh, what an intoxicating bending and swaying! a proud drawing up of the body, and caressing sinking backward! her dancing had nothing animated, challenging about it, but something subtly alluring, almost magically seductive. her whole appearance suggested longing weariness, as when in a storm the flowers shudderingly bend their heads earthward. and she was beautiful! the short oval of her face, the low brow, the short, straight nose, the delicate, quivering nostrils, the high cheek-bones, the slightly sunken cheeks, the long, deep-set eyes, full of loving dreaminess and passion, the full, curved lips, turning upward with an expression of languishing weariness--all this reminded one not in the least of the ideal, gentle brunette madonnas of murillo. it reminded one of nothing holy, nothing classical--but it was the most seductive earthly beauty which one could imagine! the audience raved; the officers screamed themselves hoarse with "brava! brava!" some of them made poor jokes about the dancer, others hummed or whistled reminiscences of the spanish music. only felix was silent. "you act like one to whom a ghost has announced death," jested prince hugo b----, and thereupon proposed that the officers should go upon the stage in a body and give juanita an ovation. how he remembers all that to-day! the large half-lighted room near the stage, the dusty old rafters, the ropes, the torn scenes, the dim gas-lights, the crowd of actors and actresses huddled together, the trapeze artist who wore a brown waterproof over his pink doublet and green tights, and in the midst of this unsavory crowd--juanita. in a shabby gray dress, and green and blue checked shawl, she stood near an elderly very shabby woman, and smiled with her languishing lips most indifferently, while the men vied with each other in paying her the most effusive compliments in imaginary spanish or bad french. when they withdrew felix stumbled over something. it was the yellow flower which juanita had worn in her hair, dusty, withered, trodden upon. carefully he wiped the dust from it, and tried to revive the faded, crumpled petals. "deuce take it! we should invite her to supper," cried prince b----, suddenly standing still. "why, hugo?" stammered felix. the former laughed, turned on his heel, gave his invitation, and juanita nodded perfectly contentedly. she had no objection to sup with the gentlemen. to be sure, she took her theatre mother with her. how felix recalled all this! the glaring gas-light in the long narrow room of the restaurant; the sleepy, blinking waiter; manuela--that was the name of the dancer's protecting angel--who, without removing hat or wrap, and also without saying a word, with the usual appetite of all theatre mothers, bent over her plate; the officers who, with faces flushed with wine, proposed clumsy toasts, and juanita who, seated beside the prince upon a red divan, again and again rubbed her large weary eyes with her little hands, like a sleepy child. she ate without affectation and without greediness--only sipped the champagne, smiled good-naturedly at the boldest jokes, whether she understood them not, with the resignation of a being who was accustomed to earn her bread in this manner. the old manuela had long been snoring. some the officers had grown melancholy, the others were noisy only by fits and starts--juanita's eyes closed. "let her go, she is tired," remarked an elderly captain. "before we part, i beg one especial favor," cried prince b----. "that the senorita give us each a kiss." the dancer made a few gestures of dissent, because that was a part of her trade, and then yielded. patiently she let one after the other of the young men press his mustache, smelling of wine and smoke, upon her beautiful mouth. at length felix's turn came, but he avoided her lips, profaned by the kisses of his comrades, and only kissed her hand very softly. misunderstanding the tenderness of his action, she believed that he despised her kiss. a few minutes later the two sleepy spaniards rolled away to their home in a carriage which prince b---- had paid for. "a beautiful creature, but a perfect goose," remarked b---- to felix, as he strolled back to the barracks with him. the other officers drove. "besides, she is at least twenty-five or six years old; that is old for a spaniard," chatted the prince. felix walked silently beside him, a hot, unsatisfied feeling in his heart, a withered flower in his hand. he cherished it like a lover the rose-bud which his dear one had given him; yes, thus would felix cherish the faded yellow flower which the dust in the wings of the stage had soiled--upon which an acrobat might have trodden. he placed it in a glass of water, and finally pressed it in a book of poems. explain it who will! in the moment when felix had avoided her lips, the narrow-minded spaniard had taken a decided dislike for him, a dislike which more intimate acquaintance with him did not overcome, but which increased to aversion. neither his unusual, truly somewhat effeminate, beauty, nor his reserved, chivalrous manners, pleased her. b----, with his bold, condescending ways, had more success with her, but her deepest, tenderest feelings were for the trapeze artist of the orpheum, a young man with strongly developed muscles and bushy hair, who apparently seldom washed his face and never his hands; but, on the other hand, used the strongest-smelling pomade, and always wore the most brilliant cravats. one met him often when one visited juanita. at that time juanita lived in the rossau, in a very plain locality, which continually smelt of mutton tallow and onions, because manuela, in spite of the warm time of year, loved to cook unappetizing national dishes upon the drawing-room stove. manuela was never seen without her crumpled black satin hat and her green shawl adorned with red palms. around the old woman's waist, on a worn-out cord hung a pocket from which protruded a gay paper fan, and which beside this lodged a pack of cards, a rosary and cigarettes. juanita lay from morning to night upon a divan, clad in a loose white wrapper, without corsets, without stockings, a rose behind her ear, and tiny black satin slippers upon her small bare feet. but how beautiful she was thus! the soft white clinging garment outlined her form distinctly. one could think of nothing more charming than her little feet, scarcely as long as one's palm, so narrow, beautifully arched, with pink soles and dainty dimples, and with blue veins around her ankles as they peeped out of the satin slippers. except for a few fairly brutal bursts of rage, juanita was uncommonly phlegmatic. she really loved nothing but cigarettes, sweet drinks mixed with ice, and a horrible spanish national salad of garlic and cucumbers which she called a _gaspacho_. the time which she did not devote to her dancing exercises and her lovers, she passed smoking, laying cards, and telling the beads of her rosary. she tolerated felix around her, like a poor actress who wishes to quarrel with no one and tolerates every one; she did not encourage him. her coldness excited his feeling to madness; his boundless submission increased her repugnance for him. in association with her, he had no self-respect, no pride, no will, but the low-spirited air of a shy student. he grovelled at her feet, and spent half the day pasting gold spangles on one of her old costumes which manuela was freshening up. he had known her for weeks without daring to send her anything but bouquets and candy. then one evening he saw her in a box of a theatre. she wore her hair arranged in the spanish manner, with a veil and high comb, and a black satin gown which fitted like a glove, adorned with a silver girdle. the whole audience was interested in the beautiful spaniard. in the second act, prince b---- appeared in her box. the people whispered, laughed. felix was half dead with jealousy. the next day there was a violent altercation between the prince and him, at which the former good-naturedly declared that he would a hundred times rather break with juanita than with felix; he did not care anything about her, she bored him; he had only sent her to the theatre, dressed beautifully, to mystify the viennese, etc. then felix hired a charming entresol in k---- street, and had it furnished in three days by the first upholsterer in vienna. juanita made no trouble about occupying it. she laughed and clapped her hands with joy over the magnificent furniture, gave up her loose wrappers, wore the clothes which felix had made for her, and in honor of the beautiful apartment, played the great lady. surprise and thankfulness, or perhaps a suddenly awakened covetousness for a time killed in her every other feeling. felix revelled in a few weeks of mad happiness. to-day, however, his hair stood on end when he thought of this happiness. juanita gave herself up to mad extravagance. her ideal of elegance and style was mlle. x----, the _première danseuse_ of the opera house. juanita must have duplicates of everything: the toilets, the newfoundland and the equipages. finally she insisted upon dancing at the same theatre as the x----, and felix succeeded in securing a performance for her. and yet how badly she treated him in spite of everything. often he rattled his frail chains, but lacked the strength to break them. he made scenes for juanita almost every day--it was owing to his jealousy; he left her and swore he would never come again. for an entire week he remained away from her, but in what a condition of excitement, fever, and longing! he ate nothing, he slept no longer, he ran into passers-by in the street because he saw no one; the whole world was a dark chaos to him--the only spot of light was juanita. with bowed head, a bitter smile on his lips, the full consciousness of his degradation expressed by bearing and glance, he then dragged himself back to juanita. she did with him what she wished. all vienna spoke about him and her; from the lips of young matrons mysterious phrases floated about the ears of innocent young girls--the pretty countess l---- cried her blue eyes out. and the summer passed. september arrived. the spaniard had become more submissive--sometimes she was almost tender. the great moment of her début in the opera house approached, and made her timid. one more wish she expressed, a last one. never before had she taken trouble to inform felix of one of her expensive wishes with so many caressing digressions. with both arms round his neck, her lips close to his ear, she informed him that she would not appear at the opera house without a pair of diamond screws such as mlle. x---- always wore in her ears when she danced. when he begged her only to wait a very little while, she fell back into her old phlegmatic, yes, apathetic manner, pouting angrily. he went to a jeweller whom he knew, of whom he had already purchased different ornaments for juanita, but the man did not seem inclined to extend felix's credit further. too prudent to bluntly refuse such a distinguished customer he pretended that he had no stones of the size which the baron required. he could perhaps obtain them from a business friend "for cash." felix left the shop angrily, and now sought his old acquaintance, ephraim staub. but the latter shrugged his shoulders, said that he had already done a great deal for the baron for the sake of his respectful devotion to him; he relied upon his honor, but still the notes of a minor were not legal, and all men were mortal, and if anything should happen to the young baron who would answer to him, ephraim staub, that the young gentleman's papa would not throw him together with his notes, which in the eyes of the law were not legal, out of the door? felix chewed the knob of his riding-whip angrily. then carefully feeling his way, the usurer ventured an infamous proposition. "certainly a note with your father's acceptance--that would be safe--the old gentleman would certainly redeem that--one could always apply the thumbscrews to one's papa." ephraim could assure the baron that young people of the best families--he must, alas, conceal the names--had given him this kind of guarantee. for a long time the true signification of this speech was wholly dark to felix, but at length he understood, then he did not even take the trouble to fall into a rage, only threw back his head arrogantly and raised his riding-whip to the usurer as one strikes a cur who has ventured too near. how did it happen that three days later he returned to ephraim staub and made out the note in the shameful manner which the latter had desired of him? yes; how did it happen? felix no longer knows. if he knew, he could perhaps understand his crime to-day, but he does not understand it. his memory is a blank concerning the three days in which he had slowly sunk to forgery; there is a dark spot, a chasm in his recollection; he can only take it up again in the moment when, exhausted as if after weeks of fever, bathed in cold sweat, and groping along the walls, he crept from ephraim's shop to the jeweller's; how suddenly he was frightened at the gargoyle on the cornice of a house, frightened because the head laughed. from this moment he was not happy for a second, not even with juanita. strangely enough, his passion for her now was completely in the background; it fled. it seemed to him that a monster sat upon his back and buried two iron claws in his shoulders, and blew in his ears with his hot, terrible breath. the evening on which juanita was to show her splendid beauty and her empirical dancing to the audience of the opera house arrived. a warm, september evening. there had been a hard shower; there was an odor of wet stone and marble as felix went to the theatre. by turns he shook with cold and grew feverish, he suffered with a severe cold. the theatre was still only sparsely filled. when he took his seat in one of the front rows he noticed that people pointed him out to each other and whispered his name. he was a celebrity--juanita's lover! and all the soft voices pierced his ears, and yet no one could know that. the ballet had been introduced into an opera, he could not have said into which one; he heard nothing, he saw nothing which took place upon the stage. the triumphal fanfare of the madriléna roused him from his brooding. how beautiful she was! a cloud of black lace and satin floated about her. on her breast was a bunch of white roses, in her ears sparkled two great drops like frozen tears. felix saw nothing of the whole apparition but these great sparkling drops. he would have liked to scream out, "hold her fast, she wears my honor in her ears!" poor felix; he was delirious. the triumph which juanita had experienced at the orpheum was nothing to her present one at the opera house. a foreign prince, who chanced to be in the house, clapped his hands in approval; the x---- saw it in her box, and grew green with envy. then juanita threw her last kiss and vanished. the opera proceeded. felix sat in his place as if petrified. at last, at the close of the act, he rose to go behind the scenes. that uneasy hum, which in the world follows a triumph or a fiasco, prevailed there. juanita was nowhere to be seen. he knocked at her dressing-room door, her maid alone answered him. juanita was gone, had just driven away. "his highness prince arthur"--the girl was a born viennese--"had arranged a supper in all haste in honor of the senorita, and--she thought the baron knew of it----" felix heard nothing more; in mad haste he rushed down the narrow stairs to the stage entrance, and out across the open square before the theatre. he saw a closed carriage turn a corner. felix did not know whom the carriage contained--probably a perfect stranger--and still he rushed after it--rushed after it like an insane man for a long distance. the earth trembled beneath him; with a hoarse, breathless gasp, he sank to the ground. when he was picked up, he was unconscious. for weeks he lay senseless, with a severe nervous fever. his father came to vienna to care for him. after about eight weeks the physicians declared that for the present there was no danger--he could be transported to traunberg, as was the urgent desire of his father. at that time felix was still so weak that he had to be carried; he slept almost continuously, spoke indistinctly, and had forgotten the immediate past. ephraim staub hated felix because of the manner in which, without removing his cap, with one finger on the visor, he would enter ephraim's house, yawning, and say, "you, i want money!" and because of the manner in which he carelessly crumpled the bank-notes--which ephraim never handled except reverently--and thrust them in his pockets, and because of the cut of the whip with which felix had answered his perfidious proposition the first time. he discounted the note. the old baron's lawyer learned that a note with his name upon it was in circulation, and inquired by letter whether the baron wished it redeemed for family considerations. the baron knew nothing of juanita. naturally, felix had never written him of his relations with her, and a stranger would never have ventured to inform the violent old lanzberg of anything discreditable to his son. felix had of late asked his father for no great sums of money, and the father knew him to be always scrupulously honorable. how could he look upon the scarcely veiled insinuation of the advocate as other than an insult? enraged at the suspicion cast upon his son, he did not even take the trouble to think the matter over, but wrote at once, in his first indignation, a brusque letter to his advocate, in which he declared that he knew nothing of the matter--it could take its course. it did not even occur to him to excite the invalid felix with this horrid story--he told him nothing of it. slowly felix recovered his health, but his happy temper did not return, he remained always gloomy and monosyllabic--not rude but deeply sad. his father often gazed anxiously into his eyes, which then every time looked away from him, and he stroked his cheeks compassionately, which then always flushed beneath his touch. and once he took the convalescent's thin hand in his, and said, "does anything worry you, my poor boy? it is surely some heart trouble which often comes to one of your age," and as felix, who at the beginning of this speech had paled, now was silent, flushing more and more deeply, the baron added, clapping him good-naturedly on the shoulder, "you need not worry about your secret. i will ask you no more about it if it annoys you; i only thought it might relieve you to unburden your heart." felix buried his face in his hands, and burst into tears. to this day he can hear in his ears the caressing consolation of his father, the soft, monotonous voice with which he murmured again and again, "do not excite yourself, child; poor fellow, poor fellow!" that felix's melancholy could have anything in connection with the lawyer's communication, did not occur to the baron. the next day felix confessed to his father. it was after breakfast; they sat alone, opposite each other, at a little round table. for a moment the old man stared before him with fixed, dull gaze; then rising helplessly and slowly from his chair, stretching out his trembling hands, he fell upon his face, senseless. what cut felix most bitterly, most deeply to his heart was, that when the baron recovered from his swoon he had not a word of reproof for his son--not a word. oh, if he had raged, had cursed and execrated him, all this felix could have borne more easily than the sight of the terrible, helpless sadness with which from time to time the baron struck his hands together and murmured: "i was indiscreet; oh, furious old fool, i was indiscreet, indiscreet!" the meaning of these words only later became clear to felix. the baron telegraphed to the lawyer--he went to vienna the same day. it was too late! all the steps which were taken to spare felix the publication of his fault and the degrading punishment, were in vain. the affair occurred in an unfavorable epoch for him, as the courts felt obliged shortly after an _éclat_ to be doubly severe, as the consideration which had recently been shown in a similar case for a noble name had called forth the justest indignation from the liberal press. felix was sentenced to two years' imprisonment. his father begged an audience of his majesty. all that he attained was that the sentence should be diminished to one year. an example must be made. and the farewell. the last, long, trembling embrace of his father, the moment when the guards who were to conduct the convict away busied themselves with their sabres and compassionately withdrew while the father whispered imploringly to his son, "promise me that you will do no harm to yourself!" and the time in the prison. the fearful despair of the first weeks, when he longed for death, and the promise which he had given his father continually weighed upon and tormented him like a fetter; the brooding stupor into which this despair changed, and which in its turn gave place to a gradual reviving and accustoming himself to his circumstances. he remembered very well the day when he began to look around at his companions, began anxiously to seek manifestations of their good qualities; to search among them for young people of blameless lives who had sinned in a moment of madness. what did he find? a few convicts who by alternating imprisonment and crime had gradually become dull and stupid, others who had wholly degenerated to rough, terrible, malicious animals; besides these, two or three sons of good family, who confessed their sins with brutal cynicism, scornfully derided their relatives and procured through the jailer wine, cards and evil romances. the sight of these people caused felix boundless misery. how he loathed them; how they astonished him; the importance which trifles had for them, and that they had the heart to rail at the poor food! the doubt came to him whether the idea which he had of himself was not a mere illusion. he dissected his most secret impulses, criticised all his instincts--in short, tormented himself into a pitiable condition. the remnant of self-respect which he had taken into the prison shrunk away to nothing. all who had anything to do with him showed him the warmest sympathy. he was so quiet, so obliging; he never asked for anything except more work. the degraded officers were at that time employed in the office work. felix fulfilled the tasks allotted him with the most painful punctiliousness. at the prison he accustomed himself to that correct regular handwriting which differed so greatly from the careless writing of his gay youth. the old baron had begged that some consideration might be shown felix on account of his weakened health. they were perfectly willing to do so, but felix would hear nothing of this. the money which his father sent him to procure little comforts, he gave to assistants. at last the year was over. felix had received a letter from his father, in which the latter, too considerate to personally accompany his son from the prison, told him that he would meet him at this or that station, to take a long trip with him. but felix could not resolve to meet his father immediately after this degrading imprisonment. it was in the year . war was expected. felix enlisted in a regiment as a private soldier. he performed his duties with fanatic zeal. the soldiers, who knew nothing of his sad story, looked upon his serving in their ranks as the "whim of a great gentleman," such as is not unusual in excited times, and met him with defiant opposition. but he took such sincere trouble to win their liking, so willingly shared their whole life, that they soon became devoted to him. their unfeigned liking was more pleasant to him than the sentimental humanity which he met with later in life. often one of his present comrades pushed him away from some work which he considered unworthy of felix, and murmured with good-natured embarrassment, "that you are not used to, sir." the officers, who at first had been very ill at ease with him, gradually understood how painful it was to him if any difference was made between him and his comrades, and gave up attempting to make an exception of him. he never complained, ate the coarsest food without changing his expression in the slightest, conscientiously polished the buttons of his uniform, and always chose the worst place to bivouac. the first cannon was fired. felix fought at trautenau; fought without enthusiasm, without melodramatic heroism; he fought with the sober, unbounded bravery of a man who does not need the hurrahs to be spurred on by, whose life is wholly indifferent to him, and who hopes and wishes for no other reward for his self-sacrificing performance of his duty than--death. the leaden rain of the prussian vanguard--it was wholly unknown to the austrians who did not fight in schlesing--had a soothing effect upon his nerves. the breathless excitement of battle did him good. what pained him was the moment before the conflict, when old veterans passed each other their field-flasks, and expressed indifferent opinions about the weather; and the young soldiers, scarcely grown recruits, with shining eyes and pale cheeks, cried "hurrah!" and inflated their chests, while the guns shook in their hands. what pained him was the moment after the battle, when the last smoke of powder, and a dull echo of the noise of battle filled the air, and the soldiers, confused and stunned, met in camp, and one or another, rousing from the stupor which followed the fearful excitement of battle, asked fearfully, "where is f----? where is m----?" and then with a shudder remembered that he, himself, had seen f---- and m---- fall. what pained him was, when in the night the wounded cried and groaned, until their comrades' compassion changed to impatience, and they complained over the noise which prevented them from sleeping. then came the third of july, the day of sadowa. it was damp, cold weather, no sun in the heavens. on the earth trodden-down grain, soiled with dirt and blood; a confusion of blue and white soldiers, partly arranged in compact, geometrically exact figures, partly scattered in sheltered positions, partly crouching behind earthworks, so far separated that prussians and austrians mostly saw each other as points or masses. hostile, without hostility, they stood opposite each other; perhaps not one among the thousands upon thousands here and yonder hated the other, and yet each one was ready to do his utmost to kill the unknown enemy. fog mixed with the powder-smoke. there was a wild confusion of screams, groans, rolling of wheels, rattling of sabres, and stamping of horses. in the distance chaos seemed to prevail; at the spot where felix was stationed a kind of monotony, a kind of order ruled. the ranks close over the fallen. "fire!" commands the officer. there is a click of the gun hammers, the flames shine redly on the gun-barrels--sch--sch whistle the hostile balls around felix; crashing, ear-splitting, like sharp hail, answer the riflemen. felix was at swiepwald, with the regiment of riflemen of which the austrians only speak with tears in their eyes, the prussians with hands on their caps! for a while the losses were slight. all went well. then came a moment when the riflemen received the hostile balls indifferently. many of them were weary and found time to say so, still more were hungry--few austrian soldiers received anything to eat on that memorable day, the day of sadowa. felix had given his last rations to a young recruit who, as he thought, needed nourishment more than he; but felix had overestimated his strength, an unusual faintness suddenly overcame him, he begged his neighbor for his flask, and crash!--a shell--and the neighbor lay on the ground with shattered feet. from this moment the losses are immense. man after man falls. little brownish-red streams of blood trickle through the ruts of the ground, the pine-trees become bare, their needles fall unpleasantly, prickingly, upon the faces of the riflemen. with the whistling of the musket-balls mingles the groaning shots of the artillery like the deafening, reechoing thunder in a mountainous country. the atmosphere is unbearably impregnated with the peculiar odor of battle. with the smell of powder and heated iron mingles the odor of perspiration of an excited mass of men, and the repulsive, terrible, salt smell of their blood. the fog becomes more and more thick. the riflemen see nothing near them but dead comrades, and before, a white wall behind which death lurks. they no longer know what is taking place at the other end of the field, do not know that the prussian crown prince has arrived; but all feel that they are fighting for a lost cause, and that their resistance is nothing more than a heroic demonstration. always in the front rank, felix fights on. twice have the men at his right and left fallen, but all the balls whistle past him--from second to second he expects death, but it comes not. there are not thirty men left of his battalion; orderlies fly to and fro, the officers are hoarse, then suddenly the cry, "retreat!" retreat! felix stands as if rooted to the ground--retreat! what, shall he flee? no! but captivity, in which, bound as he is by his promise, he would not have the right to take his life! and he retreats with the others, who now join the great mass. their pace becomes more and more irregular and hurried. the evening is dark, the enemy behind them, the few riflemen are among the last. a standard-bearer sinks down, wounded in the knee by a stray shot. no one troubles himself about him or the flag. what is the flag? nothing but a soiled, torn rag. nothing but--the symbol of the regiment's honor. honor! the word has a mysterious, alluring sound for felix, somewhat as the word water has for one perishing in the desert. honor! honor! he takes the flag from the standard-bearer's hand, who pleads piteously that he may at least be pushed into a ditch and not trodden upon like a worm. felix performs this service for him, and remains far behind his comrades. at length he raises the flag and is about to proceed with it. but, deathly wearied as he is, he can scarcely carry it, so he tears the flag from the pole, and breaking this over his knee he wishes to bury both pieces in the slime of the ditch, but before he has accomplished this a little band of prussian cavalry approaches. he lays his hand on his gun, but if he defends himself, defends himself so that they must kill him, the flag is forfeited. he then stretches himself in the mire of the road, flat on his face over the flag, as to-day he has seen many of his comrades, shot through the heart. the horses trot past him; one of them starts back from him, this rider looks before him, sees what he takes for a corpse and passes on. the horse, who takes the leap required of him with the timidity which every human body inspires in his species, strikes felix with his hoof. when the riders are out of sight, and all is still, felix rises, a stinging pain in his left arm. at first he thought the arm was broken, but no, only a severe contusion causes the pain. he thrusts his hand into his coat, wraps the flag around it, and creeps wearily forward. in his ears a single word rings: "honor!" he totters to the elbe, which separates him from his comrades; there is no longer a bridge there; he does not trust his strength to swim across. ah! and even if he does drown in the bottom of the river, the prussians cannot find the flag, and he cares nothing for his life. he flings himself into the stream, the waves plash around his ears: "honor!" the cold water strengthens him, and for the moment prevents the pain in his arm. he reaches the opposite shore, he himself never knew how. he staggers on in his clothes, made heavy by the water. his mind is not clear, only grasps the idea that he must go on. he stumbles along--slowly--slowly; often he sinks down and lies still for a while, then he suddenly springs up again, feels for the flag and totters on. he does not know where he is, the austrian camp lies before him--he does not see it--then something red shines through the gray morning light. felix gathers up his strength; breathless, gasping, he drags himself up to what he soon recognizes as an austrian uhlan picket. he reaches the picket, he can no longer speak, hands the flag to an officer, and falls to the ground. the uhlans--there were two or three officers among them--crowd around him. when they see his lamentable condition they speak with pride of the fidelity to his flag of this common soldier, and they say it aloud, and felix hears it and it does him good; it seems to him that the blot upon his honor is washed away. then one of the officers bends over him, and suddenly starting, he cries to the others, "that is certainly lanzberg!" "what do you say? 'the certain lanzberg?'" ask they, hastily. they thought felix unconscious, but he was not. the word, thoughtlessly spoken and not unkindly meant, goes to his heart. from that moment he knew that there was no regeneration for his honor. he might level mountains and dam rivers, but the world in its astonishment, in its admiration, would yet find no other name for him than "the certain lanzberg!" he opened his large, mournful eyes. the officers were ill at ease, then they all stretched out their hands to him and cried, "we admire you; we envy you!" but he only turned his head away from them with a groan. his incomparable actions during the campaign had softened the harshest of his social judges toward him. the emperor, by a proclamation, had restored to him his forfeited social rights. his father awaited him longingly, and begged him by letters to telegraph his arrival in traunberg, so that he could personally meet him at the railway station. but felix dreaded the idea of being received by his father, and unannounced, in civilian clothes, he one day alighted in t----, the nearest station to traunberg, from a third-class compartment, which he had taken so as to meet none of his acquaintances. he went on foot to the castle. he felt a kind of shyness of every tree, every stone, which formerly returning home after long absence, he had greeted joyously. the quick trot of horses' hoofs smote his ear; looking up he saw elsa coming galloping along the park driveway toward him, at the side of his old playmate, sempaly. anxiously he drew back among the trees, and the two rushed past, and thought no more of the man in the plain gray coat. silently he crept up to the castle and to his father's room. no one met him. softly he opened the door. a thin, bowed, gray-haired man sat reading in an arm-chair. felix took a few hesitating steps forward, he trembled throughout his entire frame. "papa!" he stammered. one moment more and the father had clasped him in his arms. then the old man pushed him back from him to see him more plainly. "my hero!" he cried. felix started nervously and gazed pleadingly at his father. "you have grown gray, papa," he cried, as if startled. "people grow old, my boy," replied the baron, hastily smoothing his whitened hair. "old at forty-nine?" murmured felix. a quarter of an hour later, as felix sat beside his father, answering his questions, elsa entered. she had grown tall and slender. but that was not the only change which felix perceived in her: she had lost her light, springing girlish step, her merry smile. a reserved sadness had drawn harsh lines about her mouth, and a deep shade darkened her eyes. at her entrance he had risen awkwardly, and she, not seeing him distinctly, and taking him for some bailiff discussing business with her father, bowed formally. her father glanced impatiently at her, then he cried, in irritation and anger, "it is felix; do you not recognize him?" elsa grew pale with excitement. "god greet you," said she, going quickly up to him. his trembling lips barely touched her forehead. now came a hard, hard time for felix, made hardest of all by the touching kindness of his father, who overwhelmed him with tender attentions, had forgotten none of felix's former fancies--surprised him now with a splendid horse, now with a gun of a new, improved kind, or a pointer dog with fabulous traits--in short, anticipated every wish which felix had formerly expressed. but felix no longer wished for anything but to hide himself, and this his father would not hear of. he everywhere pushed his son forward; with the servants and overseer it was always, "i am growing old, go to the young master." and poor felix, humiliated by the striking submission of the people, confused and without an idea or opinion of his own, gave orders in a shy, weak voice as modestly and reservedly as he could. however urgently he begged his father to leave him in the protecting shade of the background, the old man could not be induced to consent. he pressed the keys of his safe upon felix, gave him free disposal of the largest sums of money. painfully distrustful of all the rest of humanity, especially of his servants, since his misfortune, the baron almost crushed his son by this ostentatious, conspicuous confidence. one day he desired felix to pay a visit with him in the neighborhood. but this felix opposed. elsa supported his opposition. the old baron took that amiss in her. at that time elsa was scarcely sixteen years old. she suffered with the lanzberg arrogance, as felix had suffered from it; she was hurt to the heart by felix's deed. and yet she loved her brother, and did not wish to let him feel how heavily his disgrace weighed upon her. but she could find no natural tone in intercourse with him. he had been a kind of idol for her, who good-naturedly descended from his pedestal to tease and caress his little sister. he had called her liesel and mietzel, pulled her ear or kissed her hand, mystified her with the strangest tales, gave her costly presents; then again, when his friends or important pleasures came between them, for days wholly ignored her insignificant existence. but this time the idol had not descended from his pedestal; he had fallen down, and had become a broken man. his former teasing courtesy had changed into the shyest politeness. he never pulled her ears, and never kissed her hand, never called her liesel or mietzel--his manners had wholly lost their playful aplomb. he was now helpless and awkward, sat at table like a poor sinner, ate little, never spoke a word, and, rendered clumsy by embarrassment, soiled the table-cloth. he was so boundlessly obliging and considerate that it made elsa embarrassed. he broke a refractory horse for her with the greatest patience, took care of all her favorite flowers, accompanied her on her visits to the poor, and never forgot to take with him a warm wrap for her. he had really become a much better and lovable man than before, but the world had no use for this goodness and lovability. even elsa did not know how to value it. she was always constrained in intercourse with him, because she was always thinking of being kind to him. the old baron gave her endless lectures concerning her behavior. unweariedly attentive and tender to felix, toward his other fellow men he was almost unbearably capricious, irritable and unjust, especially to elsa. once he overwhelmed her for so long with imprudent reproaches for her heartlessness and lack of tact, that at last she cried out defiantly and refractorily, "why was felix so?" then her father struck her for the first and last time, and cried, "god punish you for your hard heart!" when the baron had left her, and she began to almost hate felix, angry at the injustice done her, he emerged from a dark corner, from which he had been forced to witness the scene, softly went up to her, and said, with his gentle sad smile, stretching out his hand hesitatingly to her, "forgive him--he has not his head; he does not know any longer what he does; only think how he must feel." then she threw herself with passionate violence into his arms. "he was right a hundred times," cried she, "only not in thinking that i do not love you, for i do love you, but i did not know how to show it to you." from that day the relation between brother and sister was touchingly tender. elsa was almost as anticipating and unendingly tender in her attentions to felix as her father himself. the first week after felix's arrival, sempaly discreetly remained away from traunberg. he also had taken part in the campaign, but a very trifling part, and described the battle of sadowa with charming flippancy, while he added, "pity that it turned out so badly." for the first week, then, he remained away from traunberg. but then he appeared there again, and, in fact, with the good-natured intention of paying felix a special visit. but scarcely had the latter heard the voice of his former comrade, when with dog and gun he crept softly out of the castle. from then sempaly came no more to traunberg. felix knew that formerly he had come two or three times a week, and asked elsa about it. "you have surely begged him to come no longer, poor elsa," said he, gazing deep into her eyes. her embarrassment answered him. he saw that for his sake elsa must give up all society, and also noticed that she had caught his morbid shyness. her future was at stake. then, carefully concealing his reasons, he begged leave of his father to go to south america. with a heavy heart, and after much opposition, the old man let him go. felix did not return until he received the news of elsa's marriage. after the death of his father he left europe a second time, and had really only returned home for a visit, when he met linda. poor felix! there he sat, his head resting on the table, all his thoughts in the past, when suddenly a little voice roused him from his dull brooding. gery, whose little hand could not reach the doorknob, banged at the door outside, and screamed, "papa! papa!" felix rose and admitted him. the child was crying, and his left cheek was red and swollen. "papa, mamma slapped me, and said she could not bear me," complained the little fellow. "she struck you because you are the son of 'the certain lanzberg,'" murmured felix with fearful bitterness. "perhaps others will also make you do penance for that yet!" xxv. the gulf which malicious fortune and elsa's overwrought nerves had opened between the two married people had not lessened, but on the contrary had daily become deeper, colder, and broader. erwin found no explanation for his wife's changed manner; after some time he ceased to seek one. his was no brooding nature, and had no time to become one. that elsa could be jealous of linda any more than of a pretty work of art or an amusing book which unsuitably claimed a great deal of his attention, erwin had never understood. "poor elsa, she is worried about felix," he said to himself; "she will come to her senses again," and for several days he kept away from her, to give her time to calm herself. but three, four days passed, and she still had the same pale face and stiff manner. then he tried a different plan, and once when they chanced to be alone together--it happened very seldom--he laid his hand under her chin and began: "well, mouse----" but she did not lean her cheek against his hand as formerly when she was remorseful, neither did she resist his caress, as when she was refractory, but simply tolerated him as if she were a statue of stone or bronze. and she looked at him so coldly that all the loving words which he had in readiness faded from his memory and his hand sank down from her chin. he turned away from her with impatience and irritation. it was not the first time that she had been unjust and capricious to him. her only fault was an easily awakened irritability; but formerly her vexation had been of short duration, and her bad mood had soon dissolved into the most remorseful tenderness. she had never begged his forgiveness after she had made a scene. her proud obstinacy was not capable of that; she was not one of those sympathetic, dependent women who like to make little blunders so as to be able to coquet with their charming penitence. no! but an anxious, half-suppressed smile hesitated on her lips, when he returned to her several hours after the vexatious scene, and he could see by the book which she was reading, by the gown which she had put on, by the dinner which was ordered, how she had thought of him during his absence. but her manner now was of a quite different kind. what could he think but that her love for him had become less; that with elsa, as with all good mothers, her children had gradually won the precedence in her heart, and there was nothing to do for it. and erwin smiled peculiarly, shrugged his shoulders, for the first few days felt painfully wounded, and finally began to accustom himself to the situation. he hunted a great deal, and also occasionally rode to traunberg, where he was always sure of a hearty reception, often met gay society, and from whence he brought back the comfortable conviction that he had the best influence over a lovable but superficial human being. now, after elsa had barricaded herself on all sides with diligence and pains and praiseworthy energy, against happiness, she was terrified at her own work, and she would gladly have annihilated it, but she now lacked the power. erwin had become distant; formerly she would have silently slipped her hand into his and with that all would have been said, he would have understood. but now, now she no longer dared; she was as shy and embarrassed as a bride. that it was hateful, yes, fairly inexcusable to suspect a man who in all the different situations of his life had acted so severely honorably as erwin, of such disgraceful conduct as her jealousy suggested to her, she knew, but---- "the lanzberg shadow has fallen upon my happiness," she sometimes thought sadly; "it must come so," but in the next moment she said, "no, it must not come so. i--i myself am to blame that it has come; why did i send him away from me on our wedding-day, from silly, childish obstinacy? if i believed in danger for him, i should have tried doubly hard to chain him to me; instead of this i have done everything to make myself disagreeable to him, only because my pride did not consider a threatened happiness worth defence. if what i feared now happens, then----" but here her thoughts paused. "that cannot be," she murmured impatiently; "it is not possible." then suddenly she thought of her brother, who in his time had stood almost as high in her respect as erwin, and who in one instant had sunken, oh, so deeply! "if that were possible, then everything is possible in this world," she decided, sternly. one day after another passed--a cloud had shown itself in her sky so small and transparent that a single sunbeam would have sufficed to kiss it away; but the cloud had grown larger, and now covered the whole sky so that it could not even be seen. an unpleasant accident contributed to embitter elsa's feelings completely. for a long time she had been urged by her heart to show erwin some little attention, and she ransacked her brains to think of something which could please him, and yet would not be a too direct reminder of her love. at last it occurred to her to have a photograph taken for him of baby, who with her childish coquetries had gradually become dearer and dearer to her father's heart. she put the frock which erwin liked best upon the little creature herself, one which showed off baby's charms most advantageously. she kissed and smoothed the child's short curls, and hung a golden heart on a thin chain round her neck, of which the vain rogue was not a little proud, and tugged at it with both little fists to admire it, or put it in her mouth. then elsa ordered the carriage and drove over to marienbad with baby. baby made the most attentive observations from the lap of her mamma; from time to time she stretched out her hand for some object which especially pleased her or was new to her, and gave a little clear joyous cry, or uttered some of those disconnected syllables which have significance for a mother's ear only. the novelty of the situation at the photographer's impressed her; the first attempt did not succeed. the photographer remarked that if the baroness would hold the child herself, it would perhaps be better. elsa replied blushingly that she did not wish to appear in the picture. but baby would not have it otherwise. now the trial succeeded admirably. the photographer showed the negative in which baby's delicate face, with the solemn, staring eyes, and the shy, smiling mouth could plainly be recognized. elsa nodded with satisfaction, but begged that he would wash out her figure. then the old photographer--he knew elsa from her childhood--surveyed his work with the look of an artist, and said, "ah, baroness, it would be a shame for the pretty picture. has the baroness one of the last photographs which i took of her as a bride? it is just the same face." and elsa let him have his way; involuntarily the delight with which he held the dim negative against his rough coat-sleeve amused her, and she even stole a glance in the mirror, the first glance for a long time, and thought that although somewhat pale and thin, she did not look so very old and faded as she had thought. she rejoiced at this discovery, and rejoiced that her richly embroidered black gown was so becoming, and rejoiced over baby's picture, and looked forward to the moment when she should take it to erwin. when she now got into the carriage waiting below with baby, and the servant closed the door, the child suddenly almost sprang out of her mother's lap, and stretched out her little arms, and cried in a clear, bell-like voice, "papa! papa!" as baby's vocabulary is still very limited, and she had recently bestowed the title of papa upon litza's pony, elsa glanced somewhat sceptically in the direction in which the child's arm pointed, but really saw erwin about to enter a jeweller's shop. linda lanzberg was on his arm! elsa grew deathly pale. when the carriage, as upon entering she had directed, stopped before a toy store, she did not alight, but ordered, "home!" all reconciling feelings toward erwin changed into a condition of boundless excitement; for the moment she felt a kind of hatred for him. when at dinner he asked, "elsa, were not you in marienbad to-day? it seemed to me that i saw the carriage pass when i was in stein's," she answered, coldly, "i was there. i had something to attend to. and did you buy anything of stein?" she then asked, as if casually. "will he mention linda?" she thought, but he replied half laughingly, "a pink coral necklace for the little one. to-morrow is, if i am not mistaken, her christening day." in fact baby had been named after the countess dey, the sensible name, marie. this explanation did not relieve elsa in the slightest. the most innocent significance which she could ascribe to his presence there with linda was that he had asked her advice in the choice of an ornament for the child. it did not occur to her that he could have met linda in marienbad quite accidentally. the rest of the evening she was in a hopelessly bad humor. every word that erwin spoke pained her, his manner of laying a pair of scissors on the table vexed her. with that, fever shone in her eyes and burned in her cheeks. the kiss which every evening he imprinted upon her forehead had long become a conventional ceremony, but to-day she wished to evade this formality. she disappeared from the drawing-room immediately after tea, upon some pretext, and did not return again. the next day was a holiday, baby's christening day, the day after juanita's visit to traunberg. most exceptionally, this time erwin did not appear at breakfast, and when elsa asked after him, the word was, "the baron breakfasted in his own room, and had then gone away." about half-past eleven, as elsa sat in the nursery, weary and languid, holding baby on her lap, the door opened and erwin entered. baby stretched out her little hands joyously, but elsa's eyes grew gloomy and she struck the child's hand reprovingly. erwin grew deathly pale, pale as she had never seen him before. "later, baby," he murmured somewhat hoarsely, and left the room. but baby began to cry bitterly, and would not stay in her mother's lap. after lunch, during which erwin did not address another word to elsa, she heard him down in the garden, talking and playing with the little one; she heard baby's soft happy laugh; she went to the window, stretched out her head, and saw him swinging the child in the air. when baby was finally weary of play, she laid her little arm around her father's neck, and leaned her delicate flower-like face against his sun-browned cheeks. elsa's head ached; she burned with fever from head to foot, every nerve quivered and her thoughts were gloomy. slowly she dragged herself up and down, finally seated herself with hands clasping her temples, upon a divan. she was losing consciousness when suddenly she started up and listened. she heard erwin's horse pawing the ground in front of the house. where was he going so suddenly? she roused herself, and holding to the walls, crept slowly down-stairs. then, hidden by the turn of the stairs, in the shadow of the hall, she heard erwin's voice: "if the baroness asks for me, martin, tell her that you do not know where i am; in no case shall she wait dinner for me," said he, quickly and softly. with that he mounted his horse and rode away at a rapid pace. where? elsa's heart stopped beating. had anything happened? she crossed the hall--she would force old martin to speak; but he had gone also. then something on the floor rattled, a gray paper which the hem of her dress had touched; she stooped for it--it lay there crumpled as if it had just fallen from a violent hand. she committed no voluntary indiscretion, she only looked at it as one scrutinizes a paper to see whether one shall pick it up or throw it away. it was not her fault that, thanks to the writing, which was as plain as print, at the first glance her eyes had comprehended the whole contents. dear erwin: come soon--to-day, now--at once--i expect you. linda. she took the note, carried it to erwin's room, and laid it conscientiously upon his writing-desk. then her knees trembled, and she had to sit down. not that he had received the note surprised her. what fault was it of his if linda wrote foolish notes? but what she did not understand, what remained absolutely incomprehensible to her was the fact that he had taken his valet into his confidence, that he had not been ashamed to make him his confidant. had she not heard wrong? had he gone to traunberg? now, when the facts spoke strongest against him, she weighed most justly the probabilities for and against his fault; she had acted imprudently towards him, and since the birth of the last child, devoting herself entirely to her maternal duties, had neglected him. he had borne this with goodness and patience; then linda had suddenly appeared, with her dazzling beauty, her picturesque elegance, her coquettish heartlessness. for hours elsa sat there and waited. at five o'clock she sat down to dinner; immediately after this she left the dining-room--she had no more control over herself. "it is all possible," she cried, giving way, desperate; her breath came heavily and so feverish that it burned her lips--black clouds swam before her eyes. she looked at the clock. what kept him away from home so long--with her? another fifteen minutes passed--he must be with her. she could no longer endure her distrustful suspense--she would go to traunberg. she ordered the carriage. on the way she started at every sound, at every shadow, everywhere she saw him and her. a fearful dread of the certainty came over her; at the last moment she clung to uncertainty. she wished to return, but she was ashamed of displaying such inconsequence before the servants, and just then the carriage drove through the iron gate into the traunberg park. the lackey in the vestibule announced that the baroness was not at home. elsa sighed with relief; if linda were not home, she could receive no guests, and erwin could not be there. that she could have denied herself did not occur to her. it was pleasant to her to enjoy traunberg once more, without parisian anecdotes and french _chansonnettes_--without linda. all was as if dead; it reminded her of the old traunberg, where she had lived in loving solitude with her father. she did not think of returning at once; the great tension of her nerves had suddenly given way to vague dreaminess--the danger was not over but postponed. she went out into the garden; her heart grew more and more heavy, and her step slow. her dress caught upon a branch. it seemed to her that a warning hand held her back. in mysterious dread of choosing the very gloomy path which lay before her, she took another. her heart beat rapidly, she stood still, resolved to return. between the trunks of the lindens, the water of the large pond which bounded one side of the traunberg park shone in the sunset glow. with the gentle murmur of the water mingled the regular strokes of oars. elsa stood still, she listened. who could it be? linda was not home. elsa glanced at the pond. in a little boat she saw two figures, one, linda, leaning back in the end of the little skiff, flowers in her hair and in her lap, one hand in the water, an evil light in her eyes, something luxuriantly melancholy in her whole form. opposite her, with his back to elsa, sat a man, slender, broad-shouldered, in a light summer suit, with close-cropped hair of that striking light blond which shines like molten gold in the sunlight. elsa started back--it was surely erwin--she turned away, she would see no more--but no--it seemed to her that she must call after him--there--the little row-boat had reached the small island covered with roses which was in the middle of the lake. in the gray-white august twilight she saw the two figures turn into the overgrown thicket of the island--they disappeared behind the bushes as if immersed in shadow. elsa was as if paralyzed by a kind of gloomy numbness; a fearful excitement overcame her--she must go--where she did not know, only far, far away from the accursed spot. she did not think of ordering her carriage, of driving home. she scarcely thought of anything, only moved mechanically on, and instinctively took the path to steinbach, as an animal wounded unto death seeks its hole to die in. she groped before her with her hands, she blinked as if blinded by a terrible light, she hit blindly against the trees as she passed, like a bat--she saw nothing but two light figures disappearing amid gloomy shadow. she hurried on and on--at first very rapidly--it seemed to her that she could fly, but she was mistaken. the unrest which raged within her was that of fever, of over-exhaustion, not of unused strength. soon her feet felt like lead, and a heavy weight seemed resting upon her breast; she dragged herself wearily on like one in a bad dream, who wishes to flee from some monster and cannot. the more weary her body became, the more clear what had really frightened her became to her. "he and linda," she murmured to herself, "he and my brother's wife." and with a desperate smile, a smile which condemned faith, hope and love to death, she added, "yes, everything is possible in this world!" how good he had formerly been, how loving! the loveliest moments of her married life came to her mind with the sad charm of the irrevocably lost. on she tottered, in her wide-open eyes the wild look which seeks nothing more, which looks away from everything, the look of a being who has seen happiness die. "i was happy," she murmured to herself with unspeakable bitterness. but soon the poisonous breath of doubt tainted the happiness which had been also. how did she know how false it might have been, whether she had not merely been "considerately deceived"? then it seems as if a frost falls upon her loveliest recollections, even upon those which until now she has treasured in the most secret corner of her heart. the past is desecrated--she has nothing more. she does not think of her children--in this moments he has forgotten that she has children. slowly she drags herself through the wood, the same path which she had taken with erwin before. over her head the trees sing in melancholy peace their old song. elsa can scarcely proceed; now the wood lies behind her, before her the dew on the meadow sparkles in the gray twilight, the colors are all dead--she shudders--here is the spot where he had carried her over that evening when for the first time she had been apprehensive for her happiness. here he had put his arms round her and clasped her tightly to him and called her his treasure. she trembles in her whole body, then she gives a short gasping cry and sinks to the ground. she sobs, she has forgotten everything, she exists only in the feeling of weeping, of wishing convulsively to throw off a weight which oppresses her chest, and behind her the primeval forest still sings its melancholy peaceful song. how long she lies there she does not know; she does not notice either that the gray evening darkens to black night, does not notice that the dew falls heavier and heavier, that its cool dampness steals through her light gown to her weakened frame. xxvi. while elsa lay so despairingly at the edge of the forest, two riders came slowly towards steinbach--sempaly and erwin. they returned from a farm at some distance from, but belonging to steinbach, which together with a part of the adjacent village had been burned this afternoon. before them the castle of steinbach, with its windows shining peacefully in the moonlight, between the shady trees; around them sweet fragrance and peaceful stillness; behind them a village, for the greater part in ashes, deserted ruins blackened with soot, as if clad in deepest mourning, animated by a few bent figures which could no longer speak from pain and fright, yes, could scarcely even complain more, and anxiously, with trembling hands, sought in the soaked heaps of ashes, in which fire still smouldered, for some pitiful remnant of their annihilated possessions. they rode through the park gate, their clothes were drenched and smelled of smoke and soot. when sempaly heard of the breaking out of the fire, he had ridden from iwanow to billwitz, and had then joined erwin honestly in the wildest confusion of the fire, and now accompanied him home. they only seldom exchanged a word. they were both weary from the help they had rendered, and saddened by the thought of how little they had been able to help. when they reached the castle, sempaly was about to turn off towards iwanow, but erwin held him back. "take tea with us, rudi," said he. "in these clothes?" replied sempaly, glancing at his soiled clothes; then he added, "well, snowdrop will be considerate," and dismounted. he had really from the first intended to remain at steinbach, and looked forward to relating to elsa, while fresh, all the little heroic deeds by which erwin had distinguished himself during the fire. he felt a kind of indebtedness to erwin on account of the hateful suspicion which for a moment he had cherished against him, and which to-day, when he once more thoroughly recognized erwin's nobility, seemed to him foolish and inexcusable. erwin asked for his wife; the servant informed him that she was not yet back from traunberg. "has a second message come from traunberg?" asked erwin, surprised. the valet glanced at the servant. "no!" it was certain that no second messenger came from traunberg. erwin and sempaly went out again in the black shadows of the mild august moonlight night. "what does she seek in traunberg?" murmured erwin, aloud, ponderingly. "did she know that you were at the fire?" asked sempaly, with sudden inspiration. "i think not. i expressly requested the servants not to tell her where i went," replied erwin. "what in all the world did she go to traunberg for?" then scirocco looked at him peculiarly. "you," said he. "me?" erwin did not yet comprehend the situation. but sempaly stamped his foot impatiently. "are you stupid, garzin?" cried he. "do you not see what everybody sees, that your wife is consumed with jealousy of her sister-in-law?" "my wife jealous of my sister-in-law? sempaly--you----" erwin had burst out very violently at first, now he was suddenly silent. he called to mind elsa's strange manner of late, much that was enigmatical was explained. he did not understand that he had been so obtuse. they had walked somewhat further into the park; then a low cry of pain vibrated through the painful stillness of the night. erwin listened with beating heart. once more it penetrated to him, somewhat louder. a cold shudder ran over him. he hurried toward the meadow from which the sound came. with sight sharpened by excitement he surveyed the gray dewy field. there at the edge of the wood he saw something white gleaming in the twilight, a misty spot which in the gloom he had almost taken for a thick cluster of immortelles. his anxiety drove him a few steps further. "elsa!" cried he, and stretched his arms out to her. then she raised her head, and rested her large, feverish, shining eyes upon him. "i forgive you," cried she with failing voice, and starting back from him. "i forgive you, but go--go--leave me." his eyes met hers. "you have nothing to forgive me," said he gravely, almost sternly. "but if you promise solemnly, very solemnly, to be very much ashamed of yourself i will forgive you." she stared at him without understanding, confused, stupefied; then he took hold of her dress; he was frightened to feel how cold and wet it was. "for god's sake!" cried he, violently, and with efficacious inconsiderateness, "before everything else see that you take off these wet things; there is time enough to speak of your mad freak later." with that he picked her up and carried her across, as he had done on the day of linda's arrival. she did not resist him. at first she did not even know what had happened to her; then, when near the castle, she suddenly heard a gentle voice, kindly and reprovingly, as one speaks to an imprudent child, "why, snowdrop!" she looked around; this sudden exclamation recalled her to reality, which had been far from her confused mind. "how comes sempaly here?" she asked, hastily. "we were at the fire in billwitz together," said erwin, without standing still. "he returned with me." "fire--billwitz----" murmured elsa, then she trembled violently and burst into a flood of tears of relief. a little later elsa lay in her pretty white bed feverish and hoarse, but with a light heart, and her soul full of a sweet mixture of remorse, happiness and shame. erwin sat near her, and tried to be angry with her, and yet was only worried. but scirocco had found that this was not the evening to take tea in steinbach, and had gone away. and while elsa with touching conscientiousness now confessed all the particulars of her hideous mistrust and her obstinate jealousy, and upon erwin's lips, at first closed sternly, a smile had become more and more plain, linda sat in her boudoir with scornfully curved lips and angry, staring eyes, which thirsted for spite. she wore a white gown, whose hem was slightly soiled, only as if it had perhaps brushed the dew from a flowerbed. on her breast rested a bunch of dark red roses. some of them were withered, and others began to fade, others still to fall, and the red petals strewed her gown. to her excited gaze they seemed like drops of blood. she shuddered at sight of them; she shuddered to-day at everything, even at herself. her whole being rose against the huge wrong which had been done her--the wrong which forced her to be wicked. that there was another outlet for her she did not acknowledge; that it was beautiful to forgive, she did not understand; that one has duties even toward those who have sinned against one, she did not believe. she railed against the system of the world, and her affairs in particular. the only man whom she had ever loved, so at least it seemed to her in her dramatic, gloomy excitement, this man had despised her. after she had been enlightened as to felix's past, she had immediately written that letter to erwin which had caused so much painful confusion in steinbach. she had wished to sink into his compassionate arms, and had relied upon the demoniac charm of her beauty. she fancied that after the disgrace which she had suffered from, she had a right to sin. as answer to her note, she had received the following lines: dear linda: i am very sorry that, on account of urgent business, i cannot come to-day. i hope it is a question of nothing important. e. garzin. she loved him, and he wrote to her in this tone! she grew crimson for perhaps the first time in her life when she read the lines--but not with shame, with anger. pistach came during her wildest excitement. he had won the game. now he had gone; she was alone again! she buried her face in her hands; she sobbed convulsively. the roses on her breast fell one after the other, and the blood-red petals slid down to the soiled hem of her white gown. the next day linda and count kamenz had disappeared! the whole country round about was horrified and dismayed at the affair; only one laughed in his sleeve: eugene von rhoeden. the last obstacle to his plans had been removed. countess elli blushed crimson when he took leave of iwanow. he found opportunity to press a kiss upon her hand. a white handkerchief waved after him from one of the castle windows, as he drove in an open phaeton from iwanow to the railway station. xxvii. by her fantastic walk from traunberg to steinbach, elsa had brought on inflammation of the lungs. she convalesced so slowly that the physician whom erwin consulted advised a long sojourn in the south. at first she could not resolve to leave her unhappy brother, and only went after he had promised to follow her as soon as possible to san remo, where she would pass the winter with erwin and the children. she left in the middle of september. felix did not keep his promise. "as soon as possible" was capable of such varied conceptions. september, with its variegated foliage, and the long, tender farewell of the sunbeams vanished, and october came. the leaves withered, blood-red or pale-yellow they fell from the branches sadly and submissively, like all hopeless ones, and november followed october, and came in with an important bluster, like a lackey sent on before to make room for his master. he tore the last leaves from the branches, and sometimes tore away the branches with them, and he kissed the last roses dead and annihilated the unblossomed buds, covered the heavens with mournful clouds, blew so chill and poisonously in the face of the sun that he also sickened, and looked almost as pale as the moon. and at length all was desolate, all ready--the earth strewn with dead leaves and withered flowers for the solemn reception of the new-comer. coldly and gravely winter entered his kingdom, the bare trees shivered a last time, and crackled one more sigh, and all is still--dead! the angels in heaven shook their wings, thicker and thicker fell the white down. january was long past and felix still in traunberg. after the last fearful blow which had fallen upon him he never rallied. since linda's flight he never left the park, seldom the castle, often scarcely left his room. there were days on which he would not even allow his little son admission, and other days on which he would allow no servant to wait upon him, because it was unbearable for him to even meet the eyes of a servant. on all faces he thought he could discover mocking, criticising expressions. when his overseers came to him to desire his signature or to ask his wishes concerning important business, with his hot, nervous hands he fumbled over the papers which were placed before him, read two or three lines, murmured something, and signed his name. the questions which were put to him he always answered with the same, "as you will," and then drummed impatiently upon the top of his writing-desk and glanced irritably at the door. he neglected his attire, his beard grew long; he did not even care for cleanliness. often for days he ate nothing, always very little; but, on the other hand, he was always thirsty, and--drank. but the strongest spirits had ceased to procure relief for him. he no longer forgot; never more! he had a piano brought to his room, although he had almost never played before, and now strummed on it continually. strange modulations sprang from beneath his stiff, unpractised fingers. he purposely sought the shrillest dissonances, which seemed to do him good. again and again he struck the same piercing chord and never found a resolution for it. he always began to play so as to drown the madrilèna, which rang in his ears so often and so unbearably distinctly, and every time he ended by groping over the keys for the melody of this same madrilèna. each tone went through his heart like the stab of a dagger, his forehead was covered with sweat, and with a long sigh he closed the piano. intercourse with his child became of a strange nature. he indeed frequently overwhelmed the little one with passionate tenderness, but the games, the caressing teasing, which had formerly occupied them when together, and which had so delighted the boy, had ceased. gery grew shy, pale and nervous. more and more often the fear of injuring the child by his presence crept over felix. erwin, who came from san remo once during the winter, in order, as he said, to look after the house, was frightened at the confusion which, as he soon noticed, existed in felix's business matters, as well as the terrible change in his whole appearance. compassionately and kindly he urged his brother-in-law to accompany him to italy, in order, as he had promised, to spend some time, together with gery, with his sister. but felix trembled visibly when it was a question of his leaving traunberg, and going to a place where he must meet other people, were it only in the most passing way. erwin promised him perfect quiet and seclusion from all intercourse with strangers--in vain. "leave me," felix repeated again and again; "leave me, i must be alone." erwin ceased his pleadings, discouraged. elsa's health did not permit her stay in the south to be shortened, so that her presence might alleviate her brother's painful condition. for one moment erwin suspected a positive mental derangement in his brother-in-law, but soon convinced himself of the falsity of this opinion. the balance of his accounts was correct; as soon as his attention was excited he decided correctly, never made a mistake in a reckoning, and made no disconnected remarks. only, exhausted as he was, everything concerning present affairs irritated him indescribably. the train of his thought flowed always backward. his mind rested continually upon that spot in the past where his happiness lay buried with his honor. he passed almost the whole of his time in living over again his life from the first meeting with juanita to the signing of the fatal note. his memory, strangely faithful, and sharpened by practice, revived again and again new particulars of the juanita period, with the distinctness of hallucinations. on a mild, sunny april day elsa appeared in traunberg, restored to health, more beautiful than ever, and with eyes radiant with happiness. she was shocked when she perceived her brother; what she saw was so much worse than what erwin had considerately prepared her for. but felix's misery only increased the tenderness of her sympathy. she spoke of the tender, intimate intercourse which should now exist between the two families, and said that baby was now large enough for a playmate for her cousin; and baby who, chubby-cheeked and gay, with great laughing eyes and tiny mouth with a drolly serious expression, sat on her mamma's knee, stretched out her fat little arms and said, "where gery?" then the nurse--gery's french _bonne_ had not been able to endure the winter solitude of traunberg, and had long since left--brought the child. she had smoothed down his curly hair with a horrible, strong-smelling pomade, and had hidden his pretty little form in a heavy cloth costume, suitable for much older children. he looked pale, was awkward, and clung anxiously to his father. when he gradually lost his shyness through elsa's soft voice and caressing manner, and approached her and answered her questions, she noticed that he had adopted the common broad accent of the nurse. it did not escape felix's morbidly sharpened glance, that behind the pleasant smile with which elsa met the child, surprise and compassion were hidden. "you probably find that he has changed for the worse?" he asked suddenly, gazing sharply at her. "what will you? everything about me goes to ruin." when elsa, after urgently and most tenderly begging felix and his boy to come soon to steinbach, had driven away, felix took his boy on his knees, and kissed him passionately, murmuring again and again, "poor child, poor branded child!" an unpleasant habit, common to most human beings living very much alone, he had adopted of late, that of talking to himself. the words which most frequently escaped him, which he probably repeated a dozen times, were, "the certain lanzberg," and while he said that, his voice and his face expressed all the shades of bitterness, mockery and despair. and one evening, three or four days after elsa's visit, gery crept shyly up to him, and laying his little hand anxiously upon his father's arm, he asked in his gentle, somewhat sad little voice, "what is that, 'the certain lanzberg'?" felix started; he gave a long-piercing gaze into the innocent eyes of the child, then he pushed him violently away and hurried out of the room. the same night felix heard sobs outside his door, and as he opened it and looked out into the corridor, he discovered gery, who stood there clad only in his little embroidered night-shirt, and barefoot. "papa, you did not say good-night to me. papa, was i naughty?" sobbed the child, with the morbid nervous excitement which proved his solitary life. then felix took him in his arms. it was a fresh spring night, and the child, who had stood for a long time outside, clad only in the thin night-shirt, shivered. felix rubbed his little hands and feet warm. then the nurse knocked at the door, seeking the child in anxious excitement. but gery would not hear of returning to the nursery. he clung to his father and pleaded, "let me stay with you, papa." then felix sent the nurse away, and took him into his bed. the child fell asleep nestled tenderly against him, slept soundly and unbrokenly. felix lay awake. the opal-colored glow of the spring morning tinged the heavens, and felix still was awake. he thought of old times, times which lay far back of the juanita period; some jest over which he had laughed some twenty years ago occurred to him and pained him--he groaned; the child awoke; throwing his little arms around felix's neck, he begged, coaxingly, "dear papa, i sleep so well with you, let me always sleep with you." then suddenly it flashed through felix's mind, "ah, if i could only die while he still loves me!" and suddenly the storm within him ceased--all became quiet within his heart, quiet as the grave. xxviii. they passed the day happily together, felix and his son. felix bathed and dressed the child himself, with a thousand jests and little teasing ways. gery had not seen his papa so gay for a long time, and rubbed against him again and again, like a young dog or kitten. the sky was blue, the earth white with blossoms, the first butterflies floated around the bushes. after lunch felix drove with the child to steinbach for the first time, in spite of elsa's warm invitation. how warm and bright everything was in steinbach. it almost seemed to him that there was a different sun there from traunberg. litzi received a holiday, so she could play with her little cousin to her heart's delight. baby gave the little fellow her greatest treasure, a pot of ripe strawberries, which she had to clasp with both little arms when she carried it to him. felix remained to dinner; they overwhelmed him with attentions, but still at heart he felt that erwin and elsa would have been happier and less constrained without him, which they would not, indeed, have admitted. as they did not wish to separate felix from his boy during the meal, as a great exception they installed baby in her high-chair at the table also, between erwin and litzi, an honor of which she proved herself wholly worthy, as she watched the others eating with great seriousness without desiring anything for herself. only toward the end a little misfortune befell her: in a moment of extravagant tenderness, she tried to embrace her mother across the table, overturned a beer-glass, and showed herself so surprised and ashamed at this accident, that erwin had to take her on his knee and console her. felix felt plainly that erwin's calm, playful good-nature to the child did not in the least remind one of the stormy immoderate caresses with which he overwhelmed his own son sometimes. after dessert, while the children played in the garden under miss sidney's care, and felix sat somewhat apart with elsa on a garden bench and watched them, felix started suddenly. "what is the matter, felix?" asked his sister, anxiously. he could not explain himself; he had heard the child laugh, and it had occurred to him how seldom the little one laughed at home--almost never. "elsa," he asked after a while, "the child is growing very nervous and timid with me; will you do me the kindness to keep him with you for a while?" "certainly, i will gladly keep the child," replied elsa, "only you must promise me to visit him every day." then felix said, with a strange gaze, lost in the distance, and which she often later remembered, "yes, i will visit him every day if i can." a short time after he took leave of gery, who at first would not remain without his father, but grew quiet when felix promised to visit him the next morning. the next morning! the carriage rolled away, and several minutes later felix returned once more. "have you forgotten something, felix?" asked erwin, who stood before the portal of the castle, talking in a low voice. "yes, my revolver," replied felix, uneasily and absently. when erwin wished to go into the castle to help his brother-in-law find it, the latter held him back. "oh, it is of no importance," he stammered. "i will get it--to-morrow. where are the children?" "there," said elsa, and in the distance, between the feathery green foliage, he saw the children at their play. they flew about and shouted like little gnomes, gery the merriest of them all. "i will not disturb him," murmured felix, after he had watched the children for a long time, without approaching them. he went. xxix. returned to traunberg, he wandered slowly through all the rooms of the castle. then he had tea served in his room, drank a cupful, and ate a trifle. he laid his watch upon the table. at twelve o'clock all should be finished, he decided. the cold calm of resolution gave way to the exciting feeling of expectation. he seated himself at his writing-table, thoughtfully he rested his head in his hand, then he dipped the pen into ink, and wrote a long letter. he read it through with a certain pedantry, added here and there a comma, or made a letter plainer, placed the letter in an envelope, and addressed it to elsa. his glance fell upon the watch--the hands pointed to quarter past eleven. he rose and walked up and down uneasily. he began to ask himself whether he had forgotten nothing, began to unconsciously seek reasons for postponing his act. his brow was bathed with cold sweat. he looked for his revolver and toledo dagger, which both had formerly lain upon his table. they were gone. evidently his valet had removed them. the razors also were hidden. felix smiled bitterly. then he drew a little english penknife from his pocket, sharpened it upon an ash-receiver, and laid it on the table beside his bed. then, with folded hands, he crouched for a few minutes beside his bed. he thought of the promise not to kill himself which he had once given to his father. the promise could have no weight except during the life of the old man. when he looked again, the hands of the watch pointed to quarter before twelve. his heart beat loudly. a moment of irresolution came. then from without a little soft bird cry floated in to him. he suddenly heard again gery's voice, "who is 'the certain lanzberg,' papa?" then he undressed himself, took the penknife, and with firm stroke cut through the veins and arteries in his left wrist and ankle. he rose once more to extinguish the candles on the table beside his bed, then he sank back among the pillows. he felt the warm blood flowing from him, and experienced a kind of disgust; then he murmured with a sigh, "blood washes all things clean." the triumphal fanfare of the madrilèna vibrated around him; the excitement which had burned within him throughout the whole time was for a moment increased tenfold. but the madrilèna died away, and the fearful memories faded, the great painful weariness which had almost paralyzed him recently, preventing him from sleeping, vanished--he felt easier and easier. a comfortable drowsiness overcame him, and a thousand pictures changed before his dreamy dim eyes. he saw himself in the school-room, beside his tutor, and smiled at the expression with which the tutor drew his cuffs down over his knuckles when elsa's french _bonne_ entered the room. the present had vanished, his thoughts wandered further and further back into the past. he sits beside his mother in the church, small and sleepy. through an open window the fresh spring air blows in to the atmosphere of mould and incense of the sacred edifice. from half-closed eyes he sees a crowd of red peasant women, sees the little school-boys who crowd as near as possible to the carved _prie-dieus_ of the gentry. one of them winks at him. the priest elevates the host. little felix's tired eyes close, the peasants fade into a large red spot, the colored shadows of the church windows lie on the bare, gray stone pavement like a carpet. his head sinks upon his mother's arm. all is rosy vapor around him. then his mother kisses him on the forehead and whispers, "it is over; wake up!" xxx. the next morning a messenger came breathlessly to steinbach. with gloomy obstinacy he refused to gratify the domestic's urgent questions. he desired to speak personally with the baron. erwin came. he was fearfully startled at the messenger's communication. then as with distressed slowness he crossed the corridor to elsa's room, she met him, pale as death, but calm. "a messenger has come from traunberg. felix has taken his life," she said in a hollow voice, with eyes fixed upon erwin. she had guessed. with hand on her heart, her eyes closed, she remained for a moment speechless. erwin feared a swoon, and with gentle force tried to lead her back to her room, but she resisted. "order the carriage," she begged with almost inaudible voice; "i should like to go over there." erwin accompanied her. an uneasy quiet, broken by the mysterious whispers of the domestics, pervaded castle traunberg. the servants all stood around in solemn idleness. mrs. stifler and the valet were busied with the corpse. they withdrew when elsa entered the chamber of death. slowly she approached the bed. there he lay--felix!--his corpse. his head rested gently on the pillow; one saw that a lovely dream had helped the dying man across the threshold of eternity. the original beauty of his features, which life, with its shattering conflicts, had almost destroyed, death had restored again. elsa kissed the corpse; she wept quietly and bitterly; she reproached herself a thousand times with not having shown her brother love enough, with not having helped him bravely enough to bear the heavy burden of his life. then she noticed a letter, addressed to her, upon the table beside the bed. a quarter of an hour later she joined erwin, who waited for her in the adjoining room. there were still tears on her cheeks, but in her eyes shone a kind of solemn pride. she handed erwin the open letter. he read: dear elsa: you will be startled at what i have done. forgive me this, as you have already forgiven me so much. i die not as a cowardly suicide, but as a man who has sentenced himself to death. the conviction has strengthened in my mind, that my life is of use and pleasure to no one. my own child begins to be saddened by the oppressive atmosphere which surrounds me. my shadow has long darkened your existence. after my death you will reproach yourself, dear, good heart; will fancy that you could have been better and more considerate to me than you have already been. do not torment yourself. i remember nothing of you but unwearied love and tender compassion. may god bless you a thousand times, you and yours. take my poor child to your home. erwin will bring the boy up better than i could have done. do not show my corpse to him, and put no mourning on him. i do not wish to be the cause of a single bitter hour to his poor little heart. tell him i have gone on a journey. he will forget me. never tell him, i beg you, of my disgrace, and if he learns of it through strangers, then--then tell him that i loved him beyond everything, and that i took my life so that i need never blush before him. lay the little lock of golden hair which i cut from his head in rome upon my breast. you will find it in the upper left drawer of my writing-desk, and put the old soldier's coat which i wore at sadowa upon me. (stifler knows where it is.) it is the only article of clothing in which i dare stretch myself out beside my ancestors for eternal rest, or appear before them for eternal reconciliation; who knows! a last kiss for my child. farewell! and forgive "the certain lanzberg." erwin's eyes were moist. "he was indeed a noble nature," said he gently and hoarsely, as he gave the letter back to elsa. "yes," cried she, with a kind of pride. "he was really noble; therefore he tormented himself to death." erwin drew the convulsively sobbing woman to his breast. three days later the funeral took place. all the inhabitants of the country round of his rank were present; even count l---- came to show felix the last honors. all were deeply shocked. suicide, against which in general they cherished the catholic abhorrence, seemed to them in this case justified. they saw in this act almost the repayment of an outlawed debt. from that day the byword with which they had formerly designated felix changed. they never again called him "the certain lanzberg," but now always "the unfortunate lanzberg." he was rehabilitated! transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=g o aaaayaaj . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. gloria victis! a romance by ossip schubin author of "our own set." "alas! poor human nature!" _chesterfield_. from the german by mary maxwell new york william s. gottsberger, publisher murray street entered according to act of congress, in the year by william s. gottsberger in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington press of william e. gottsberger new york gloria victis! chapter i. "there is no help for it, i must do it to-day," the baroness melkweyser murmured with a sigh breathed into the depths of the toilet-glass, before which, she was sitting while her maid dressed her hair. "it is now just a week," she went on to herself, after having uttered the above words aloud, "quite one week since capriani entrusted the affair to me. i have met him three times, and each time was obliged to tell him that there had been no favourable opportunity as yet. he is beginning to take my delay ill. come, then, _courage!_.... _en avant!_.... truyn certainly ought to be glad to marry his daughter as soon as possible, and i cannot see why gabrielle should make any objection to becoming the sister-in-law of the duke of larothiére. to be sure, most austrians have such antediluvian ideas! _nons verrons!_ i will, as capriani desires, see how the land lies." she shrugged her shoulders as though shifting off all responsibility and turning to her maid exclaimed: "_mais dépêchez vous donc_, euphrosine, will you never remember how much i always have to do!" whereupon the impatient lady, snatched from her maid the head-dress which she was arranging, and, quite in the style of napoleon i., crowned herself. * * * the scene lies in paris. the short after-season which, like an echo of the carnival, is wont to follow lent, that holy intermezzo crowded with charity-bazaars, musical soirées and other elegant penitential observances, is rather duller than usual this year. easter came too late and although _figaro_ continues its daily record of balls and routs, paris takes very little heed. all genuine enthusiasm for such entertainments is lacking. paris thinks of nothing now save the races, the last auction at the hôtel drouôt, the latest change of ministry, and the newest thing in stocks. it is the beginning of may. two weeks ago, rather later than usual, spring made its appearance--like a young king full of eager benevolence, and generous promises, with green banner held aloft and crowned with sunshine--thus it swept above the earth which sullenly and reluctantly opened its weary eyes. "awake, awake, i bring with me joy!" called spring in sweet siren tones sometimes low and wooing and anon loud and imperious. and a mysterious whisper thrilled and stirred the land, the trees stretched their black branches, the buds burst. men felt a pleasant languor, while their hearts beat louder. the spring advanced quickly, working its lovely miracles--loading the trees with blossoms and filling human hearts with joy--and upon those for whom its lavish hand had left nothing else, it bestowed a smile, or it granted them a dream. there are, indeed, some unfortunates for whom its brilliant splendour never does aught save reveal the scars of old wounds, which in its careless gayety it formerly inflicted; and while others flock abroad to admire its beauty, these hide away their misery. but when daylight's haughty glare has faded, and spring has modestly shrouded its loveliness in a veil of grey, these wretches inhaling its fragrance in their seclusion come forth from their concealment, into the soothing twilight, among the dewy blossoms, and once more give utterance to the yearning that has so long been mute, rejoicing with tears in their old anguish, crying: "oh spring, oh youth--even thy falsehood was lovely--" thus doing it homage by their grief, for spring has no enemies. * * * somewhat apart from the aggressive brilliancy of the avenue l'imperatrice wind a couple of quiet streets like detached fragments of the faubourg st. germain. everything here breathes that charming and genuine elegance which is almost an instinct, and rules mankind despotically. it is not a grimace artificially assumed for show. one of the prettiest of the small hotels standing between its court-yard and garden, in the avenue ----, formerly it was called the avenue labédoyère, tomorrow it may perhaps be the avenue paul de cassagnac, and the day after the avenue montmorency--was occupied by count truyn with his young wife and his daughter. this evening the family had assembled in a pleasant drawing-room on the rez-de-chaussée, and one after another each expressed delight in the repose and relief of such an hour after the social exertions of the day. the husband and wife as they sat opposite each other near the fireplace--he with his _figaro_, and she busy with the restoration of some antique embroidery--were evidently people who had attained the goal of existence and were content. it was plain that their thoughts did not range beyond the present. not so with gabrielle. twice during the last quarter of an hour she has changed her seat and three times she has consulted the clock upon the chimney-piece. at last she goes to a mirror and arranges her breast-knot of violets. "our ella is beginning to be pretty," said truyn opening his eyes after a doze behind the _figaro_. "have you just discovered that?" zinka asked smiling. "do you think my gown is becoming, zini?" gabrielle asked as gravely as if the matter were the eastern question. "very becoming," her step-mother kindly assured her. "oho!" said truyn banteringly, "our ella is beginning to be vain." whereupon gabrielle blushed deeply and to hide her confusion went to the piano and began to strum "annette and lubin." she did not play well but her hands looked very pretty running over the keys. "i am surprised that ossi does not make his appearance," said truyn, laying aside his _figaro_. like all austrians residing in paris he had a special preference for that frivolous journal. "i met him this afternoon on the boulevard, and he asked me expressly whether we were to be at home this evening." gabrielle looked, as her father observed with surprise, rather embarrassed. he had spoken thoughtlessly, and in masculine ignorance of the state of affairs. he was just beginning to teaze the girl about her behaviour when the footman announced the baroness melkweyser. her head-dress of red feathers sat somewhat askew upon the old-fashioned puffs of hair that framed her sallow face. she wore a gown of flowered brocade, the surpassing ugliness of which showed it to have been purchased at a bargain at some great bazaar as a "_fin de saison_." she squinted slightly, winked constantly, was entirely out of breath, and sank exhausted into an arm-chair, before uttering a word of greeting. "ah, if you only knew all i have done this blessed day!" she exclaimed. the truyn trio looked at her in smiling silence. "confessed and received the sacrament very early," the baroness began the list of her achievements, "always on the second of every month--i never can manage it on the first--then at the pierson sale i bought six things marked with louis philippe's cipher, then i went to see ada de thienne's trousseau,--then to a breakfast at the new minister's--too comical--his wife made herself perfectly ridiculous, in a bare neck at two o'clock in the daytime!" "that is the inevitable consequence of a change of ministers," zinka remarked. her manner of speech, quiet, and rather inclined to irony, was that of those who, with rigid self-control have for years endured with dignity some great grief. the baroness, meanwhile, rattled on, unheeding. "then i went my round of charities, then looked for a wedding-present for my niece stefanie...." "heavens, zoë!" truyn groaned. "yes, i lead a most fatiguing existence," the baroness wailed. "just as i sat down to supper,--i missed my dinner--it occurred to me that it really would be better not to let to-day pass without making you a very important communication--that is--hm--discussing--a most important matter with you--and--here i am. pray, zinka, let me have a sandwich, for i am dying of hunger." "ring the bell, erich," zinka said with a smile. "and now to business," said the baroness, "_je tiens une occasion_--it really is the most advantageous opportunity!" "you shall have your sandwich, zoë," said truyn, quietly stretching out his hand to the bell handle, "but pray spare me your advantageous opportunities. if i had availed myself of all your boasted 'opportunities,' i should now be the proud possessor of fourteen rattle-trap bühl pianos and at least twenty-five tumble-down country houses. as it is i have bought for love of you three holy-water pots of mme. maintenon's, an inkstand of the pompadour's, and i can't tell how many nightcaps of louis xvi., warranted genuine." "and an excellent bargain you had of them," the baroness declared. "louis sixteenth's nightcaps have latterly been going up in price. but this time there is no question of purchase," she went on to say, "and that is the best of it." "that certainly is very fine," muttered truyn. "the question is,--i suppose i ought to ask gabrielle to leave the room, that used to be the way, girls never were allowed to be present while their parents disposed of their future, but i .... _j'aime à attaquer les choses franchement_. the question is, in fact, with regard to--gabrielle's marriage." zinka with a smile took the hand of the young girl standing beside her in her own, and tenderly laid it against her cheek. "gabrielle's beauty produced a sensation at the last ball at the spanish embassy's," the baroness continued. "i must entreat you not to make such a fatal assault upon my daughter's modesty," exclaimed zinka. "bah!" the baroness shrugged her shoulders, "stop up your ears, gabrielle. produced a sensation is the correct phrase. it is remarkable--the _succés_ that the austrian women always have in paris. i have a suitor for gabrielle--the most brilliant _parti_ in paris." "stop, stop, zoë, i beg you," said truyn, provoked, "you make me nervous! you always forget how your french way of arranging marriages goes against the grain with us and our old-fashioned austrian ideas. you say i have a rich husband for your daughter in just the same tone in which you say i have a purchaser for your house! and i seriously entreat you to consider that a jewel like my dear comrade yonder, may be bestowed, upon one deemed worthy of such a possession, but can never be sold." "ah, here is my sandwich!" exclaimed the baroness, paying no attention to his words in her satisfaction over the tea-tray. whilst gabrielle was occupied with making tea the visitor applied herself to the refreshments, whispering meanwhile confidentially and mysteriously to truyn. "i thought that your new domestic relations might make you desirous to have gabrielle mar ...." an angry flash in truyn's blue eyes, usually so kindly, warned her that she was on the wrong track; she lost countenance and consequently proceeded rather too precipitately in her investigations as to 'how the land lay.' "at least my proposition is worth being taken into serious consideration," she said hastily. "count capriani commissioned me to ask you whether there was any prospect of his obtaining gabrielle's hand for his only--remember, his only son." "count capriani, i do not know who he is," truyn said coldly. "well then, conte capriani," zoë explained impatiently. "ah, indeed, conte capriani," truyn said significantly,--"the railroad capriani!" "yes." "and he dares to ask my daughter's hand for his son?" perfect silence reigned for a moment. gabrielle's little nose expressed intense disdain. "zoë, you are insane," truyn said at last, very contemptuously. "this is not, i believe, the first of april." "i cannot understand your irritation," the baroness rejoined, with the bravado that is the result of great embarrassment. "you are always proclaiming yourself a liberal with no prejudices!" truyn coloured slightly. he had grown more decided than he had been a few years before, and his shirt collars were perhaps a little higher and stiffer. his whole bearing expressed the dignified content that distinguishes the man of conservative views of life. he gently twitched his high collar as he began: "i am a liberal--at least i fancy that i am. if my daughter had set her heart upon marrying a man her inferior as regards birth and family, i should certainly consent to her doing so, provided the man were one whose character and attainments atoned for his low origin." zinka smiled sceptically with a scarcely perceptible shrug. truyn's colour deepened. "i do not deny," he admitted, "that it would be very hard for me, but all the same i should consent and should do all that i could to assist such a son-in-law to attain a position worthy of my daughter--that is suitable to her mode of life." "do not be afraid, papa. i have not the slightest desire to fall in love with a deputy on the extreme left," gabrielle observed. "in young capriani's case there would be no need for you to trouble yourself about your son-in-law's position," said the baroness loftily. "_sa position est toute faite_. all paris was at the ball the night before last in the capriani hôtel--all the _rois en exil_ appeared there, and even some siberian magnates, and all--that is very many--of the austrians at present in paris." "you know just as well as i do why all these magnates appeared at capriani's," truyn rejoined angrily. "but indeed i care nothing for this speculator's position--the man himself is odious--a common parvenu with a boor of a son." "have it your own way," said the baroness. "perhaps you know that a daughter of capriani's is married to the duke of larothière?" "yes, i know it." "and that the conte's property is estimated at a hundred million?" "it may be a hundred billion for all i care." "he is incontestably one of the most influential financiers in europe." "unfortunately, and one of the most corrupt and corrupting," truyn rejoined with emphasis. "you have not, however, asked gabrielle's opinion," persisted the baroness. gabrielle tossed her head, but her answer was unuttered, for just at this moment the servant flung open the door, and the interesting conversation was interrupted by the announcement of fresh visitors. chapter ii. two young men entered--two counts lodrin. they bore the same name; they were the sons of brothers--and as unlike each other as possible. with regard to oswald--the "ossi" of whom truyn made mention a while before.--gabrielle was convinced that no sculptured classic god, none of raphael's cherubim could compare with him in beauty and distinction. she was perhaps alone in this view, although it must be confessed that few mortal men surpassed him in these two respects. about six and twenty, tall, slender--very dark--a gay, good-humoured smile on his handsome, aristocratic face--with an eager, ardent manner--and with what might be called the gypsy-like distinction that characterizes an entire class of the austrian aristocracy he was the embodiment of chivalric youth. with all the attractiveness of his face, his eyes struck you at once--it would be hard to say what was wrong about them, whether they were too large, or too dark. they certainly were very beautiful, but they produced the impression of not suiting the face--of having been placed there by accident. but the incongruous impression made by those large, dark eyes upon almost every one who saw the young man for the first time was extremely fleeting, and passed away as soon as oswald began to talk--as soon as his look became animated. his cousin georges was at least a dozen years his elder, and nearly a head shorter than he. many persons declared that he looked like a jockey; they were wrong. he looked like what he was, a prodigal son, very well-born. spare in figure, his face smoothly shaven, except for a long sandy moustache, his hair quite gray, and brushed up from the temples after a vanished fashion, his features keen and mobile, his eyes round as a bird's, his carriage rather stooping and with motions characterized by a certain negligence, he produced the impression of a man who had seen a great deal of the world, and who now took a philosophic view of his life and of his position. oswald is the heir, georges is the next to inherit. scarcely were the usual formal greetings over when oswald made an attempt to join his pretty cousin gabrielle, with the laudable purpose of helping her to pour out tea. his design was cruelly frustrated, however, by count truyn, who instantly engaged him in a brisk discussion of the latest anti-catholic measures on the part of the republic. oswald sat beside his uncle restlessly drumming on the brim of his opera-hat, the image of politely-concealed youthful impatience, now and then adding an "abominable!" or a "disgusting," to the indignant expressions of the elder man, and all the while glancing towards gabrielle. certain personal matters interested him far more just now than the deplorable excesses of the french government. he had not read the article in the _temps_ to which his uncle alluded, he did not take the french republic at all in earnest, he considered it in fact no republic at all, but only a monarchy gone mad; french politics interested him from an ethnographical point of view only, all which he calmly confessed to his uncle, by whom he was scolded as "unpardonably indifferent," and "culpably blind." the elder man's conservative philippics grew more eager, and the younger one's courteous admissions more vague, until at last zinka succeeded in releasing the latter by asking gabrielle to sing something. gabrielle, of course, declared that she was hoarse, but oswald who was, by the way, about as much interested in her singing from a musical point of view as in the trumpet-solos of the emperor of russia, smiled away her objections and rising, with a sigh of relief, went to open the grand piano. no one seemed to have any idea of according a strict silence to the young girl's music, and whilst gabrielle warbled in a sweet, but rather thin voice, some majestic air of handel's, and oswald leaning against the cover of the instrument looked down at her with ardent intentness, georges, his hands upon his knees, his body inclined towards the baroness melkweyser who, still busied with her refreshments, was disposing of sandwich after sandwich, said: "you are wearing yourself out in the service of mankind. have you allowed yourself one half-hour's repose to-day?--no, not one--as any one may see who looks at you. _a propos_, who was the japanese woman dressed in yellow at whose side i saw you to-day sitting in a fainting condition in a landau--in front of gouache's was it?--on the boulevard de la madeleine?" "adeline capriani." "_ah tiens!_ that was why i seemed to have seen her before." "a very queer figure was she not?" "she is not ugly," said georges. "it is a pity that she dresses so ridiculously." "her dress costs her a fortune every year--the first artists in paris design her gowns," madame zoë declared. "indeed----? now i understand why she always looks as if she had been stolen from a bric-a-brac shop," said georges. "explain to me, however, why this wealthy young lady is still unmarried. perhaps the conte thinks another son-in-law too expensive an article ... did you know that larothière lost , francs again yesterday at baccarat at the jockey club?" "that is of no consequence," zoë said loftily. "gaston loves his wife--it is all that capriani requires of his sons-in-law." "_sapperment!_" georges exclaimed, "that's the right kind of a father-in-law; what if you should negotiate a marriage, baroness, between me and mademoiselle capriani?" "do not indulge in such sorry jests," truyn interposed disapprovingly. "i am in solemn earnest; the financial ground beneath my feet is very shaky at present, and having one's debts paid by such a good fellow as ossi palls upon one in time. i am undecided whether to turn hospitaller or to marry an heiress." "ah, if oswald heard you!" zinka said with her quiet smile. "ossi at this moment, if i am not greatly mistaken, is listening to the songs of angels in heaven, and takes precious little heed of us ordinary mortals," replied georges, glancing with a certain dreaminess in his eyes towards the youthful pair who had left the piano and were standing in the deep recess of an open balconied window. "happy youth," murmured georges. yes, happy youth! they were standing there, he very pale, she blushing slightly, mute, confused, the sparkling eyes of each seeking, avoiding the other's. he has led her to the recess to show her the moon, to lay his heart at her feet, but he has forgotten the moon, and he has not yet dared to pour out his heart to her. the fragrant breath of the spring night was wafted towards them, fanning their youthful faces caressingly. all nature was thrilling beneath the first gentle may shower. the large white panicles of the elder in the little garden in front of the house gleamed brightly through the gray twilight. the small fountain murmured monotonously, its slender jet of water sparkling in the light from the drawing-room windows. they were dancing in the house opposite; like colourless phantoms the different couples glided across the lowered shades of the windows. the "ecstasy" waltz played by a piano and a violin mingled its frivolous sobs and laughter with the modest song of the fountain and the whispers of the elder-bushes. all else was quiet in the avenue-labédoyère, but from the distance the restless roar of the huge city invaded the silence of night--mysterious, confused, as the demoniac restlessness of hell may sometimes invade the divine peace of heaven. "gabrielle!" oswald began at last with hesitation and very gently, "i have come very often of late to the avenue-labédoyère. can you guess why?" "why?" the blush on gabrielle's cheek deepens. "why?--since you were in paris for three weeks without coming near your relatives you ought to make up for lost time," she murmured. "true, gabrielle--but--do you really not know for whose sake i have come so often, so very often?" she was silent. his breath came more quickly, the colour rose to his cheek. surely he must have divined gabrielle's innocent secret from the young girl's tell-tale shyness, but yet at this decisive moment the words died in his throat as they must for every genuine, honest lover who would fain ask the momentous question of her whom he loves. "gabrielle," he murmured hastily and somewhat indistinctly, "will you take the full heart i offer you--can you accept it, or...." he hesitated and looked inquiringly into her lovely face. "ella, all my happiness lies in your hands!" her heart beat loudly, the lace ruffles on her bosom trembled, as she slowly lifted her eyes to his.--how handsome he was, how well the tender humility in his face became him! his happiness lies in her hands! her eyes filled with tears. "i do not know ... i ... oswald ... ossi!" she murmured disconnectedly, and then she placed her slender hand in the strong one held out to her. truyn with his back to the window, noticed nothing, but the baroness who had been observing this romantic intermezzo through her eyeglass with cold-blooded curiosity, said drily to herself: "_j'en suis pour mes frais_;" then turning for the last time to truyn, she said, "i have communicated to you capriani's proposal." "and you are at liberty to tell him how i received it," truyn replied stiffly. "_j'arrangerai un peu_," the baroness said as she rose, "do not disturb the young people, i will slip out on tiptoe. adieu." and with a courteous glance around, she hurried away. "well, what do you think?" exclaimed truyn, as he returned to the drawing-room, after escorting her to the hall. "what do you think, georges?" and sitting down beside the young man he tapped him on the knee. "capriani sends that goose zoë in all seriousness to ask for my daughter's hand for his son. what do you say to that?" "audacious enough," said georges shrugging his shoulders, "but what would you have--'tis a sign of the times!" this dry way of judging of the matter did not please truyn at all. "ossi!" he called. "what, uncle?" the young people advanced together into the room. "i have an interesting piece of news for you. a secret agent of the _maison foy_ has made a proposal to-day for ella's hand for capriani, jr! what do you say to that?" "ella's hand for the son of that railway capriani!" exclaimed oswald angrily. "impossible! the secret agent deserves .... and he made an expressive motion with his hand. his indignation became him extremely well, and truyn's glance rested with evident admiration upon the young fellow's athletic figure as he stood with head slightly thrown back, and eyes flashing scornfully. "unfortunately it was a lady--zoë melkweyser," the elder man explained. "then she deserves at least six months of charenton," said oswald, "'tis incredible!" and he clinched his hand. "your daughter, uncle, and the son of the conte--i suppose he is a conte--or a marchese perhaps--capriani! you know that little orang-outang, georges?" "of course, one meets him everywhere. he addressed me by my first name yesterday," georges replied calmly. "ah, my dear friends, you entirely misconceive this extraordinary proposal. for my part, i see in it no personal insult to the countess gabrielle, but simply a symptom of an approaching social earthquake. the triumph of the tradesman is manifest everywhere. zola in his most prominent work has celebrated the apotheosis of the bag-man and the shop-girl; chapu has designed the façade of the latest millinery establishment; paris will yet see the bourse hold its sessions in _la madeleine_, and the _bon marché_ will set up a branch of its trade in _notre dame_." "likely enough," said truyn with a troubled sigh, "i am only surprised that capriani has not tried to be president of the french republic." "he has not thought the position at present a favourable one for his speculations," said georges, "but what is not, may be." "ah, i am proud of my austria," said truyn, suddenly becoming stiff and wooden of aspect. "such adventurers have at least no position there." "do not be too proud of your austria," rejoined georges, "i heard something at the embassy to-day that will hardly please you. _id est_, capriani has bought schneeburg and will be your nearest neighbour in bohemia." truyn started to his feet. "capriani .... schneeburg .... impossible! how could malzin bring himself to such a sacrifice!" "it must have gone hard with the poor fellow, god rest his soul! the night after the contract had been signed he died of apoplexy." "good heavens!" murmured truyn, pacing restlessly to and fro. "good heavens!" "and there is another interesting piece of news," georges went on. "well?" "fritz--do you remember him?" "certainly. the only malzin now left, a very amiable lad who unfortunately made an impossible marriage." "yes, he married an actress, and just at the time when every one else was tired of ...." "georges!" exclaimed oswald frowning and glancing towards gabrielle. he was evidently of the opinion that such things should not be mentioned in the presence of young girls. "hm--hm," muttered georges, "and he has accepted the post of capriani's private secretary." "frightful!" exclaimed oswald. "he must have become morally corrupt to some degree, before he could make up his mind to submit to such a humiliation," interposed truyn indignantly. "poor devil!" said oswald. "what would you have?" the philosophic georges remarked and hummed ironically the air of '_garde la reine_.' "_ce n'est pas toujours les mêmes qui ont l'assiette au beurre_. i tell you it is all up with us." all preserved a melancholy silence for a while, then truyn favoured the party with a few grand political aphorisms, and oswald at last said to himself perfectly calmly, and as if impromptu, "gabrielle and capriani's son!" the melancholy mood vanished and they talked and laughed so that there was a sound as of merry bells through the silence of the night. chapter iii. zoë melkweyser was an austrian and a distant relative of truyn's. very well-born, but in very narrow pecuniary circumstances, she had grown up on her widowed father's heavily-mortgaged estate, condemned through want of means to a continued residence there, restless as was the temperament with which nature had endowed her. as a school-girl she had no greater pleasure than imaginary journeys from place to place upon the map, and one day she confided to her governess, mrs. sidney, under the seal of secrecy, that she would consent to marry any man, even were he a negro, who would promise to indulge her restlessness and allow her to travel to her heart's content. it was no negro, however, but a banker from brussels, who finally fulfilled her requirements. she met him at a watering-place, whither she had gone under the chaperonage of a wealthy and compassionate relative. in spite of her thirst for travel she could hardly have made up her mind to marry an austrian banker, but a belgian cr[oe]sus was quite a different affair in her opinion. all the objections and remonstrances of her aristocratic connections in austria upon her return thither betrothed, she cut short with, "what would you have? of course i never should have met him here, but he was received at court in brussels." and in fact baron alfred melkweyser was not only received at court in brussels, but what was still more extraordinary, by the princess l----, being admitted to the most exclusive belgian circles, 'among the people whom everyone knows.' it would have been difficult to find any fault with him except for his brand-new patent of nobility, and zoë never had any cause to repent her marriage. his manners were perfectly correct, he rode well, had a laudable passion for antiquities, ordered his clothes at poole's, always used _vous_ in talking with his wife, paid all her bills without even a wry face, patiently travelled with her all over the world, and at her desire removed with her to paris. after ten years of childless marriage he died suddenly, of his first and unfortunately unsuccessful attempt to drive four-in-hand. as this, his first ambitious folly, was also his last, society forbore to ridicule it, and even after his death he enjoyed the reputation of an '_homme parfaitement bien_.' his widow bewailed his loss sincerely, and purchased all her mourning of _cyprès_ at reduced prices. bargains had always been a passion with her, and scarcely had her year of mourning passed, before, thanks to her expensive taste for cheap, useless articles, she had disposed of half the source of her income. among other things she purchased at low prices various stocks which turned out badly. she owed her familiarity with financial affairs entirely to her speculative vein, and not at all, as her aristocratic relatives and country-folk erroneously imagined, to her deceased husband, who had, in fact, held himself persistently aloof from former financial acquaintances. it was not acquisitiveness that spurred zoë on to her various undertakings, but the restlessness of her temperament. she delighted in everything novel and fatiguing, whether it were a pilgrimage to _lourdes_, a bargain day at the _bon marché_, or a first representation at the _français_, to which, by persistent wire-pulling and constant appeals to one and another person of influence, she was able to obtain tickets of admission not only for herself but for all her most intimate friends. she had one means, however, far more entertaining than all others, of procuring the excitement needed by her temperament, and this was the introduction to 'the world,' of american or european financial magnates. she extorted for them invitations to the most distinguished routs, she designed the balls which these wealthy people were to give to dazzle paris withal, and she expended an incredible amount of cunning and energy in inducing the aristocratic world to appear at these entertainments. her tactics were those of genius; instead of contenting herself after the fashion of less skilful mortals with inviting the poorer and more modest members of paris society, she bent all her efforts to securing the presence of some legitimist duchess at the ball, if only for an hour. she succeeded in doing this in most cases by placing at the duchess' disposal a large sum of money for charitable purposes. when she had gained over two or three of these fixed stars, the planets of parisian society began to appear at these balls. planets, in their social relations, are notably much more fastidious than fixed stars, as is but natural; they are forced to reflect a light not their own. the entire scheme was usually most successful; the balls were beautiful and everything went excellently well. sometimes, indeed, not one of the assembled guests had the civility to invite the mistress of the mansion to dance, and many of those present affected to mistake the host for a footman, but none the less was everyone content and pleased when the ball was over. zoë melkweyser was glad that she had enjoyed so brilliant an opportunity of getting out of breath; the givers of the ball were pleased to read the long list of their distinguished guests in _figaro_; and _le monde_ rejoiced in having something to laugh at, and spent three days in ridiculing the extravagance of the cotillon favours. the latest and most brilliant of zoë's protégés was conte capriani. who was he? what was he? 'a poisonous fungus that the sultry storm-laden atmosphere had bred upon heaven only knows what muck-heap.' a clever statesman had made use of this phrase not long before to define the innate characteristics of this cr[oe]sus. the phrase had been laughingly caught up and repeated, and no one had troubled themselves further about capriani's antecedents. in a smaller city they would soon have been investigated, but paris never busies itself long with the solution of such commonplace mysteries; on the contrary it takes care not to pry into the past of an adventurer whom it finds of very great use. thus the antecedents of this financial jove remained, like those of most deities, shrouded in myth. among the many legends that had at first been circulated concerning him, was one that he had formerly been a lady's physician and that he had been most successful with his aristocratic patients. whether this were or were not true, certain it was that his air and manner suggested that adulatory, fawning servility which characterizes those physicians whose professional efforts are, for lack of other occupation, chiefly directed to soothing the nerves of hysteric women. his exterior was that of a man who has once been handsome, _cidevant-beau_, spoiled only by the piercing glance of his large black eyes, and the cynical droop of his loose under-lip. he carried his head well forward, as if listening, and around his mouth and eyes there were strange lines and wrinkles in the yellow skin which had of late grown flabby,--lines suggesting that some of the figures with which he played the despot had flown angrily into his face and embedded themselves there. that he had begun life with nothing he himself was wont to declare, whenever he gave way to the fit of rage that seized him upon any offence offered to his vanity; but how he had gained his immense fortune he never told. he made profit out of every thing that afforded gain, most of all out of the credulity of indolent inexperienced avarice. his success as a 'bear' was famous, and notorious; it sometimes seemed as if ill-luck existed only for his advantage, and it was well known that he had emerged from great financial crises which ruined thousands, not only unharmed, but with an increase of wealth. there were various whispers afloat concerning his speculations, but no one had been able to attach any direct blame to him. once only, in connection with his construction of a spanish railway he had laid himself open to a couple of disgraceful charges. the times were unpropitious; the public, exasperated by various huge swindles, demanded a victim; but whilst several lesser individuals, were brought to trial and subjected to a public investigation, all legal proceedings against capriani were suddenly quashed. why?.... no one knew or at least no one told aloud what was known. he was a '_personnage tare_,' but the stain upon his name was of so peculiar a nature that prudence required of many well-known and eminent men that they should not see it. poor devils who stood outside the demoniac spell of his financial magic art called him an unprincipled swindler: people who had penetrated within the conjuror's circle called him a financial genius, flattered him almost servilely in their longing to share in his colossal enterprises, and if they did so procured for him in return a slight social recognition. and it was curious to observe how much at heart the magnate had this same social recognition, how he sued for the favour of every lofty dignitary, of every capital letter in the social alphabet. he persisted unweariedly in hurling his golden bomb-shells into the stronghold of parisian society, and at last the fortress capitulated. he was received, as an enemy to be sure, with closed shutters and in silence, but he was received everywhere, at all the embassies, throughout the entire official representative world, and even in some drawing-rooms of the faubourg. everywhere he met those who, while he smiled at them in the most friendly way, looked over his shoulder without seeing him, but this he endured serenely. the hour for revenge will come, he said to himself, and almost always it did come! thanks to an ostentatious benevolence backed by millions, he had of late contrived to improve perceptibly his social standing; at his last ball, several crowned heads had been present. zoë was right; he was undoubtedly one of the most influential financiers in europe; she might almost have described him as one of the most influential men. in paris he was one of the celebrities that are shown to strangers. when he walked past, or rather drove past, for he was physically indolent and avoided all bodily exertion, he was pointed out as monsieur grévy or mdlle. bernhardt is pointed out. he occupied a vast hotel that he had built after the model of the castle of chenonceau, but two stories higher, in the neighbourhood of the park monceau; in a quarter of an hour after leaving the avenue labédoyère the baroness zoë's _fiacre_ drew up before this mimicry of vanished feudalism erected by a modern cr[oe]sus. "gabrielle's betrothal will make everything smooth," she said to herself. "i am glad to be well rid of the affair!" a maître d'hôtel, who, it was said, had formerly been chamberlain to the duc de morny, and one of whose duties it was to instruct his present master in the laws of aristocratic etiquette, conducted the baroness with dignified solemnity to the 'small drawing-room' where the contessa capriani was wont to receive on quiet evenings. the 'small drawing-room' was a very large, and very brilliantly-furnished apartment, which, in spite of landscapes by corot, in spite of gold-woven japanese hangings, old inlaid cabinets and a thousand articles of value, produced a dreary in-harmonious impression. it was evident that nothing here was devised for the pleasure and comfort of the inmates of the house, but that everything was arranged with a view of impressing visitors. it almost seemed as if millions run mad had tossed all these splendours together aimlessly, insanely shouting, "something more costly, something more costly still!" here sat the contessa busied with some fancy work. she appeared well-bred, but shy, and embarrassed by her wealth, as she advanced a few steps to welcome the baroness, made a few conventional remarks, and then begged with a sigh to be excused for going on with her work, which work consisted in cutting all sorts of flowers and birds out of a piece of cretonne in order to sew them on a piece of satin. she devoted several hours a day to this occupation, and since her own rooms, as well as those of her acquaintances, were far too splendidly furnished to have any place in them for this sort of work, the result of her diligence was bestowed every year upon some charity-bazaar. zoë melkweyser thought the contessa unusually depressed. excited voices were heard in the next room, and every time that there was a particularly loud explosion the mistress of the mansion winced. "can the , francs which the duke of larothière lost last night be a bitter pill for even king midas?" zoë asked herself. this supposition proved, however to be erroneous. madame capriani moved her chair rather nearer to zoë, and whispered, "my husband is terribly agitated,--my poor son--that article in _figaro_,--you saw it of course ...." "i? i have not seen _figaro_ to-day," zoë reassured her. it was true, she had not seen _figaro_ but she had heard of the article to which the countess alluded; the excitement in the _casa_ capriani was quite intelligible to her now. no, capriani never even pulled a wry face at the sums lost at play by his son-in-law; he enjoyed smiling away such losses; everything was allowable in the duke. for the comparatively petty extravagances of his own son he had much less forbearance, in fact he showed very little tenderness for this scion of his, whose name was arthur, and who was far from satisfactory to his father. the croesus could forgive his son's noble scorn of everything relating to business, for positively refusing to have a desk in his father's counting-room and for devoting his entire existence to sport,--but it drove him frantic to have arthur held up to ridicule by the sporting world. hitherto arthur's grandest achievements in the sporting world had culminated in a couple of broken collar-bones and a quantity of lost wagers,--today their number had been increased by a trifling _fiasco_. a very trifling _fiasco_, but of a highly delicate nature. two austrians, an attaché and one of his friends at present in paris, both belonging to extremely aristocratic families, had lately out of wild caprice, and amid much laughter, undertaken to run a foot-race backwards. several french journals had taken immediate occasion to write articles on this eccentric wager, describing backward races as a traditional and very favourite sport among the youthful aristocrats of austria. these journalistic rhapsodies had incited arthur capriani to arrange a similar race with brilliant accessories, music, torchlight, and a large assemblage of young dandies, and ladies of every description. he lost the race, got a severe contusion on his head, and the next day appeared the article in _figaro_ which so exasperated the conte. "if you were only capable of something in the world beside making yourself ridiculous!" zoë distinctly heard the father's excited voice say, "but you can do nothing else, nothing! and to think of my toiling for you,--making money for you!" "_mon dieu!_ you make money because you delight in nothing else," retorted young capriani. "and for you--for _you_, i am contemplating one of the most brilliant matches in austria," the conte fairly shouted, "'tis ridiculous!" "i fancy that count truyn agrees with you there," was arthur's repartee. "ah, you would, would you?--you dare to sneer at your father?" capriani burst forth, after the illogical fashion of angry men, "the father to whom you owe everything! i should like to see you begin life as i did, bare-footed, with only one gulden in your pocket!" "what's the use of these recriminations?" drawled the son, "your antecedents mortify me enough without them, and ...." there was a incoherent cry, a savage word ....! the contessa, very pale, put down her scissors; she trembled violently. "i think it would be better to separate them," zoë remarked very calmly. "i will try to," gasped madame capriani, and opening the door into the next room, she called, "_mon-ami_, the baroness melkweyser is here--i believe she brings you some news ...." "_il s'agit de votre fameuse affaire, mon cher comte_," zoë called coaxingly. her words produced a magical effect; both men made their appearance, the father with a honeyed smile, the son, a short thick-set fellow with handsome features but a rude ill-tempered air, frowning and sullen. "_bon soir baronne_." "_bon soir_." "_eh bien?_" and settling himself in an arm-chair, his legs outstretched, and toying with his double eyeglass in the triumphant attitude with which he was wont to contemplate the favourable development of some particularly clever business transaction, capriani began, "so you have at last found a favourable opportunity." "no,--no, not at all!" said zoë, "but i thought best not to leave you in uncertainty any longer, and so i came to you this evening." "you know i gave you no authority to make a direct proposal," said the conte. "how can you suppose me capable of such want of tact!" zoë rejoined hypocritically, "unfortunately i have not been able even to find out how the land lies. if you had commissioned me a little sooner--just a little sooner,--but there is nothing to be done now, for gabrielle truyn is already betrothed!" "_nom d'un chien!_" muttered arthur; he had been no less impressed by gabrielle's beauty than by her lofty descent--"_nom d'un chien!_" "indeed, already betrothed," his father said coldly, slowly putting his eyeglass upon his nose and scanning the baroness mistrustfully as he asked, "betrothed to whom?" "to her cousin, oswald lodrin." "to oswald lodrin," he repeated quickly. "you cannot, indeed, enter the lists against him, my poor arthur!" "perhaps not as far as arrogance is concerned," growled the vicomte, "he is the haughtiest human being i ever came across." "that may be, but--" the conte smiled oddly, "he is also one of the handsomest and most distinguished of austrians, and he is renowned as such." whilst arthur continued to mutter unintelligibly, but in evident ill-humor, capriani senior left his arm-chair and taking a low seat beside zoë, said, "to-morrow the x---- railway stock is to be issued. the shares will be in great demand; shall i save you a couple of hundred?" chapter iv. the fragrance of the elder blossoms floated sweet and strong upon the air in the dim warm stillness of the avenue labédoyère. the poetry that breathes in the odour of flowers no words can reproduce, music alone can sometimes translate it; it ascended from the full white panicles in the little garden before the hôtel truyn and breathed through the open window into gabrielle's chamber like an exultant yearning, like a song filled with love's delicious pain. zinka sat on the edge of the little white bed where the young girl was lying, her golden hair rippling about her brow and temples, while upon her pale face lay the melancholy of illimitable joy; her eyes were moist. "and you are not surprised, zini ... not at all?" she whispered. "no, my child," replied zinka tenderly, "not in the least; i knew you were destined for each other from the first moment that i saw you together." "ah," gabrielle sighed, "i cannot comprehend it yet. it all seems to me like a delicious dream from which i must waken, but even if i must, even if the dear god takes from me all that he has given me, i shall thank him on my knees as long as i live for this one lovely dream." "calm yourself, my darling," zinka whispered, lovingly stroking the young girl's cheeks, "how your cheeks burn!" and she poured a few drops of essence of orange flowers into a glass of water, "drink this, you little enthusiast." "it will do no good, dear little mother," said gabrielle, obediently lifting the composing draught to her burning lips. "ah, you cannot imagine how i feel, it seems as if--as if my heart would break with happiness!" zinka kissed her, made the sign of the cross upon her forehead, drew the coverlet over her shoulders, once more admonished her to be calm, and left her. thunder rumbled without; zinka started and as a second clap resounded she turned back. "are you afraid of the storm, ella, shall i stay with you?" she asked gently. "ah no, dear little mother," gabrielle replied in the intoxication of her happiness, "i hardly hear the thunder." and zinka departed. "i do not know why i cannot rejoice in this as i ought," she said to herself, "it seems to me as if we had forgotten to invite some one of the twelve fairies to this betrothal." and whilst the thunder crashed above the champs elysées she suddenly recalled an old fairy story that a fever-stricken peasant from the trastevere had once told her in rome. it was a gloomy story, one of those legends in which the popular imagination, boldly overleaping all chronological and historical obstacles, bestows upon pagan gods the wings of christian angels, and arms god the father with the lightnings of angry jove. it ran somewhat thus: "there was once a beautiful maiden who was good as an angel, so good that it gave her unutterable pain to see any one sad and not to be able to help; and once when she had cried herself to sleep over the woes of mankind she had a wonderful vision. a dark form with a veiled face approached her and said, 'if you have the courage to cut your heart out of your breast and plant it deep in the earth, there will spring from it a flower so glorious, so wonderful, that whoever inhales its fragrance will feel a bliss so intense that he would gladly purchase it with all the torture of our mortal existence.' "and the maiden cut her heart out of her breast and planted it deep in the brown earth, and watered it with her tears, and there sprang from it a magically-beautiful flower, with luxuriant green leaves, and large white blossoms with blood-red calyxes, and whoever inhaled the breath of these blossoms felt an intoxicating delight course through his veins, so that in his wild ecstasy he forgot all earthly care and trouble. the flowers unfolded to more and more enchanting loveliness, and through the thick foliage sighed the sweetest music. "now when the angels in heaven heard of this strange plant they entreated the almighty father to allow them to go get it and to plant it in paradise. "the lord granted their request. then they fluttered down from heaven, but when they approached the wondrous plant a voice spoke from it, saying, 'let me alone, i blossom for the consolation of the earth, i could not live in paradise; the soil in which i flourish must be watered with heart's blood and tears!' "but the angels did not heed these words, and, beguiled by the delicious fragrance, they tried to tear away the roots from the lap of earth; their efforts were vain, they had to return with their purpose unfulfilled. "when mankind saw this it exulted in its blissful possession. happy mortals laughed at the angels' futile envy. then the angels prostrated themselves anew at the feet of the almighty, and implored him to revenge them upon the blasphemers. and the almighty gave ear to their prayer; he hurled a thunderbolt at the plant, and it was swept from off the face of the earth. "but its roots still slumber underground, and sometimes when in mild spring nights a mysterious fragrance steals upon the air, a fragrance wafted from no visible blossom, these roots are stirring to life, and green leaves shoot upward into the spring. but the sweet perfume still moves the angels to anger, and it scarcely rises aloft before the thunder rolls over the earth and the lightning blasts the green leaves. the flower will never blossom again." chapter v. oswald and his cousin georges were sitting at breakfast in their pleasant room in the hotel bristol by a window that looked out upon the place vendôme, and down the brilliant rue de la paix, the perspective of which was lost in a hurly-burly of omnibuses, orange carts, flower wagons, advertising vehicles painted fiery red, fiacres, sun-illumined dust, and human beings rushing madly hither and thither. whilst georges was drinking his tea in sober comfort with a brief remark as to the incomparable excellence of the paris butter, oswald, who although endowed by nature with an excellent appetite had paid but scant attention to his meals of late, recounted for the tenth time to his cousin the extraordinary combination of circumstances which had brought together gabrielle and himself. he was a victim of the lovers' delusion that sees in the most ordinary occurrences the finger of the deity, and that regards their happiness as a special marvel wrought by providence for their benefit. it was, so oswald narrated, in april, on the second day of the auteuil races, the first faint tinge of green was perceptible on the landscape. he was on horseback, riding a magnificent arabian steed which one of his friends had lent him, and which he was handling with the excessive care which an austrian always bestows upon a horse that is not his own. suddenly he saw walking across the race-course a young lady in a dark green dress; a ray of sunlight that turned her hair to gold attracted his attention to her. she walked quickly past with an elderly gentleman and oswald turned to look after her. his horse was a little restless, his rider's spurs were rather too sharp; with the sudden movement he scratched the animal's silken skin, and instantly exclaimed, "_ah, pardon!_" a piece of courtesy for which his companions ridiculed him loudly. in the meantime the young lady with the gray-haired gentleman had vanished. "who is that exquisitely beautiful girl?" he asked, and wips siegburg, secretary of the austrian legation, replied laughing, "do you not know her, she is your cousin!" "gabrielle truyn!" exclaimed oswald; and siegburg said sagely, "this comes of enjoying one's self too busily in paris, and consequently finding no time to visit one's nearest relatives." oswald peered in every direction but he could not discover her again. after the race, under the leafless trees of the champs elysées rolled crowds of carriages, victorias, all sorts of coaches, four-in-hands, lumbering roomy omnibuses,--all veiled in the whirling, sunlit dust as in golden gauze, while everywhere, alike in the omnibuses and in the more elegant vehicles, reigned a uniform air of dull fatigue. paris had lost another battle with ennui. in the motley throng oswald was almost forced to walk his horse, pondering as he went upon the best way of excusing his discourtesy to his uncle. he had now been four entire weeks in paris, and had not yet presented himself in the avenue labédoyère. fortunately he had gone so little into society that he had not yet met the truyns; paris is so huge, perhaps they had not yet heard that he was there. yes, paris is huge, but 'society' everywhere is small. no, he could hardly venture to appear at his uncle's yet. he was growing quite melancholy over these reflections, when he suddenly observed that his horse had coolly poked his nose over the hood, which had been thrown back, of a low carriage in front, and was nibbling at a bouquet of white roses that he found there. oswald shortened his bridle, and just then a lady sitting in the carriage turned round; it was gabrielle truyn. with no attempt to conceal her displeasure she observed what had been done, and when oswald, hat in hand, humbly stammered his excuses, she bestowed upon him the haughty stare which an insolent intruder would have merited, and turned away. she knew perfectly well who he was, as he afterwards learned, and that he had been four weeks in paris. the gentleman beside her now turned round, his eyes met oswald's; he smiled, and said with good-humoured sarcasm ... "ossi!--what an unexpected pleasure!" "uncle--i--i have long been intending to pay you my respects...." oswald stammered. "apparently your resolutions require time to ripen," said truyn drily. "ah uncle!--i--may i come to see you now?" "you do us too much honour," said truyn provokingly, "we will kill the fatted calf and celebrate the prodigal's return." then taking pity upon his nephew's embarrassment he added. "don't be afraid, we shall not turn you out of doors, we have some consideration for young gentlemen who are in paris for the first time; we know that they have other things to do besides looking up tiresome relatives, what say you, ella?" "my cousin has forgotten me," the young man murmured, "have the kindness to present me to her." "it is your cousin, oswald lodrin, an old playmate of yours." at her father's words gabrielle merely turned her exquisite profile towards her cousin and acknowledged his low bow by a slight inclination of her head. then she stretched out her hand for her bouquet, murmuring, "my poor roses! they are entirely ruined." and she suddenly tossed them away into the road. there was an opening in the blockade of carriages before them; gabrielle's golden hair gleamed before oswald's eyes for a flash, then all around grew gray; the twilight had absorbed the last glimmer of sunshine. that same evening oswald ordered at a large flower shop, on the madeleine boulevard, the most exquisite bouquet of gardenias, orchids and white roses that paris could produce and sent it to his cousin to replace her ruined roses. all this he retailed. his first visit, too, in the avenue labédoyère, the visit when he did not find truyn at home, and when gabrielle did not make her appearance, but zinka, whom he had not known before, received him. there had been much discussion in austria over this second marriage of his uncle, and oswald had brought to paris a violent antipathy to zinka. but it soon vanished, or rather was transformed into a very affectionate esteem. and then the first little dinner, a very little dinner (just to make them acquainted, truyn said) strictly _en famille_--no strangers, only oswald and siegburg. the brightly-lit table with its flowers, glass, and sparkling silver, in the middle of the dim brown dining-room, the delicate fair heads of the two ladies in their light dresses standing out so charmingly against the background of the old leather hangings, truyn's paternal cordiality, and zinka's kindly raillery,--he thought he had never had so delightful a dinner. gabrielle, to be sure, held herself rather aloof. she evidently resented his tardy appearance in the avenue labédoyère; she hardly noticed his beautiful flowers. she talked exclusively to siegburg who was odiously entertaining, and who glanced across the table now and then, his eyes sparkling with merry malice, at oswald. then as they were serving the asparagus, he took it into his head to ask gabrielle, "do you know who is the most courteous man in paris, countess gabrielle?" "no, how should i?" "your charming cousin there," rejoined the young diplomat. "indeed!" gabrielle said with incredulous emphasis, bending her head a little on one side as is the fashion with pretty women when they undertake the inconvenient task of eating asparagus. "yes, verily, he says '_pardon_' even to his horse, when he scratches it with his spurs." "ah! apparently he lavishes all his courtesy upon horses," gabrielle said pointedly. "in the case to which i allude, he really did owe some consideration to his horse, for the poor animal could not possibly know why he was made to feel the spur. the fact was that at the races the other day lodrin saw a lady the sight of whom so electrified him that he turned positively all round on his horse, and in doing so scratched the poor beast with his spur." "ah, and who, if one may ask, was this remarkable lady?" asked gabrielle. "ella, since when have you become conscience keeper for young gentlemen?" asked truyn. she blushed to the roots of her hair, but oswald said with perfect composure, looking her directly in the face: "certainly--it was countess gabrielle truyn." she bit her lip angrily. "it serves you right," said truyn smiling, "why do you ask about matters that do not concern you? the jest, however, is a little stale, ossi."' "i should not venture to jest; i simply told the truth," rejoined oswald. in view of the young girl's evident agitation he had regained entire calm. "one is not always justified in telling the truth," gabrielle observed with the pettish frankness in which even the best-bred young ladies will indulge, when irritated by the accelerated beating of their hearts. "indeed? not even in reply to a question?" oswald said very quietly, and truyn frowned after the fashion of affectionate papas, whose daughters' behaviour does not exactly gratify their paternal ambition. zinka interrupted the fencing of the young people by an inquiry as to the new vaudeville which gabrielle wished to see, but of which zinka was not quite sure she should approve. oswald took no further notice of gabrielle that evening, but devoted himself to zinka. he sat beside her for nearly an hour, and enjoyed it extremely; she had a charming way of listening, assenting to his observations by a silent smile, and inciting him to all kinds of small confidences, without asking any direct questions. when he afterwards reflected upon what had been the interesting subject of their conversation, he discovered that she had led him to speak only of himself, that he had told her everything about his life that a young man can tell to a young woman whom he has seen but twice. she listened attentively, and when he took his leave she had grown almost cordial. "now that you have broken the ice, i hope we shall see you frequently. _a propos_, to-morrrow is our night at the opera; if you have nothing more agreeable in prospect and have not heard '_la juive_' too often...." * * * and then the charming, uncertain, hoping, exulting, despairing time that ensued! gabrielle's pique slowly vanished; then without any reasonable cause returned; her behaviour towards her cousin vacillated strangely between naive cordiality and proud reserve; some days she seemed to misconstrue everything that was said, and then all at once a single cordial word would mollify her. and the dances, the cotillon at the countess crecy's ball in the pretty little hôtel, rue st. dominique,--the cotillon in which all had paid homage to gabrielle as to a young queen, and in which when, of all the favours that she had to bestow only one remained, she suddenly became confused, looking from the favour to her cousin, and seeming more and more undecided until at last he advanced a step towards her and whispered, "well, gabrielle, am i to have the golden fleece or not?" that was two days before the betrothal. to the day of his death he should wear that favour and no other on his heart. it should be buried with him! although not given to writing much he had kept a diary in paris. long since he had torn out the first pages; its contents now extended exactly from the first meeting to the first kiss. after his marriage the book was to be sealed up, to be given to his eldest son upon his twenty-first birthday. whilst oswald, borne upon a lover's wings that knew no boundary line between heaven and earth, between the future and the past, at one time eulogized his betrothed, and at another made arrangements for his own burial, and his eldest son's twenty-first birthday, georges, who had gradually finished his breakfast, leaned back in his chair watching the fantastic wreaths of smoke ascending from the bowl of his tschibouk. when at last oswald paused and fell into a reverie he took occasion to utter the following profundity. "living is very dear in paris!" twice was he obliged to repeat this brilliant aphorism, before oswald seemed to hear it. then glancing at his cousin reproachfully, the young fellow put his hand in his pocket, "would you like the key, georges?" he said offering it to him. "no," replied georges, taking oswald's hand, key and all in his own, and pressing it down upon the table. "no, my dear fellow, many thanks. do you remember what montaigne says about _le désir qui s'accroist par la malaysance_." "montaigne?--i am not very intimate with the old gentleman," oswald replied with a laugh, "how came you pray to make his acquaintance?" "why you see, oswald, there have been times when my means were not sufficient to provide me with amusements befitting my station in life, and i was obliged to have recourse, _faute de mieux_, to reading. but to recur to _plaisirs de la malaysance_, montaigne proves as clearly as that two and two make four that if there were no locks there would be no thieves! now,--hm--one thing is certain; since your strong box has been open to me i no longer have the smallest desire to possess myself of its contents. do you know, ossi, that i have grown very fond of you in these few weeks? do not overturn the pepper cruet," he admonished his cousin, who suddenly extended his hand to him with somewhat awkward shyness. "yes, very fond, you have effected a radical change in me; i should really like to go back with you to bohemia, perhaps you could find me something to do there. will you take me with you to bohemia?" "with the greatest pleasure, georges." "reflect a little. what would your mother say to your introducing an unbidden guest into her household?" "my dear georges, my mother, if i were to take home karl marx--or--" he did not conclude for at that moment his servant brought in a small salver upon which lay his newspapers and letters. chapter vi. a couple of cards of invitation were after a fleeting examination stuck into the frame of the mirror, then came two austrian newspapers, then three letters from austria; one addressed in a firm, bold hand he opened instantly with a smile of pleasure and the exclamation "from my mother! at last! i am very curious to know what she says to my betrothal--i began to be anxious--she has taken so long to write." but the light in his eyes faded, he frowned, angrily crushed the letter together, and propping his elbows on the table leaned his head upon his hands. "i could not have thought this possible," he murmured. "is not your mother satisfied?" georges asked. "satisfied--?" growled oswald, "satisfied--? she couldn't be dissatisfied if she tried ever so hard, but she does not rejoice with me. there, read that. 'dear child, i agree to everything that will make you happy, and pray for every blessing upon yourself and your betrothed, whom, moreover, i remember as a charming little girl ....'" "well, what more can you ask?" said georges, elevating his eyebrows. "what more can i ask?" oswald very nearly shouted, "what more can i ask? why, i am not used to having such conventional phrases served up to me by my mother!" "do you and your mother live upon perfectly good terms with each other?" asked georges, mechanically brushing away a few crumbs on the table-cloth, and without looking at his cousin. oswald opened his eyes wide. "my mother and i? why, yes, what can you be thinking of?" georges made no reply, he remembered perfectly well that years previously, before he had left home the countess lodrin had been anything but tender to her charming little son, nay, that she had been the downright fine-lady mother who figures in romances, but who fortunately is found but seldom in real life. he thought it unnecessary, however, to remind his cousin of this. in the meanwhile oswald had somewhat cooled down. "my poor unreasonable mother!" he said half-aloud to himself, "it is so hard for her to give me up, in all her life she has had me only. well, i shall soon bring her round. ah, georges, georges, it seems but a poor arrangement in this life that we must so often take from one person to give to another! i only hope that my mother's letter to my betrothed is more cordial. ah, here are two more epistles," and in no cheerful mood he opened one after the other of the two very business-like envelopes, read their contents, compared them with each other, threw both upon the table and, quite pale, with very red lips and flashing eyes, began to pace to and fro, from time to time passing his hand angrily across his forehead. "everything disagreeable is sure to happen all at once!" he exclaimed. georges knowing his cousin's impetuousity watched his excitement with smiling composure. "is vesuvius again in a state of eruption," he said kindly, "or what is the matter, man alive?" "siegl is an ass!" "ah?--and your man of business besides?" "yes." "then this present affair is a matter of business?" "no!" oswald said gloomily, "an affair of honour. the matter is that i am forced to break my word--_voilà tont!_ but i cannot understand siegl, he ought to know ...." suddenly he went to his secretary, opened it, rummaged nervously among a chaos of letters, at last finding a closely-written sheet, which he read through carefully, then grew very quiet, and seating himself opposite georges at the uncleared breakfast-table, said "i am wrong, it is my fault." "pray explain yourself," said georges, "my counsel, and my experience are at your service." "the matter is simple enough. before i came away from home i gave siegl a power of attorney to conclude an unfinished sale, the sale of a couple of insignificant building lots in w----. in practical business matters i can thoroughly rely upon him. well, the other day i had this letter from him asking whether i would agree to the winding up of the affair under certain conditions, and at the end of the letter he asked me in this case to telegraph him. his handwriting is execrable and his style most tedious,--and--and i hurried off to the avenue labédoyère. i was going to ride in the bois with gabrielle,--in short i skimmed over the letter, never noticing that he asked about another far more important sale, and telegraphed, 'i agree to everything; do as you think best.'" "_eh bien!_" oswald cleared his throat. "you remember dr. schmitt? he was our family physician, a true man if ever there was one, my father valued him highly. well, he leased an estate from us, kanitz, it lies in one corner of the schneeburg grounds; after the old man's death his son held the lease, he is a very good fellow, we served together in the same regiment in our volunteer year. he married, and set great store by the lease, which would run out in three years. before his marriage he came to me to know whether he might depend upon an extension of the lease; of course i promised it to him, thereby relieving him of immense anxiety. and now siegl has sold the property at a high price to capriani, and is very proud of the transaction, and it is all because of my thoughtlessness, because i thought it too tedious to read through his roundabout epistle and .... and young schmitt, poor devil, is quite beside himself, and writes me this letter! i cannot understand siegl, he might have asked me again, he knows me perfectly well, he ought to have known that i could never have contemplated anything of the kind ....! but it's just the way with all my people! if they can make a few gulden for me, no matter how, they pride themselves upon it hugely; no one seems to understand that i care precious little for the augmentation of my income; what i want is, to alleviate as far as lies in my power the existence of as many men as possible!" "how old are you, ossi?" georges asked with an oddly-scrutinizing glance at his cousin. "twenty-six. what makes you ask?" "your transcendental views of life, my child. men and ants are born with wings, but both rub them off in the struggle for existence,--men usually do so before they are twenty-four." "that goal is passed," rejoined oswald, "and the winged ants do not lose their wings, they only die young," and he became again absorbed in study of the two letters. "i cannot blame siegl this time, try as hard as i can, it is _my_ fault; 'tis enough to drive one mad!" "i can understand how it goes against the grain, but--well, you must indemnify schmitt with another property." "that of course, but it does not help the matter," oswald grumbled, "he has a special love for kanitz--he was born there, his parents are buried there in a pretty little churchyard on the edge of the woods by the holtitzer brook. he takes care of their graves himself--they are perfect beds of flowers. and his wife!--i paid her a visit last autumn,--she is a dear little shy thing, and she looked at me out of her large eyes as if i were omnipotence itself. there is such an old-fashioned loyalty, so poetic a content about those people; upon whom shall we depend if we heedlessly destroy the devotion of such as they? schmitt must keep kanitz, even although i buy it back at double the price paid for it!" "my dear fellow you can do nothing with money where capriani is concerned," georges observed calmly, "but i am convinced that he is very desirous of standing well with all of you. if you make a personal request of him he certainly will not object to annul his purchase. if the matter is really important to you go and call upon capriani, and...." oswald tossed his head angrily. "what? ask me to have any personal intercourse with that man--no--in an extreme case indeed----but there must be some legal way out of the difficulty, it is a matter for our agents--_Ça!_ a quarter of twelve and i breakfast at truyn's." "you must make haste. can i do anything for you?" oswald went to the writing-table and in large bold characters wrote a couple of lines on a sheet of paper. "pray see that this telegraph to schmitt goes off immediately, and then one thing more--if it does not bore you too much--please leave a card for me at the places on this list. do not take any trouble, but if you should be passing.... good-bye old fellow--remember we are to go home together." "hotspur!" murmured georges as the door closed after his cousin. "well, after all, i do not grudge him his position; he becomes it well." chapter vii. if oswald lodrin might be regarded as the chivalric embodiment of the old-time '_noblesse oblige_,' his cousin georges was on the contrary the personification of the modern axiom '_noblesse permet_.' he had made use of the credit of the lodrins, the accumulation of centuries, to screen his maddest pranks. true, he had never overdrawn this credit, he had never by any of his numberless eccentricities raised any barrier between himself and his equals in rank. he had grown to manhood discontentedly convinced that count hugo lodrin, his father's elder brother, had done him great wrong, and this wrong was his marriage late in life with the beautiful princess wjera zinsenburg. georges was barely eight years old at the time, but he remembered as long as he lived how angrily his father, after a life of careless extravagance led in the certainty of inheriting the lodrin estates, had received the announcement of the betrothal, and how hardly he had spoken of wjera zinsenburg. the boy grew up, his heart filled with a hatred none the less vehement because it was childish, first for his aunt, and afterward for his cousin. his hatred for his aunt grew with his growth, but as for his hatred for his cousin?... it was difficult to cherish resentment against his loving, helpless little cousin with his big black eyes and pretty rosy mouth. and in the summer holidays, which he spent every year in tornow with his father, he struck up a friendship with the little fellow. it was a lasting friendship. one day after his father's death when he had for several years been an officer of hussars, and always in pecuniary difficulties, georges received a letter, which upon very slanting lines evidently ruled in pencil by ossi, himself, and in very sprawling clumsy characters, ran thus: "dear georges, "papa says you need money, i don't need any, so i send you my pocket money, and when i'm big you shall have more. the donkeys are given away. papa got angry with jack because he bit me. now, for a punishment, he has to carry sand for the gardeners. i have a pair of ponies now; they are very pretty and i ride every day. i can ride quite well and i am not afraid, but i stroke jack whenever i see him, and i think he is ashamed of himself. "your ossi." yes, he needed money--a great deal of money; his father had left him next to nothing, and the small allowance which his uncle made him, always seasoning it with good advice, did not nearly suffice him. his uncle paid his debts upon condition that he should exchange from the hussars into the dragoons, then held in rather high estimation as heavy cavalry. georges needed money quite as much as a dragoon, however, as when a hussar. then came feminine influences--a quarrel with his colonel--a duel. he resigned his commission with honour and to the regret of the entire staff. once more, and, as he was solemnly informed, for the last time, his uncle paid his debts, and wishing to have no further concern in his nephew's money matters he also paid out a handsome sum as a release from all further demands. georges manifested his repentance after this settlement by an immediate excursion to paris with a pert little french concert-saloon singer. this was the finishing stroke in the eyes of his strictly moral, nay, even bigotted uncle. from that time onward the young man's letters to the old count were returned to him unopened. georges vanished from the scene. the rumour ran that after he had tried his luck and failed in the california gold diggings, he had been a rider in a circus; there was also a report that he had served mahogany-coloured spaniards and jet-black negroes as waiter at rio janeiro, that he had been an omnibus driver in new york--this last fact was vouched for. still, he contrived to impress the stamp of spontaneous eccentricity upon every one of the expedients to which he resorted in his pecuniary embarrassments. one day after oswald had attained his majority he received a letter in which his cousin, after appealing to the old boyish friendship, described his present condition. oswald, who was kindheartedness itself, and, moreover, enthusiastically eager to discharge his duties as head of the family, did not delay an hour in arranging his cousin's affairs and in settling upon him an income suitable to his rank. thus georges returned to his old sphere of life and to his former habits, smiling calmly, but testifying no special delight, and not the slightest surprise at the change in his circumstances. the honest friendship which he felt for the cousin whom as a child he had petted, quite destroyed his old grudge against his fate. chapter viii. picture a sleepy little market-town lying, at a respectful distance, near a very large castle, where the clock in the tower has not gone for twenty years; a ruggedly uneven market-place, thickly paved with sharp stones and no sidewalk, queer old-fashioned houses with high-gabled roofs and small windows, and here and there a faded-out image of the virgin above an arched gateway, a tradesman's shop serving as post-office as well as for the sale of tobacco, and adorned over the doorway with a wreath of wooden lemons and pomegranates, and the imperial double-eagle, a corner where stands a piled-up carrier's van covered with black oilskin, a smithy sending forth from its dark interior a shower of crimson sparks, while from the low passage-way of the opposite inn, 'the golden lion,' a waiter with a dirty apron, and bare feet thrust into old red slippers, is gazing over at the smithy where a crowd of dripping street boys are collected about two thoroughbreds and a groom liveried in the english fashion--picture all this and you see rautschin,--rautschin on a dark afternoon in may in a pouring rain with an accompaniment of thunder and lightning. somewhat apart from the gaping urchins a young man is walking to and fro in front of the row of houses; his quick impatient step testifies to his having been detained by some untoward mishap and also to his being quite unused to such delay. the rain descends from heaven in fine, regular, grey sheets. the young man's cigar has gone out, he is cold, and thoroughly annoyed he passes the unattractive waiter and enters the inn. the room in which he takes refuge is low and spacious with bright blue walls, and a well-smoked ceiling. limp, soiled muslin curtains reminding one of the train of an old ball-dress, hang before the windows where are glass hanging-lamps, and flower-pots of painted porcelain filled with mignonette, cactuses, and catnip. the furniture consists of two chromos representing the emperor and his consort, of a number of yellow chairs, of several green tables, and of an array of spittoons. at one of the tables sit three guests evidently much at home; one of them is tuning a zither, while the other two are smoking very malodorous cigars, and drinking beer out of tankards of greenish glass. engaged in eager conversation none of them observed the entrance of the stranger who, to avoid attracting attention, seated himself in a dark corner with his back to the group. "a couple more truck-loads of all sorts of fine furniture have arrived at schneeburg," remarked one of the trio, a young man with red hair, and unusual length of limb. he is a surveyor's clerk, his name is wenzl wostraschil, but he is familiarly known as 'the daily news' from the amount of sensational intelligence which he disperses. "count capriani ...." "i know of no count capriani," interrupted an old gentleman with white hair and a red face; he is doctor swoboda, by profession district physician, in politics just as strictly conservative as count truyn became as soon as he had proclaimed his socialism by taking to himself a bourgeoise bride--"i know of no count capriani, you probably mean conte!" "it is the same thing," observed the zither player, herr cibulka. "in the dictionary, perhaps," the old doctor rejoined sarcastically. "the two titles are synonymous in my opinion," said herr cibulka as he laid aside his tuning-key and began to play 'the tyrolean and his child,' while with closed lips he half-hummed, half-murmured the air to himself, his big fat hands groping to and fro on the instrument as if trying to aid his memory. herr cibulka--this sonorous slavonic name signifies _onion_ in bohemian--eugène alexander cibulka--he is wont to sign his name with a very tiny cibulka at the end of a very big eugene alexander--assistant district-attorney, transcendentalist, and lovelace, is the pioneer of culture in the sleepy droning little town. he is a tall young fellow inclining to corpulence, with an uncommonly luxuriant growth of hair on both his head and face, and with the flabby oily skin of a man who has all his life long been fed upon dainties. evidently much occupied with his outer man he dresses himself as he says, 'simply but tastefully;' he pulls his cuffs well over his knuckles, and delights in a snuff-coloured velvet coat with metal buttons. he fancies that he looks like the flying dutchman, or at least like the brigand, jaromir. in reality he looks like an advertisement for 'the only genuine onion ointment for the beard.' he is considered by the rautschin ladies as quite irresistible and fabulously cultured. he criticises everything--music, literature and politics, being especially great in the domain of politics, and he discourses at length whenever an opportunity presents itself, combating with admirable energy perils that have long ceased to terrify any one. it is not clear as to what party he belongs, but since he berates the clergy, hates the nobility, and despises the lower-classes, consequently pursuing the straight and narrow path of his subjective vanities and social aspirations, he probably considers himself a liberal. his uncle is in the ministerial department and _he_ dreams of a portfolio. meanwhile the red-haired man with an air of indifference has taken up his tankard. "count or conte, as you please," he said, giving the disputed point the go-by, and continuing as he put his beer glass down on an uninviting little brown table, "at all events he must be accustomed to live in fine style, for he declared that it was impossible for a man used to modern conveniences to live in schneeburg in the condition in which count malzin had occupied it. so the house has been entirely newly furnished. immense! the doings of these money-giants--the world belongs to them!" "unfortunately, and our poor nobles must go to the wall," sighed the old doctor, whose platonic love for the nobility keeps pace with the red-haired man's equally platonic affection for money. "except a couple of owners of entailed estates here and there none of them will be able to compete with these great financiers." "the law of entail cannot be allowed to exist much longer, it is a stumbling block in the path of national progress .... my uncle in the ministerial department ...." eugene alexander began in a deep bass voice, which suggested a sentimentally guttural rendering of 'the evening star' at æsthetic tea-parties. "spare me the remarks of your uncle in the ministerial department," interrupted dr. swoboda angrily. "the law of entail must be abolished," herr cibulka said, as another man might say, "that new street must be opened." "have you got your liberal seven-league boots on again?" swoboda rejoined. "how you stride off into the future! you evidently suppose that if the law of entail were abolished to-day or to-morrow, this 'stumbling-block in the path of national progress' being removed, various districts of tornow and rautschin would find their way into the pockets of yourself and of your hypothetical children? you are mistaken, my dear fellow, hugely mistaken. heaven forbid! trade would monopolize the real estate, and that is all you would get by it, nothing more. the supremacy of money would be confirmed." "i should prefer, it is true, the supremacy of mind!" eugène alexander said didactically. "ah! you think you would come in for a share there," growled the old doctor under his breath. without noticing the irony, eugene alexander went on, "the supremacy of money, of individual merit, is certainly more to be desired than the supremacy of fossilized prejudice." "indeed?... now tell us honestly," said the doctor, "do you really believe that the masses, whose sufferings are real and not imaginary, would gain anything thereby?" "there certainly would be a fresh impetus given to culture,--a freer circulation of capital," began cibulka. "listen to me a moment," broke in the doctor. "circulation of capital? a financier's capital circulates inside his pockets, not outside of them except on certain occasions on 'change. the art of spending money does not go hand-in-hand with the art of making it,--few things in this world delight me more than the spectacle of a millionaire who, having ostentatiously retired from business, contemplates his money-bags in positive despair, not knowing what to do with them and bored to death because the only occupation in which he takes any delight, money-getting, is debarred him by his position." "no one can say of conte capriani that he does not know how to spend his money," the red-headed 'daily news' affirmed, "everything is being arranged in the most expensive style, the rooms hung with silk shot with silver, the carpets as thick as your fist, and the paintings and artistic objects,--why they are coming by car-loads. i am intimate with the castellan, and he shows me everything; the outlay is princely." the doctor shrugged his shoulders. "the extravagance of a financier is always for show, it is never a natural expenditure. there's no free swing to it, and i am not at all impressed by your conte; one day he may take it into his head to paper his room with thousand-gulden bank-notes, and the next he will haggle like the veriest skinflint; just ask the malzin servants; he discharged them at a moment's notice without a penny." "they were a worthless old lot," eugène alexander rejoined, "and besides it was count malzin's duty to provide for his people." "poor count malzin!" exclaimed the doctor, "he pleaded for his servants, as i know positively; but provide for them--how could he provide for them when he could not provide for his own son! when i think of our poor count fritz! a handsomer, sweeter-tempered, kindlier gentleman never lived in the world! and when i reflect that schneeburg is now in the hands of strangers, that count fritz cannot live there....!" "oh, i beg your pardon," the red-head insisted, wriggling on his chair like an eel, "he is going to live there, in the little swiss cottage in the park where the young people used to be with their tutor and drawing-master in the hunting season, away from the bustle in the castle." "frightful!" murmured the doctor. "this whole schneeburg business is too--too sad. the old bailiff is ill of typhus fever brought on by sheer grief and anxiety, and his whole family would go to destruction were it not for the generous support of the countess lodrin." "don't tell us of the generosity of the countess lodrin," sneered cibulka, or of the generosity of any of the lodrins. "you need only look at their estates; the peasants are huddled there in pens like swine." the stranger, who had until now remained motionless in his dim corner, apparently paying no heed to the talk, here turned his head to listen. "that seems very improbable," dr. swoboda replied to the last assertion, "the young count treats all his dependants with a kindly consideration that it would be difficult to match. if his people suffer from any injustice it certainly is without his knowledge; count oswald is one of the old school. hats off to so true a gentleman!" "you are, and always will be a truckler to princes," said eugène alexander, offended. "i must say that a man like capriani who has won for himself a position in society among the greatest by his personal merit, by the work of his hands, seems to me more worthy of consideration than a petty count, who has had everything showered upon him from his cradle." "what trash you are talking about personal merit," thundered the doctor. "capriani has grown rich on swindling--swindling, on 'change--swindling in women's boudoirs. he was formerly a physician, and as such insinuated himself into distinguished houses, and wormed out political secrets which he made use of in his speculations. finally he married a rich banker's daughter; they say his wife is a good woman. i never saw him but once, but i cannot understand how a woman with a modicum of taste could ever consent...." "oh they say that in his time he has enjoyed the favour of all kinds of ladies, very great ladies...." the red-head interposed with an air of importance. "i know from the widow of the late count lodrin's valet--there was a game carried on down there in italy between the countess wjera...." he had no time to conclude. the stranger sprang up and like a flash of lightning struck the speaker twice across the face with his riding-whip; then without a word he left the room. "who was that?" asked cibulka pale with terror, while the red-headed man, bewildered, rubbed his cheek. "count oswald lodrin," said the doctor. "it serves you right for your insolence!" "i shall not submit to such brutality--i will appeal to the courts," snarled red-head. "and what can you say?" said the old doctor. "'i have wantonly repeated low, scandalous gossip--i have slandered a lady who is blessed and worshipped by all the country round, i have spit in the face of a saint'--this is what you can say. let me advise you not to stir, my worthy wostraschil." this 'my worthy wostraschil' was uttered by the simple old doctor in a tone which he must have caught unconsciously and involuntarily from some aristocratic patient. he arose and stood at the window, looking with a smile of satisfaction after oswald, who with head held haughtily erect, face pale, and eyes flashing angrily, was striding directly across the square to the smithy. "a splendid fellow--a true gentleman," the old man murmured. he was proud of this austrian, product, and would gladly have paid a tax for the maintenance of this national article of luxury. chapter ix. arrived in tornow only that morning, oswald hardly finished his breakfast before he rode over to kanitz, where, after his good-humoured despotic fashion he adjusted the whole affair with a smile, and soothed the anxious young tenant. on the way back his horse lost a shoe, and his groom was well scolded by his impetuous young master for the carelessness resulting in such an accident. the riders had been forced to abate their speed and to take a roundabout way through rautschin, that the nervous, high-bred animal might be relieved as soon as possible. on the way they were overtaken by the storm. perhaps oswald would not have endured the very smoky atmosphere of the inn room so long, had he not been unconsciously interested in the talk of its three guests. by no means indifferent to doctor swoboda's enthusiastic appreciation of his merits, he had enjoyed playing the part of the emperor joseph in the popular song and was meditating some pleasantly-devised way of surprising the old man with his thanks for his loyalty, when the vile insinuation made by the red-head drove everything else out of his mind. the horse was shod; he flung himself into the saddle and galloped out of the town. the rain had ceased, the clouds were broken. steaming with moisture, its outlines glimmering in the light of the setting sun, rautschin was left behind. long streaks of violet cloud with golden edges, lay just above the horizon, and where the sun was setting, the sky glowed dully red. the storm had torn the bridal wreath from the head of spring; on the surface of the water lying in the ruts and hollows of the roads glinted snowy, fallen blossoms, and the apple-trees and pear-trees trembled softly in their tattered white array, like young people awakened from a dream. by the roadside stretched a sheet of water, its shores bristling with rushes, its surface bluish-gray and gloomy, like a large pool into which the sky had fallen and been drowned. a couple of ravens were flapping heavily above it. the golden edges of the clouds grew narrower, the glow of the sunset was consumed in its own fire, the colours faded, and profound melancholy brooded over all the plain. oswald's blood was still in a ferment. "rascally dog!" he muttered between his teeth ...."and to have to drop the matter for my mother's sake, not to be able to thrash him within an inch of his life, and drive him from the country! no human being is safe from such envious liars, they would drag down everything above them, even the lord god himself! bah, _cela ne devrait pas monter jusque à la hauteur de mon dèdain_. but,"--he shook himself,--"it takes more than one's will to calm the blood." twilight had set in when he reached tornow castle. it was a spacious, clumsy structure with several court-yards, one portion with pointed gothic archways was ancient, irregular and picturesque, another part was of a later rococo style with conventional decoration. in front, fringed by tall alders lay a romantic little lake, the park stretched far to the rear of the castle. the iron gate with its quaint scroll work, above which was suspended the lodrin escutcheon, between two time-stained sandstone urns, turned upon its rusty hinges, and oswald rode up to the castle and dismounted. two lackeys, who seemed to have little to do save to wear their blue liveries and striped waistcoats with due dignity, and self-complacency, were standing in the gateway, peering into the gathering darkness. the young count ran hastily up the broad, flat hall-steps. the last pale ray of daylight penetrated into the hall, through the tiny panes of the huge windows; here and there the metallic lustre of some old weapon on the wall gleamed among the dusky shadows. "ossi, is that you?" called a voice almost masculine in its deep tone, but musical withal and in evident anxiety, as a tall female figure advanced to meet him. "yes, mother," he replied gently. "how late you are! we have been waiting dinner an hour for you." "forgive me, mother,"--he carried her hand with reverent affection to his lips,--"it really was not my fault." "fault--fault! i am not reproaching you, ossi! no, but my child, i was half dead with anxiety. you are always so punctual, and one quarter of an hour after another passed and you did not come.--and then the storm. the lightning struck near here in several places, and your john bull is skittish,--you do not think so,--but i know the beast well. if it had gone on for one more quarter of an hour .... but what detained you, my child?" oswald smiled tenderly and considerately, as tall chivalric sons are wont to smile at the exaggerated anxieties of their mothers. "give me only five minutes to change my dress and i will tell you all," he said, and once more kissing her hand he hurried away. oswald's was one of those impetuous temperaments which are always stirred to the depths morally and physically by a violent outburst of anger; even when its cause is forgotten every pulse and vein will still thrill. although he joined his mother in the drawing-room some minutes later in a perfectly cheerful mood, she instantly saw from his face that something must have provoked him excessively. "anything disagreeable?" she asked drawing him down beside her upon a sofa, "did you have a distressing scene with schmitt? did he reproach you? or ...." "heaven forbid, mamma!" broke in oswald. "schmitt and reproach?--he is the most devoted soul--humiliatingly devoted and faithful! poor schmitt! no, no, my horse cast a shoe. i was terribly vexed, i had to ride slowly, and take the roundabout way through rautschin." he spoke quickly and with forced gayety. "you are concealing something, lest it should annoy me," the countess said decidedly. "when will you learn that nothing in the world annoys me as much as your considerate reticence! i lie awake half the night when i see that you have some vexation to bear which you will not share with me. you ought to have no secrets from me." "in a certain way every honourable man must have secrets from her whom he respects as i respect you," oswald said half-annoyed, half-tenderly, while he puzzled his brains to discover a way of pacifying his mother without telling either a falsehood or the whole truth. a brilliant idea then occurred to him. "in fact the matter is a very stupid affair. in the inn where i stopped during the storm i suddenly heard one of three men who were in the room speak with contempt of the lodrin generosity; the fellow asserted that on the lodrin estates the labourers lived in pens like pigs, and,--er--my temperament is not exactly stoical, and i,--in short i got angry. it is hard to hear such things when one honestly tries to treat his people well! and there may be some truth in it; i will make inquiries to-morrow, no, i will find out for myself. i can learn nothing from my bailiffs, they only cajole me. last year there was typhus fever in morowitz, the people died like flies, and i knew nothing of it; when at last i did learn about it i went there immediately, but the epidemic was well nigh at an end. _a propos_, mamma, i cannot but forgive you if it be so, but was it not all concealed from me at your request? you knew that i should go over there at once, and you were afraid of contagion." "no, my dear child," the countess said gravely, "foolishly anxious as i am about you upon trifling occasions,--and i have just shown how foolishly anxious i can be,--i never would lift a finger to seclude you from a peril if such peril lay in the path of duty. i would rather die of anxiety than hamper you or exert a detracting influence upon you in your line of conduct. i would be broken on the wheel to save your life, but----" she shuddered and moved closer to him,--"i would rather see you dead, than anything else save what you are--my pride, and a blessing to all around you!" she looked him full in the face, the mother's large, earnest eyes gleaming with exultant enthusiasm. "if you only knew how i suffered during that stupid storm! i am so glad to have you again, my boy, my fine, noble boy!" and drawing his head down to her she kissed him on the brow. the rustle of a newspaper attracted oswald's attention, and for the first time he observed georges, who, buried in the depths of a luxurious arm-chair, had been watching from behind his newspaper the little scene between mother and son. a servant appeared at the door--dinner was announced. chapter x. "very remarkable!" georges said a few hours later as, smoking a cigar, he entered his cousin's bedroom, where oswald was already in bed. "what is very remarkable?" oswald asked drowsily as he lay on his back, his hands clasped under his head. "the change in your mother," said georges, sitting down on the edge of the bed, "i should hardly have known her again." "i can't understand that," oswald rejoined. "her hair has grown gray--it grew gray when she was quite young,--but her features are the same. i think her very beautiful still." "i think her more beautiful than ever," georges said gravely, "but...." he thoughtfully blew the smoke from his cigar upwards to the ceiling--"how old is your mother?" "fifty-six." "only fifty-six--and yet she seems an old woman." "an old woman....! what are you thinking of? my mother can do nearly as much as i can, she can ride for five hours at a time, and can take long walks and never...." "my dear fellow," interrupted georges impatiently. "i did not mean to say that your respected mamma seemed at all decrepit, but only that her features, her whole bearing, wear the stamp of that calm, kindly cheerfulness that belongs to those who have done with life. she asks nothing more--she bestows. and that, ossi, is not a characteristic of youth--no, not of even, the most generous youth." "there you are right," oswald rejoined thoughtfully. "many a woman of her age would still go into society and enjoy its distractions, she, since my father's death, has had no thought of anything except my education and the management of my property. it is wonderful, the knowledge she has of business. you would laugh if i should tell you of what large sums she saved up for me during my minority. such strict economy was not to my taste, and i put a stop to it, but it must be forgiven in a mother." "and the gentleness and kindness of her manner!" georges continued, "her unreasoning maternal nervousness! i assure you it was no easy task, the hour spent in trying to allay her anxiety. her feeling for you is positive idolatry." "try to be patient with this weakness of hers." "my dear boy, he would be a worthless fellow who did not respect this weakness. it only surprises me in your mother; i had not expected anything of the kind. before i left home she kept you at such a distance. i could not then understand why she always treated you so coldly and harshly, and, to tell the truth, i took such, lack of affection on her part, very ill." oswald leaned upon his elbow among the pillows. "that was while my father was alive," he said softly, "yes, i have often thought of that, and have thought also that i could explain her conduct. you see my father's foolish fondness for me irritated her, and she suppressed the manifestation of her own affection. between ourselves, georges, my mother was wretched in her marriage; her poor heart was always upon the rack, it could no more beat freely and naturally than a man with a rope tight about his neck can sing. i respected my father immensely, but ... well, georges, look there...." he pointed to a large painting above his bed, the portrait of the countess in the proud splendour of her youthful beauty, "and then, look there...." and he pointed to a white plaster death-mask framed in black velvet hanging on the wall opposite. "as far back as i can remember, my father looked just like that; they were never congenial. and now let me go to sleep, old fellow, good-night!" chapter xi. no, 'congenial' they never had been and never could have been. although the painting was far from portraying the charm of the countess lodrin's beauty in the bloom of youth, the repulsive death-mask opposite did full justice to the deceased count. the face that it represented was almost horse-like in its length; smoothly shaven as that of a monk, with a sharp-pointed nose, little round eyes, a mouth like the slit in a child's money-jug, and seamed with innumerable wrinkles, it resembled one of those bloodless aged heads which abound in pictures by memmling or van eyck. it would be an error to suppose that illness and the final agony had distorted the face before it had been perpetuated in the plaster cast. count lodrin had never looked otherwise, he had always looked like a corpse, and pistasch kamenz boldly maintained that 'the old gentleman looked his best in his coffin.' not only count pistasch, but everybody else ridiculed count lodrin; few men have ever lived who have been more ridiculed. one fact, however, no ridicule could affect--count lodrin was a gentleman through and through. that he possessed a tender heart and a sense of duty, which, in spite of the vacillations of a timid temperament, always triumphed in important crises, no one had ever denied who had seen him in any grave emergency,--and that this sense of duty, with a mild admixture of pride of rank, belonged to him more as a gentleman than as a human being, did not detract from his merit. given over in his youth to the ghostly influence of priestly tutors, he had led a melancholy, misanthropic existence. his delicate constitution made impossible any participation in the manly sports of his equals in rank. therefore there was developed in him, as in many another recluse, an intense devotion to art; he was indefatigable in sifting and enlarging his collections. people of his rank usually marry young. it was not so with him. as with several historic characters, the timidity of his temperament culminated in an aversion to women, which rendered futile all the bold schemes of ambitious mammas. in his solitude he had come to be forty-five years old; it was an article of faith in austrian society that he never would marry, when suddenly his betrothal to wjera zinsenburg was announced. his brother's creditors made wry faces; society laughed. two months afterwards the strange couple were united in the chapel of the palace of the zinsenburgs. among those present at the ceremony there were some who envied the bridegroom, many who ridiculed him, and a few who pitied him. as the pair stood beside each other before the altar they presented a strange contrast. the face of the bride, nobly chiselled, and with an indignant curve of the full, red lips, recalled to the minds of all who had been in rome a beautiful but unpleasing memory,--the profile of the medusa in the villa ludovisi, that wondrous relievo in which the pride of a demon seems contending with the suffering of an angel. the bridegroom looked as he did fifteen years afterward on his bier, only more unhappy, for upon the bier his face wore the expression of a man who had just been relieved of an old burden; at the altar his expression was that of one who bends beneath the weight of a burden just assumed. it was shortly manifest that no late-awakened passion had decided him to contract this alliance. a weaker will had been forced to bow before a stronger. chapter xii. but what had induced the exquisitely-beautiful girl to choose such a husband as this, every one asked; and no one answered. the question had to be dismissed with a shrug, and, 'she is a riddle!' the same thing had been said four years previously, when with an air of proud indifference, and with cold, 'level-fronting eyelids,' she had appeared in vienna society. there was about her an exotic air always irresistible to the genuine austrian temperament. her father was a diplomatist, her mother a russian. wjera's russian blood betrayed itself in everything about her, in her deep, almost harsh voice, which was, nevertheless, capable of exquisite modulations, in the hybrid combination of oriental nonchalance and northern energy that characterized her whole bearing, her gestures, her figure. when she reclined upon a divan or leaned back in an arm-chair there was a suggestion of the odalisque in her attitude; but in her walk there was a short, sharp rhythm; it was firm and despotic like that of a race-horse, and yet light as the fluttering of a bird. she was tall and not too slender--the beauty of her shoulders and bust was so great that it had become famous--her head was small and faultlessly poised upon her neck--her features were not perfectly regular, but how charming was her face! pale, with ripe red lips, and brown hair with a shimmer of gold about the temples and the back of the neck. the cheek-bones were rather too high, the face not quite oval enough; the brow was low; the profile haughty, and delicately modelled. the most remarkable feature of wjera's face was her eyes. long in their openings, but usually half-closed and shaded by dark eyelashes, they were as changing in colour as in expression, and there was in them something uncanny--mysterious--no one dared to look full into their depths. of course she created a sensation in vienna, and yet she had almost no suitors--they were afraid of her and--she had a history, neither disgraceful nor dishonourable, but yet a history. in st. petersburg, where she had been with her father, she had been distinguished by the homage of a prince of the blood, and was finally betrothed to him. for a year the betrothal was kept up, and then the tie was suddenly snapped. the world discovered the reason in the fact that wjera could not consent to a morganatic marriage; her ambition had been defeated. the true significance of the breach the world at large did not divine. only very few suspected that wjera had loved the man--so much her inferior in all save rank and birth--with all the fervour and poetic purity that are found in russian girls alone. she did not see him as he really was, handsome, with a superficial air of distinction, but mentally coarse--alternating between brutish excesses and superstitious penances--at once cynical as a roué and sentimental as a school-miss,--no, she endowed him nobly in her imagination. of all poets in the world the hearts of young girls are the most highly gifted. there are women whose illusions are so tough that they carry them to their graves undamaged; there are others who voluntarily patch up the rents, made by their understanding in their illusions, in order that an ideal--of which they would perhaps be ashamed if it stood unveiled before them, and to break with which they yet have neither the desire nor the force--may not be without a decent garment to cover it. it was not so with wjera; when doubt had once sown discord between her head and her heart, she fought out the battle unflinchingly, inexorably, in strict honesty, and when the conflict was over her dream had vanished. in this wondrously lovely illusion she had exhausted all the ideality of her nature. her reason gained the upperhand at last, and ever after she analyzed her fellow-mortals with sharp precision; judging them with harsh justice, and speaking of the affections with an unaffected, contemptuous coolness very rare in a girl so young. time passed by. she came to be twenty-six years old. she was the eldest and the handsomest of five daughters, and her distaste for marriage increased the difficulty of providing for the other sisters, and excited unpleasant remark among her family circle. chance introduced count lodrin to her acquaintance, and perhaps because he seemed to her a respectable nullity, she selected him for her husband. no one could remember ever having seen so ill-matched a pair. she, aglow with life, delighting in physical exercises, a reckless and indefatigable horsewoman--to whom a steeple-chase was no more than is a waltz to other women,--and he, paying with an attack of illness for every unusual physical effort, not even daring to take a long drive without an extra cushion at his back. whilst his thoughts moved slowly in a traditional roundabout way, 'her woman's wit flew straight and did exactly hit,' before the count had cleared his throat for his first 'consequently.' her quick wit bewildered him; her outspoken acuteness of discernment offended him. there was a world-wide dissimilarity between her views and his. the count was a strict catholic; the countess was inclined to scepticism; although cast in a loftier mould, in her daring mockery and her graceful eccentricity she recalled the fine ladies of the eighteenth century--of that time when social and mental freedom, made fashionable by philosophers, had not yet been degraded to vulgarity by demagogues. his wife's wicked wit shocked poor count lodrin. much ridicule was cast upon the couple, but every one was none the less glad to belong to the brilliant circle which the countess drew around her, and daily the wonder grew that calumny could not touch the beautiful wife of this dead-and-alive dotard. three years passed; now and then women hinted innuendoes about wjera lodrin, but the other sex continued to speak of her with that mixture of admiration and irritation which bears the truest testimony to the blamelessness of a very beautiful woman. at last society was content to shrug its shoulders and to repeat, 'she is a riddle.' the countess was unutterably bored. the only occupation that she pursued with inexhaustible interest, though at the same time with reckless intrepidity, was riding. "she has no sphere of activity; hers is the grand, fiery nature of a gifted man beating against the petty barriers of feminine existence. what is to come of it?" a sagacious student of human nature once said, in speaking of her. all at once there was a decided change for the worse in count lodrin's health, and the physicians prescribed a sojourn in the south. reluctantly enough the countess consented to accompany her husband. they set out, and the world maliciously compared wjera to juana of castile, because she travelled with a corpse, and a father-confessor. the count found nice quite too gay, and therefore took refuge in a secluded villa in the riviera. the countess nearly died of ennui in the gray, sultry, sirocco-like monotony of an autumn heavy with the fragrance of roses, and in the tedium of an italian winter. in spring the pair returned to bohemia, the count in somewhat better health, the countess as cold and hard as ever, but irritable to a degree until now quite foreign to her. in the august after their return oswald was born. the old count could not contain himself for joy; the countess cared but very little for the child. this was the woman whom georges had known fifteen years before, and now,--he could hardly believe his senses! before he went to bed on the first night of his return to tornow, he stood for a long while at the window of his room looking thoughtfully out into the night. the moon was high in the heavens; everything was still, save for a low rustle now and then in the huge lindens growing on the border of the pond in front of the castle. the ancient trees seemed to stir and stretch themselves in their sleep. his gaze wandered over the compact angular architecture of the high, black-gabled roofs, the rows of houses with tiny windows, in the little town,--all bathed in bluish moonlight. it was hardly changed since he had last seen it,--in the castle everything was changed. what had become of the social distractions in which the countess lodrin had been wont to delight?--vanished, as by magic. the entire castle impressed him as having recovered from a restless fever. had the countess's former cold, harsh demeanour been but the mask for the intense hunger of a strangely dowered nature that could find no fit nourishment? and had love for her child filled up at last the fearful rift made in her inmost life by an early disappointment? georges asked himself these questions. once more his glance wandered to the pond in whose waters the moon was mirrored. "strange!" he murmured,--"today it was but a dark pool, and now in the moonlight it gleams a silver disk! hm! extraordinary, how true maternal love will hallow every woman's heart! strange exceedingly! what must she not have suffered in her life ...!" chapter xiii. the bright spring sunshine streamed through the open bow-window of the countess's boudoir and stretched a broad band of light at her feet. she was sitting in an arm-chair knitting with very thick wooden needles and coarse brown worsted, something evidently destined for a charitable purpose. the boudoir, an irregular square room and with a picturesque bow-window, was furnished with no regard to uniformity of style, and therefore had the charm which characterizes rooms which have been as it were gradually evolved from the habits and tastes of a cultured occupant, until they are the frame or setting of an individuality. a delightful confusion of comfort and feminine taste reigned here, and the two or three trifling articles that offended all artistic sense, struck the eye only as piquant beauty spots. the cabinets, filled with rare old porcelain, threw into strong relief the ugly inkstand and candlesticks of modern dark-blue sèvres upon a writing-table. they were a memento,--a marriage gift from a russian cousin and youthful playmate who fell in the crimean war. among some old pictures, an andrea del sarto, a franz hals, and two wateaus, hung in triumphant self-complacency a portrait by lawrence--a man's head and bust,--a crimson-lined cloak was thrown around the shoulders, the shirt collar was open, black hair fell low on the brow, the eyes were large and wild, the frankly smiling mouth was exquisitely chiselled. it hung just over the writing-table, lord of all, and was the portrait of oswald zinsenburg, an uncle of the countess, a gifted fellow, who, when secretary of legation in england, had been intimate with lord byron, and in all the romantic ardour of a young aristocrat fighting for freedom, had died of brain fever at missolonghi at the age of twenty-seven, shortly after lord byron's death. this portrait the countess wjera loves, principally because it is so like her son, and upon it her gaze rested as she dropped the long wooden-needles in her lap, and fell into a revery. the air of the room was penetrated with the delicious fragrance of the roses, and lilies of the valley that filled the various vases. everything was quiet,--the birds were taking their siesta, the faint pattering of the horse-chestnut blossoms could be heard as they fell upon the gravel path, before the castle. the drowsy midday stillness was suddenly broken by a softly whistled russian gipsy melody and an elastic young footstep. the countess turned her head. she knew the air well--how often she had sung it! the whistling came nearer, then ceased, and the door of the boudoir opened. "may we come in?" a cheery voice asked. "always welcome!" replied the countess, and oswald, followed by a large shaggy newfoundland, entered, his curls wet and clinging to his forehead, a bunch of waterlilies in his hand, and looking more than ever like the portrait by lawrence. "good morning, mamma; how are you? make your bow, darling--so, old fellow--so!" and as the newfoundland gravely lowered his fine head, a performance for which he was duly caressed by his master, oswald sank into a low seat beside his mother. "you have been bathing," she observed, stroking back his wet hair. "yes, i have been swimming in the lake at wolnitz, and i have brought you these waterlilies," he replied, laying the flowers in her lap, "they are the first i have seen this year, and they are your favourite flowers, are they not? how fair and melancholy they are! strange that these pure white things should spring from such slimy mud! may i?" taking out his cigar-case. "of course, my child. what have you been about to-day? i have not seen you before." "i went out very early. i had sent for the forester to come to me at seven, and i went with him to the new plantations. the young firs are as straight as soldiers. and then i dawdled about in the woods--it was so lovely there!--'tis the earth's honeymoon, and when i see everything blossoming out in the sunshine, i think of all that lies in the near future for me, and i feel like shouting for joy! apropos, mamma, i have found a site for the widow's asylum that you want to found. i have been puzzling over the best situation for it, and i have decided to put the old elizabeth monastery at the disposal of your benevolence. is this what you would like?" she held out her hand to him with a smile. "have you found time to think of that too? i thought you had forgotten my scheme long ago." "ah yes, i am in the habit of forgetting your wishes!" he said gaily. "no, heaven knows you are not," the countess murmured, "you have always been loving and considerate to me." "and what else could i be, mamma?" he said affectionately. "ah, on a glorious spring day like this, when the world is so beautiful, and my blood goes coursing in my veins with delight, i am tempted to kneel down before you and thank you for the dear life you have bestowed upon me--what is the matter, mamma, you have suddenly grown so pale?" "it is nothing--only a slight pain in my heart--it has gone already," the countess whispered, turning aside her head. "quite gone?--is it my cigar smoke?" "not at all, dear child!"-- in spite of this assertion he tossed his cigar out of the window. "you used to smoke yourself," he observed. "yes," she said, looking down at her knitting, "but since i have learned to employ my hands, i have given up smoking." "you knit instead--it seems odd to me to see _you_ knitting. georges thinks you very much altered." "i have grown old, _voilà!_" "and he thinks too that you spoil me tremendously, that no mother in all austria spoils her son as you do me." "no other mother has such a son," the countess said proudly. "oh, oh!" he laughed and took his seat beside her again. "nevertheless, i am not blind to your faults," she continued, "i know them all." "and love every one of them." "because they are the faults of a noble nature--men of lower tendencies are obliged to show more self-control." "indeed! god bless your aristocratic prejudices! and now for a piece of news. the truyns reach rautschin to-morrow by the four o'clock train. will you drive with me to meet them?" "certainly, if you wish me to." "if i wish you to--if i wish you to!"--he softly snapped his fingers, "and you look all the while as if i had asked you to attend an execution with me. i cannot quite understand you, mamma, you used to take delight in every little pleasure that chance threw in my way, and now will you not rejoice in my great happiness? as soon as there is any allusion made to my betrothal, your whole manner changes; you grow so distant and reserved, that i hardly like to mention my betrothed." "i really did not know, ossi ..." began the countess with constraint. "oh, yes, mother, i felt in paris that you were not pleased with my betrothal, and i have racked my brain to discover what there can be about it that you do not like, and i can not imagine what it is. there can be no objection to make to gabrielle." then suddenly smiling in the midst of his irritation, and curbing the impetuous flow of his words, he asked in a lower tone and more calmly, "ah, _ça_, mamma, perhaps you dislike the connection with my darling's stepmother? i assure you that ...." "nonsense!" replied the countess, growing still more disturbed, "from what you and georges both tell me of the young woman, she seems to adapt herself very well to her position. a residence abroad and foreign associations are much better means of training than ...." "yes, mamma," interrupted oswald in some surprise, having followed out his own train of thought, "but if you are so kindly disposed towards zinka, i cannot possibly conceive what exception you can take to my betrothal. there never was a purer, more noble creature than my little gabrielle. highly as i rank you, mother, she is every way worthy of you." the countess changed colour, "i do not understand what you wish," she exclaimed, "do not distress me, i have no objection to the girl!...." "well then,--you could not possibly expect me to remain unmarried." the countess cast down her eyes and was silent. oswald sprang up, called his dog and left the room, his face very pale, his eyes very dark. impetuous and hasty as he was with others, he had always controlled himself in his mother's presence. leaving the room was the extreme point to which he allowed his displeasure to manifest itself when with her. if he wished to vent his anger, he did it in seclusion, he never had spoken an angry word--scarcely a loud one to her. and his disagreeable mood never lasted long. "i am myself again, mamma!" with these words, in which he was wont to announce his return to a better frame of mind, he presented himself half an hour afterward in his mother's boudoir. she was sitting just as he had left her, the waterlilies in her lap, very pale, very erect, with the set features that veil distress of mind. pushing his chair close up to her he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and said with the winning tenderness of all impetuous men after bursts of anger: "forgive me, mamma, i was very wrong again!" she smiled faintly and murmured some half inaudible words of affection--"i was odiously egotistical," he went on, "i had quite forgotten what a change my marriage will make in your life, what a trial it must be to you, you poor, foolish, jealous little mother! but whatever change there may be outwardly in our relations, we must always be the same in heart; and if i must deprive you of something," he added gaily, "my children shall requite you. it had to come sooner or later, mamma; or could you really wish me to renounce the fairest share of existence?" she trembled in every limb, and suddenly taking his hand, before he could prevent it, she carried it to her lips, "no, you shall renounce no joy, my child, my noble child!" she exclaimed,--"but--leave me now for a while, for only a little while--i am tired!" chapter xiv. truyn had insisted that the betrothal of his daughter to oswald lodrin should be celebrated in bohemia. zinka had yielded with great reluctance and sorrow, and had at last resolved to bid farewell to her dear foreign home. "why," she persisted in asking him, "cannot the ceremony take place, as in our own case, at the austrian embassy?" but truyn would not hear of it. "dear heart," he replied, "it would go against the grain. the betrothals of all my sisters and of my aunts were celebrated at rautschin, why should i depart from the traditions of my family?" "as if you had not already departed from them, and in the most vital regard," said zinka, with arch tenderness. "that is a very different thing,--if there were any good reason, then--then--!" "ah, dear friend, you have grown insufferably conservative, you would have shouted on the first day of the creation of the world: '_conserves le chaos, seigneur dieu, conservez le chaos!_'" whereupon truyn, kissing her hand, made reply. "that comes of living in france, dear child." and so the pretty house in the avenue labédoyère was deserted. the shutters were closed, the carpets rolled up, the bric-à-brac stowed away; only in some roundabout fashion did a bluish beam of light slip into the vault-like obscurity, and the restless motes pursue their fantastic dance among the shrouded shapes of the furniture. the truyn family were rapidly approaching their home. nearly thirty hours had passed since paris had faded from their eyes in the misty blue distance--since the last gigantic announcement of the '_belle jardinière_,' and of the '_pauvre diable_' had flitted past them. the bavarian boundary, with its stupid custom house formalities lay behind them. truyn was reading a vienna newspaper with great interest, gabrielle was gazing abstractedly at the crimson coupé cushions opposite, with the far-away look in her eyes of young lovers. zinka was leaning back in her corner, her veil half drawn aside, her hands folded in her lap, the latest impressions of her paris life hovering kaleidiscopically before her mental vision, her heart oppressed by a strange melancholy. "ah, this defamed, delightful paris! how it captivates the heart with its good-for-nothing beauty, and its corrupt, sickly sentiment!" she was still mentally rehearsing the last days before her departure, the going to and fro from shop to shop, the interesting consultations with monsieur worth, the affected face with which that eminent artist put his finger to his lip, while attending the ladies to their carriage, and continued to 'compose' gabrielle's wedding dress, murmuring to himself with his english accent: "_oui, oui, une orginalité distahnguée c'est ce qu'il fant_," while sleek young clerks, and young girls faultless in figure, displayed to the best advantage the richest costumes, trailing about silks and satins of fabulous elegance. "_ce n'est pas cela, qui ferait votre affaire, madame la comtesse je le sais bien_," said mons. worth pointing to certain monstrosities devised for american parvenus, "ah, madame la comtesse cannot imagine, how hard it is for an artist to have to work for people of no taste! _ah oui, une originalité distahnguée!_" the man-milliner's, monotonous refrain kept sounding on in zinka's ears. then she thought of the farewell visits, the daily heap of cards filling the great copper salver in the vestibule, the wearisome farewell entertainments, and of her husband's toast--the toast which he proposed at the magnificent banquet, given in his honour, by the austrian hungarians in paris. unutterably distasteful as it always is to men of his stamp, to be conspicuous, he at last made up his mind to propose this toast; he worked at it for an entire week, and subjected it to the criticism, not only of his wife and of his daughter, but of every one whose judgment he respected in paris. it was a masterpiece of a toast, a toast designed to unite in brotherly affection all the austrians in paris, and which ultimately, with its well-meant, many-sided compliments gave occasion for dissatisfaction to every member of the austrian-hungarian colony, whether conservative or liberal. zinka laughed to herself as she recalled that poor misunderstood toast. she laughed outright, started, and--awoke--rubbed her eyes and looked out. yes, paris lay far behind her, very far. she was in austria, beautiful, dreamingly-drowsy austria, and, in spite of the reluctance with which she returned to her fatherland, it affected her. a low blue chain of hills lay on the western horizon like a vanishing storm-cloud. the landscape around was level and extended. large, quiet pools, surrounded by tall rushes, and covered with a network of fragrant waterlilies, gleamed here and there among the emerald meadows. the sun was near its setting. the shadows of the telegraph poles stretched out indefinitely. little towns contentedly sleeping away their dull lives among green lindens, showed their old-fashioned silhouettes, black against the sunlit evening clouds. truyn laid aside his newspaper, and his face grew eager and animated, every knotted gnarled willow, every half-ruinous garden wall here interested him. a forest of firs, their trunks glowing red in the last rays of the sun, bordered the railway. "there, just by that stunted fir, i shot my first deer," truyn exclaimed, and in his eyes sparkled the memory of a happy boyhood; then, drawing zinka to him, he whispered tenderly: "you are at home, zini; we are travelling upon our own soil." "ah," replied zinka, nestling close to him, timid as a child afraid of ghosts. "how nervous you are!" he said, gently stroking her cheek--"you silly little goose you!" "it is not for myself," she whispered, "so long as you love me, you and ella, i can bear anything. but i know you--it would grieve you to the very heart, if ...." "tickets, if you please!" a breathless panting--a shrill whistle. "rautschin--five minutes stay!" "aunt wjera!" gabrielle exclaimed, joyously hurrying out of the coupé. there was something like defiance in zinka's heart, but when she saw the woman, who in all her exquisite beauty, all the distinguished grace of manner inspired by kindness and cordiality, advanced to meet them, her defiant mood vanished in admiration, and with a feeling of almost childlike reverence, she bowed to the superiority of the elder lady, who greeted her most cordially. after the first excitement of meeting was over, countess wjera's attention was naturally concentrated upon her son's betrothed. "i can but congratulate you from my heart, ossi," she said earnestly, looking full into the young girl's eyes--eyes that shone like two blue violets under the clearest skies--violets that had suffered nothing from late frosts or too ardent sunshine. "you are a favourite of fortune, my child." gabrielle blushed, and buried her face in the bunch of white roses, which oswald had brought her; and oswald was touched, and smiled his thanks to his mother, as he whispered a tender word to his betrothed. "do you know who came in the same train with us?" truyn suddenly asked, interrupting the happy moment. "capriani, father and son, i saw them," said oswald, "look at him, mamma, there is my rival, the enterprising young spark, who sued for gabrielle's hand. a mad idea, was it not? gabrielle, and a son of capriani!--we shouted with laughter, when the melkweyser announced the proposal." the flurry of the arrival had subsided, and the countess leisurely inspected through her eyeglass the sallow young man who was talking with georges lodrin. gabrielle said something about his dark blue travelling-suit, shot with gold; zinka made inquiries, all in a breath, of her husband, and of the two lady's-maids, whether this or that article of luggage had not been left in paris or in the railway coupé. when at last all her anxieties on this point had been relieved, and they had passed through the station to the carriages, they observed a magnificent four-in-hand, the harness decorated with a coronet. "by jove!" truyn exclaimed with delight, "superb, ossi, superb! i have rarely seen four such beauties together!" "nor have i," said oswald, examining the horses critically, "unfortunately they are not mine--they belong to capriani." "impossible!" truyn said disdainfully, "speculator that he is, he may bore through the isthmus of panama, for all i care, but he cannot get together such a four-in-hand as that." "fritz malzin selected and arranged it for him," oswald explained. "poor fritz!" "i cannot understand him," truyn said in an undertone, and hastily changing the subject, he asked: "have you come to terms with capriani, about the kanitz affair, ossi? could not the sale be revoked?" "the matter would have been very difficult to adjust, i am told--of course i understand nothing of such things,--" replied oswald, "but capriani--what will you say to this, uncle?--yielded the point, 'out of special regard' for me, as his lawyer informed dr. schindler. between ourselves, it was--what word shall i use?--audacious, for i have never spoken to him in my life, and yet i had to accept his uncalled-for courtesy, for schmitt's sake." "remarkable, very!" said truyn, "we usually have to pay dear for the courtesies of a capriani and his kind!" "have you everything, ella?" asked zinka, "shall we start?" "i should like to have my hand-bag, hortense has left it with the large luggage." meanwhile, with an unpleasant smile and hat in hand, a sallow-faced, grey-haired, elderly man, with the look of a bird of prey, approached the countess wjera, and held out his right hand. "i am immensely gratified, your excellency, after so long a time ....!" the countess, her eyes half closed, measured him haughtily. "with whom have i the pleasure ...?" "conte capriani." the countess silently shrugged her shoulders, and turning half away, called in an irritated tone, "are we ready to go at last, ossi?...." a whirling cloud of dust was soon the only trace left of the bustle of the arrival. the short drive was spent by truyn in reminiscences, by the betrothed pair in sentiment. at the tea, which was awaiting the travellers, and of which the lodrin's stayed to partake, there was much laughter over the _chic_ of the caprianis, over their wealth, and--their obtrusiveness. oswald suddenly grew thoughtful. "did you ever before meet these people, mamma?" he asked. "i never knew any conte capriani in my life,--who are these caprianis?" asked the countess. "nobody knows," said oswald. "some say he is a greek, some that he comes from marseilles, and others that he is a turk." "they are all wrong," georges said drily, "he comes originally from bohemia; he was formerly a physician, and his name was stein." book second. chapter i. rautschin, still rautschin!--the tiny town lying at the feet of the huge castle on the tower of which the clock has stopped for twenty years--but no longer in pouring rain with thunder and lightning, but rautschin beneath skies of sapphire blue, upon a hot july afternoon. the sun was still high in the heavens. the crooked little row of houses on one side of the market square, cast short, black shadows, the national red kerchiefs, with broad borders of gay flowers hanging at the door of the principal shop, fluttered gently in the summer breeze. a melancholy hubbub of discords, struggling in vain for a solution, was heard through the open window of one of the newest and ugliest houses. eugéne alexander cibulka, and the wife of the district commissioner, were playing wagner's 'walküre,' arranged for four hands, and each had again 'lost the place.' they regularly lose the place every time a leaf is turned, and so the one who gets first to the bottom of the page, very kindly waits for the other. rautschin castle stands proudly superior to every structure about it, ensconced behind all kinds of farm-buildings and additions, at the extreme end of the market square, to which it turns its shoulder, as it were. except for its imposing dimensions, it is in no wise remarkable. standing at the entrance of a very extensive park, it dates from the time of maria theresa, when the present clumsy edifice, its prim façade defaced by grass-green shutters, was built upon the remains of a feudal fortress. the court-yard is not perfectly square, and the arches of the arcade rest upon granite pillars. its interior is quite in accordance with its exterior; it is anything but splendid, and has an air of empty, dignified distinction. before the western side of the castle, count truyn with his young wife was sitting beneath the shade of a red and gray striped marquee; behind them in a garden-room, the glass doors of which were wide open, oswald, standing on a step-ladder, was busy hanging on the wall a piece of gold-embroidered oriental stuff, and gabrielle was handing him the nails. "well zini, are you beginning to like our home?" said truyn, propping his elbows upon the white garden table, between himself and his wife. he looked so contented, so proud of his possessions, so triumphant, that zinka could not refrain from teasing him a little. "taken all in all, yes," she said indifferently, "but then taken all in all, i should like siberia, with you and ella." "zinka! i must confess,"--truyn's face assumed a disturbed and almost offended expression, "i must say that i cannot understand how any one can compare rautschin to a place of exile!" "i did not mean to do so, rest assured," zinka said, "i think your rautschin very delightful, i should only like to alter a few details." "i cannot abide improvements," growled truyn, "it is only the caprianis and company, who must always be beautifying everything old--that is destroying it. i think an old place should be left as it is, with all its characteristic defects--to try to improve them, seems to me like trying to correct the drawing of a giotto or a cimabue." "i can understand a respect for the old mis-drawings," zinka rejoined quietly, "but does one owe the same respect to modern retouching, to the vandalism that has made clumsy additions to an old picture?" "hm!" truyn gazed thoughtfully around him--"no, in fact. it is remarkable that you are always right, you little witch. now be frank zini; what exactly would you like to have different? so far as my veneration and my finances permit, you shall have your will." zinka pointed to the lawn that lay before them, terribly disfigured by bright red and yellow arabesques. "i think that confectioner's ornamentation there almost as ugly as the carpet-gardening at the villa albani," she said, "don't you?" truyn ran his hands through his hair, "well, yes,"--he meekly admitted after a pause, "but i cannot possibly alter that. old kraus, to surprise me, has taken infinite pains to portray our crest on the lawn--i had to praise him for his brilliant idea, however hideous i thought the thing, don't you see, zini?" "that alters the case entirely," zinka admitted. "i would not hurt faithful old kraus for the world. but"--she pointed to the basin of a fountain, the shape of which was particularly ugly--"old kraus could not have designed that basin--that might be cleared away!" truyn looked thoroughly discomfited. "the basin is a horror," he confessed, "but i cannot help saying a good word for it. it is endeared to me by youthful associations--if only because when i was a boy of twelve, i was very nearly drowned in it." "oh then indeed ...." zinka shrugged her shoulders, with a humourous air of resignation. "i now hardly dare to object to the green shutters," she went on, "for if, as in view of their colour is highly probable, they gave you opthalmia, some thirty years ago--it would ...." "no, no, no, i give up the shutters," exclaimed truyn laughing, "let them go. and now i have something to tell you that you will not relish--no need to change colour, the matter is an inconvenience, not a trial. while i have been away--for the last ten years in fact--the park has been open to the public. the little town has no other public garden. i have, indeed, in view of this, placed an extensive tract of land at the disposal of the town council, but it is not yet laid out, and until it is, i should not like entirely to deprive the public of the freedom of the park. therefore i should like to have you point out as soon as possible what part you would prefer to have reserved entirely for yourself, that it may be portioned off. indeed i cannot help it, zini." "you will be as condescending at last as a crowned head," zinka said laughing. "you have already relinquished a corner of the park, because the new road, laid out for the convenience of the public, must run directly beneath your windows--and ..." "i know--i know," truyn interrupted her impatiently, "but one owes something to the people. of course you think 'my husband is a perfect simpleton, he'll put up with anything'--but ...." "have you really no better idea of what i think of my husband, than that?" zinka asked in a low tone, looking at him with tender raillery in her eyes. "oh you sweet-natured little woman!" he said, attempting to chuck her under the chin. "what are you about?" she exclaimed, thrusting his hand away, "this wall here on the street is so low, that every little ragamuffin can see us. and let me tell you that this wall has seemed more odious than anything else to-day. between ourselves--move your chair a little nearer, erich--i have been all this while tormented by a desire to throw myself into your arms--you dear, good, whimsical fellow--but the wall!" "confound the wall!" truyn exclaimed, angrily clinching his fist. "tell me," zinka asked caressingly, "is the lowness of the wall also a question of humanity? do you find it impossible to deny the townsfolk the satisfaction of conveniently observing the castle-folk?" "pshaw! i was vexed about the height of the wall ten years ago--that is when the road was laid out, but--well, i cannot myself say why it is--but unless we have a rage for building, nothing is done. we complain for ten years about the same evil, and ..." "and to part with an evil about which one has complained for ten long years," interrupted zinka laughing, "would be almost as distressing as to clear away the basin of a fountain, in which one had been nearly drowned, thirty years before, eh, erich?" the broad july sunshine lay upon the red and yellow splendour of the truyn escutcheon, shimmered brilliantly about the foremost of the mighty trees, whose dark foliage contrasted with the emerald of the lawn where they stood, beyond the open, flower-decked portion of the park, and penetrated boldly into their thick shades, limning fanciful arabesques of light upon the darker green. from the garden-room floated gabrielle's sweet, childlike voice, "_io so una giardiniera_," she sang. oswald had finished his upholstering, and was bending over the piano. he combined a sincere enjoyment of music with a deplorable preference for sentimental popular ballads. the creaking of wheels intruded upon the dreamy monotony of the hour. truyn leaned forward and started to his feet. "ah, old swoboda, the doctor who attended ella with the measles," he exclaimed joyfully, recognising dr. swoboda, in his comical little vehicle drawn by a white horse spotted with brown. "is he still alive? i must call him in. holla! doctor, how are you?" the doctor started, looked round, and took off his hat with a smile of delight, "your servant, count truyn." "come in and have a chat," said truyn, "it was hardly fair not to have been to see us before." "but, my dear count, how could i suppose ..." a few minutes later, the old doctor was seated opposite to truyn, underneath the marquee, imparting to the count exact information as to the weal and woe of a multitude of people belonging to the town, and to the country round, whom the proprietor of rautschin remembered with wonderful distinctness. some had died, one or two were insane--a couple were bankrupt. "infernal swindling speculations! is my dear old rautschin beginning to be carried away by them?" said truyn, "certain epidemics cannot be arrested. sad--very sad! and now the _phylloxera_ has taken up its abode in schneeburg." "is there much illness about here?" zinka asked the doctor, in hopes perhaps of staving off a conservative outburst from her husband. "none of any consequence. my business is at a low ebb, your excellency." "where have you just been, doctor?" truyn asked. "i have just come from schneeburg." "ah? anything seriously amiss in the capriani household?--i could not shed a tear for king midas." "the herr count cannot suppose that those magnificoes would call in a poor country doctor, like myself." "my dear swoboda, we all have the greatest confidence in you!" truyn said kindly. "i thank you heartily, herr count, but this confidence is an old custom, and the caprianis consider old customs as mere prejudices, and propose to do away with them. i have just come from our poor count fritz." "indeed? are the children ill?" "no, not ill, but ailing; there is something or other the matter with them all the time--they are city children;--however, i am not really anxious about them, they'll come all right. but i am sick at heart for poor count fritz, he is far from well." "ah, indeed? what is the matter with him?" truyn asked in a tone of evident irritation. "his unfortunate circumstances are killing him," the doctor replied gloomily. "ah--hm,--i must confess to you--er--my dear doctor, that--er--i take it very ill of fritz, that he, er--accepted a position,--er--with--that,--er--adventurer." the old doctor looked the irritated gentleman full in the eyes. "when one is homesick and sees his children, who cannot bear the city air, hungering for bread, one will do many things, which could not be contemplated for an instant, under even slightly improved circumstances." "ossi always told you ...." began zinka. "oh pshaw! ossi is an enthusiast, whose heart is always drowning out his head." the old doctor sighed. "well, i will intrude no longer," he said. he had often enough seen his noble patients yawn, as the door was closing upon him after a prolonged visit. "not at all,--not at all--wait a moment; i must call the children; gabrielle! ossi!" the young people appeared from the garden-room. "ah--it is the friend who saved my life," gabrielle exclaimed, cordially extending her hand. oswald too greeted him kindly, but suddenly he, as well as the old physician became slightly embarrassed--each remembered the unpleasant scene in the inn.--the conversation did not flow very freely. "now, i really must go," the doctor insisted in some confusion. "come soon again," said truyn, shaking hands with him, "give my remembrance to fritz, and--er--tell him to come and see me soon." he walked towards the court-yard with the old man, and when he returned he observed that oswald, as he was silently rolling up a cigarette, was frowning furiously, evidently angry. "where does the shoe pinch, ossi?" he asked. "i cannot understand, uncle, how you can be so hard upon fritz!" exclaimed oswald throwing away his cigarette. "you are wont to be the softest-hearted of men, but to that poor devil ...." "don't excite yourself so terribly," truyn said kindly, but in some surprise at the young man's violence. how could he divine the disturbance of mind that was at the root of his indignation? "you are so irritable ...." "i am perfectly calm," oswald boldly asserted, "only .... how could you send messages to fritz by the doctor, and ask him to come to you? have you no idea of his miserably sore state of mind?--and physically too he is so wretched that he cannot last six months longer; i have begged you to go and see him." "papa! if ossi begs you!" gabrielle whispered, looking up at her father with the large pleading eyes of a child. "ah, you can't understand how any one can possibly refuse ossi anything," truyn said, smiling in the midst of his annoyance. she blushed and cast down her eyes. "what can you find to like in this fellow, ella?" her father rallied her. "a man ready to take fire, and clinch his fist upon the smallest provocation. what would you say if i should put my veto upon this foolish betrothal with a young savage who is only half-responsible?" gabrielle's blush grew deeper, she looked alternately at her father and at her lover, and finally deciding in favour of the latter gently laid her hand upon his arm. "you see, uncle!.... completely routed," exclaimed oswald, his anger entirely dispelled by this little intermezzo. his voice rang with exultant happiness as he added, "nothing can part us now, ella--not even a father's veto!" and ella clung silently to his arm and looked blissfully content. "poor little comrade!" said truyn tenderly. mingled with his emotion there was something of the pity which men of ripe years and experience always feel at the sight of the perfect happiness of young lovers. "poor little comrade!--well, to win back some share of your favour i will e'en put a good face upon it and comply with the wishes of your tyrant." chapter ii. "how can a respectable household put up with such a servant!" thought truyn, as he waited in the hall of the little swiss cottage which stood between the park at schneeburg and the vegetable garden, and had been appropriated to the son of the late owner of the soil. a slatternly woman with a loose linen wrapper hanging about her stout figure had come towards him, and after an affirmative reply to his inquiry if the count were at home, screamed shrilly: "malzin! some one to see you!" and vanished in the interior of the house. an unpleasant suspicion assailed truyn. "can that be...." the next moment all else was forgotten in distress at the changed appearance of a fair, pale young man who rushed up to him exclaiming: "erich!--you here!" "fritz, fritz!" said truyn in a broken voice, fairly clasping his unfortunate cousin in his arms. of all mortals he who has voluntarily resigned the position in which he was born is the most embarrassing to deal with. he has by degrees broken with his fellows, and, almost like an outcast, seems scarcely to know how to comport himself when accident throws him among his former associates; when he meets one of 'his people' he usually alternates between intrusive familiarity and embittered reserve. there was nothing of all this, however, about fritz. he was so simple and cordial, that truyn felt ashamed of having avoided a meeting. fair, with delicate, slightly pinched features, and large melancholy gray eyes, exquisitely neat and exact in his apparel, he looked from head to foot like a cavalry officer in citizen's dress, and in poor circumstances, that is like a man who knew how to invest with a certain distinction even the shabbiness to which fate condemned him. "you cannot imagine what pleasure your visit gives me! when i see one of you it really seems almost as if one of my dear ones had descended from heaven to press my hand," he said with emotion and truyn replied: "i should have come before, but i expected certainly that you .... that ...." "that i ...." fritz smiled significantly, "no, erich, you could hardly ...." "well, well, and how are you? how are you?" said truyn quickly. "i still live," fritz replied, and looked away. just then a voice was heard outside inquiring for "count malzin." "i am not at home, lotti, do you hear, not at home to any body," malzin called into the next room. "come, erich!" and he conducted his guest out of what answered as a drawing-room into a very shabbily-furnished apartment which he called his 'den,' and where truyn at once felt quite at home. "that was young capriani," fritz explained hurriedly, "he probably came to talk with me about the burial vault. perhaps you know that my late father had the vault reserved for us in the contract for the sale of schneeburg. capriani, whom usually nothing escapes, oddly enough overlooked the fact that the vault is in the park, and now he wants me to sell it to him. let him try it--the vault he shall not have--it is the last spot of home that is left to me. i choose at least to lie in the grave with my people! but let us talk of something pleasanter. you are all well, are you not?--but there is no need to ask, i can see it by looking at you. and i know all about your domestic affairs from ossi." "he comes to see you often?" "yes," said fritz, "and every time with a fresh scheme for my complete relief from all difficulties, which he always unfolds with the same fervid enthusiasm. the schemes are impracticable, but never mind! existence always seems more tolerable to me while i am talking with him, and when he has gone, it is as if a soft spring shower had just passed over, purifying and freshening the air. there really is something very remarkable about the fellow. with all his fiery energy, he is so unutterably tender; ordinarily when a man situated as i am comes in contact with such a favorite of fortune, he inevitably feels annoyed--it is like a glare of light for weak eyes. but there is nothing of the kind with him--he warms without dazzling,--he understands how to stoop to misery, without condescending to it." "yes, yes, he has his good qualities," truyn grumbled, "very good qualities. but he has stolen from me my little comrade's heart, and i cannot say i am greatly pleased." "you do not expect me to pity you on the score of your future son-in-law?" said fritz, laughing. "not exactly--if i must have one, then ...." "then thank god that just these young people have come together," fritz said in that tone of admonition, which even young men, when forsaken of fortune, sometimes adopt towards their happier seniors. "do you know what he has done for me--among other things--just a trifle?" "how should i? he certainly would never tell me." "of course not! we had not seen each other for years, but he came to see me as soon as he knew that i was at schneeburg, and asked me if he could do anything for me. i thought it kind, but did not take his words seriously and so thanked him and assured him he could do nothing. he came again, bringing presents for the children with kind messages from his mother, and asked me to dinner. when we retired to the smoking-room after that dinner he said to me with the embarrassed manner of a generous man, about to confer a benefit: 'fritz, tell me frankly; does no old debt annoy you?' of course, at first i did not want to confess, but at last i admitted that a couple of unliquidated accounts did trouble me. an unstained name is a luxury that is the hardest of all to forego. he arranged everything, and now i am perfectly free from debt. he has such a charming way of giving, as if it were the merest pastime. i once asked him how a man as happy as he, found so much time to think for others? he answered that happiness was like a rose-bush, the more blossoms one gives away, the more it flourishes!" "yes, yes, he certainly is a fine fellow.--we quarrel sometimes, but he is a very fine fellow!" said truyn, "he suits the child--you must know her. and what about your children? ossi says they are very pretty--you have three, have you not?" "no, only two," fritz replied, and his voice trembled as he took a little photograph from the wall--"only two; my eldest died. look at him--" handing the picture to truyn, "he was a pretty child, was he not?--my poor little siegi--but too lovely, too good for the life that had fallen to his lot. he is better dead--better!" he uttered in the hard tone in which the reason asserts what the heart denies. from the park the vague, dreamy fragrance of the fading white rocket was wafted into the room. the light flickered dimly through the leafy screen of the apricot tree before the open window that looked out upon the vegetable garden. on fritz's writing-table the old empire clock, wheezing in its struggle for breath, struck five times. truyn knew the old timepiece well, but formerly it used to swing its pendulum as merrily on into eternity as if it expected a fresh delight every hour. it seemed as if by this time it had almost lost its voice from grief, so asthmatic was the sob with which it counted the seconds. and not only with the clock, with everything around him truyn was familiar. the entire shabby apartment betrayed a fanatical worship of the past. the chairs were the same monstrosities with lyre-shaped backs and crooked legs, which had been wont to endure the angry kicks of the little malzins, when their tutor kept them too long at their lessons. even the pattern of the wall-paper, with its apocryphal birds and butterflies among impossible wreaths of flowers, was the same which a travelling house-painter had pasted up there thirty years before. but what most struck truyn, was the decoration on one of the low doors in the thick wall--it was marked all over with lines in pencil and scribbled names. upon that door the young malzins used to record their growth from year to year. "pipsi, ," he read, "and something over," "erich,"--he smiled involuntarily, and read on,--"oscar ," and then far below in uncertain characters looking as if an elder sister had guided the hand of a very little child, "fritzl." and through truyn's memory there sounded the crumpling of copy-book leaves--of childrens' voices, of cramer's exercises, and of sleepily recited latin verbs. yes, even the peculiar fragrance of lavender and fresh linen, formerly exhaled from the light chintz gown of his pretty cousin, came wafting to him over the past. "this is your old school-room!" he exclaimed. "of course it is," said fritz, "can you guess whom i have to thank for keeping it intact?" "the avarice of your principal?" "no, the delicacy of his wife. before i moved in here she said to me, 'my husband wished to have the house put in order for you, herr count, but i thought that perhaps you liked old associations, and i therefore beg you to make only what changes you think best.'" "a good woman!" truyn murmured. just then an extraordinary figure entered the room,--the same female that truyn had encountered in the hall, but splendidly transformed, tightly laced, with cheeks covered thick with pink powder--fritz malzin's wife! "very good of you," she began after fritz had presented truyn to her. her voice had the forced sweetness of stage training. "very good to honour our humble dwelling with a visit. may i take the liberty of offering you a cup of coffee, that is, herr count," as truyn evidently hesitated, "if you can put up with our simple fare; in the country, you know, when one is not prepared ...." fritz pulled his moustache nervously. although he had reached the age of gastronomic fastidiousness, and especially abhorred spoiling the appetite between meals, truyn good-naturedly accepted this pretentiously humble invitation. chapter iii. the dining-room, a long narrow apartment with three windows, smelled of fresh varnish and fly-poison; the walls were decorated with dusty laurel wreaths wound about with ribbons covered with gilt inscriptions, and with several photographs of the hostess in tights. the long table was loaded with viands. malzin's children, a girl and a boy, respectively five and three years old, shared the meal. they were pale, and sickly, but extremely pretty with a wonderfully sympathetic expression about the mouth and eyes, reminding one of their father. it was easy to see from the shy gentleness of their demeanour that fritz had taken great pains with their training. he exchanged little tender jests with his small daughter, but he evidently made a special pet of the boy who sat beside him in a high chair, and to whose wants he himself ministered. there was nothing about fritz of the amusing awkwardness of aristocratic fathers, who now and then in an amiable dilettante fashion interest themselves in the care of their offspring. on the contrary it was easy to see from the way in which he set the child straight at the table, tied on the bib, and put the mug of milk into the little hand, that the care of the child was a real occupation of his life. truyn sat beside his hostess murmuring threadbare compliments, touching his lips to his coffee-cup, and crumbling a piece of biscuit on his plate. "you do our fare but little honour," the actress said more than once, "try a piece of this cake, herr count. count capriani who has a french cook, and is accustomed to the very best, always commends it." fritz blushed. "try this cherry cake," he said hastily. "lotti makes it herself. she used always to feast me upon it when we were betrothed--eh, lotti?" this cheery reference to her housewifely skill, offended the actress, and before truyn could make some courteous rejoinder she exclaimed, flushed with anger, "you know, herr count, that where the means are so limited the mistress of the house must lend a hand." truyn stammered something and fritz smiled patiently as he stroked his little son's fair curls. it was a painfully uncomfortable hour. truyn looked from the photographs to the glass fly-traps beneath which innumerable flies were lying on their backs, convulsively twitching out their lives, and his glance finally rested upon his hostess. she was strongly perfumed with musk, and was painted around the eyes. her stout arms were squeezed into sleeves far too tight, and her bust almost met her chin. after this keen scrutiny, however, truyn discovered that she was certainly handsome, that her face although disfigured by too full lips, was strikingly like that of the capitoline venus. the intrusive humility of her manner, seasoned as it was with vulgar raillery, was insufferable. "for this woman!" he repeated to himself again and again. "for this woman!" his eye fell upon a photograph portraying the countess as '_la belle héléne_,' in a costume that displayed her magnificent physique to great advantage, and he suddenly remembered that he had seen her in that rôle; that her acting was bad; but that she produced a dazzling impression on the stage. "did you recognize that picture, herr count?" she asked suddenly. "instantly," he assured her. "did you ever see me play?" "i once had that pleasure." "ah!" a remarkable transformation was immediately manifest, her languid air grew animated, thirst for the triumphs of the past glittered in her eyes. she moved her chair a little closer to truyn and coquettishly leaning her head upon her hand whispered, "were you one of my adorers?" fritz frowned and glanced angrily towards her, twisting his napkin nervously. his attention was suddenly distracted however, by the noise of the blows of an axe resounding slowly and monotonously through the heavy summer air. fritz changed colour, sprang up and hurried to the window. "what is the matter?" the actress asked him negligently. "they are cutting down the old beech," he said slowly, turning not to her, but to truyn.--"the friedrichs-beech; planted by one of our ancestors, joachim malzin, with his own hands after the liberation of vienna; we children all cut our names upon it. don't you remember how madame lenoir scolded us for it, and declared that it was not _comme il faut_, but a pastime befitting prentice boys only? good heavens--how long ago that is!--and now they are cutting it down. capriani insists that it interferes with his view." chapter iv. "if one could only help him!--but there is nothing to be done--absolutely nothing!" thus truyn reflected, as distressed and compassionate, he rode home on his sleek cob, followed by his trim english groom. there are many varieties of compassion not at all painful, which, when well-seasoned with a charming consciousness of virtue, may serve sensitive souls as a tolerable amusement. there is, for example, an artistically contemplative compassion that, with hands thrust comfortably in pockets, looks on at some melancholy affair as at the fifth act of a tragedy, without experiencing the faintest call to recognize its existence except by heaving sundry sentimental sighs. then there is a self-contemplative compassion which, quite as inactive as the artistically contemplative, culminates in the satisfactory consciousness of the comparative comfort of one's own condition; then a decorative compassion, which is displayed merely as a mental adornment upon solemn occasions when the man marches forth clad in full-dress moral uniform. but there is one compassion which is among the most painful sensations that can assail a delicate-minded human being--a compassion, always united to the most earnest desire to aid, to console, and yet which knows itself powerless in presence of the suffering; that longs for nothing in the world more ardently than to aid that which it cannot aid! and this it was that oppressed truyn, as he rode home from schneeburg,--this vain compassion lying like a cold, hard stone upon his warm, kind heart! "if one could only help him, could but make life at least tolerable for him,--poor fritz, poor fellow!" he muttered again and again. the tall poplars, standing like a long row of gigantic exclamation points on the side of the road, cast strips of dark shade upon the light, dusty soil. the crickets were chirping in the hedges; in the wheat-fields to the right and left the ears nodded gently and gravely; red poppies and blue cornflowers--useless, picturesque gipsy-folk, amidst the ripening harvest--laughed at their feet. the clover-fields had passed their prime,--they were brown and a faint odour of faded flowers floated aloft from them. the transparent veil of early twilight obscured the light and dimmed the shadows. how thoroughly truyn knew the road! the inmates of schneeburg and rautschin had formerly been good neighbours. a throng of laughing, beckoning phantoms glided through his mind. out of the blue mist of the morning of his life, now so far behind him, there emerged a slender, girlish figure with long, black braids, and a downy, peach-like face--dark-eyed pipsi, for whom erich, then an enthusiast of sixteen, copied poems--and a second phantom came with her, merry-hearted tilda, who with the pert insolence of her thirteen years used to laugh so mercilessly at the sentimental pair of lovers; and hugo, a rather awkward boy, always at odds with his tutor and his greek grammar. where were they all? hugo went into the army, and was killed in a duel; dark-eyed pepsi married in hungary, and died at the birth of her first child; tilda married a spanish diplomatist--truyn had heard nothing of her for years;--not one of the malzins was left in their native land, save fritz, who at the time of truyn's lyric enthusiasm was a curly-headed, babbling baby, before whose dimples the entire family were on their knees, and who of his bounty dispensed kisses among them. truyn's thoughts wandered on--he recalled fritz as an dashing officer of hussars. he was one of the handsomest men in the army, fair, with a sunny smile and the proverbial malzin conscientiousness in his earnest eyes, very fastidious in his pleasures, almost dandified in his dress; spoiled by women of fashion. "who would have thought it!" truyn repeated to himself, as he gazed reflectively between his horse's ears. suddenly he became aware of a cloud of dust,--and of a delightful sensation warming his heart. he perceived zinka and gabrielle sitting in a low pony-wagon, and behind them in the footman's seat was oswald. zinka was driving, being the butt of much laughing criticism from the other two. how pleased truyn was with the picture, and how often was he destined to recall it, the fair, lovely heads of the two women, the dark, handsome young fellow, who understood so well how to combine a merry familiarity with the most delicate courtesy! how happy they all looked! "you are late, papa!" gabrielle called out. "have i offended you again, comrade?" "but papa--!" "i was beginning to be a little anxious," said zinka, "ossi laughed at me, and said i was like his mother, who if he is half an hour late in returning home from a ride always imagines that he has been thrown and killed on the road, and that the only reason the groom does not make his appearance, is because he has not the courage to tell the sad tidings." oswald laughed. "yes, my mother's fancy runs riot in such images, sometimes," he admitted, stretching out his hand for the reins, that he might help zinka to turn round. "and how is poor fritz?" "wretched--such misery is enough to break one's heart--and no getting rid of it." "and you are no longer angry with him?" oswald asked with a touch of good-humoured triumph. "heaven forbid! but--," truyn rubbed his forehead--"oh, that stock-jobber--that phylloxera!" just then there appeared in the road an aged man, spare of habit and somewhat bent, but walking briskly; his features were sharp but not unpleasant, his arms were long, and his old-fashioned coat fluttered about his legs. "good-day, herr stern," oswald called out to him in response to his bow. truyn doffed his hat and bowed low on his horse's neck. "who is it whom you hold worthy of so profound a bow, papa?" gabrielle asked. "rabbi von selz," truyn made answer, "in times like these such people should be treated with special respect, if only for the sake of the lower classes who always regulate their conduct somewhat by ours." "oho, uncle, your bow was a political demonstration, then," oswald remarked. "to a certain degree," truyn replied, "but stern is, moreover, a very distinguished man." "he is indeed," oswald affirmed, "he is a particular friend of mine--if any one among the people about here maltreats him, he always applies to me. poor devil! the jews are a very strange folk. i always divide them into two families, one related directly to christ, the other to judas iscariot. poesy, the seer, has produced two immortal types of these families, nathan and shylock." "aha, ella, i hope you are duly impressed by your lover, he really talks like a book," truyn rallied his daughter who, her fair head slightly bent backward, was looking over her shoulder at oswald, with rapt admiration in her large eyes. "i invited fritz to dine with you, comrade, the day after to-morrow. he is almost as madly enthusiastic about your betrothed as you are yourself, and you can sing your laudamus together." chapter v. "there is nothing to be done with the fellow.--i never encountered such weakness of mind," exclaimed capriani to his wife. the hour was three, and just before dinner; in accordance with austrian custom, or rather with the national bad habit, they dined at schneeburg at half-past three, although the whole family, especially those of the second generation, accustomed to late foreign hours, found this earlier hour very inconvenient. "of whom are you talking?" madame capriani asked in her depressed tone; she was sitting erect upon a small gilt chair, she wore a gray, silk-muslin gown, rather over-trimmed, _gants de suéde_, and an air of constraint. "of whom are you talking?" she asked a second time, smoothing her gloves. "of whom?--of that blockhead, malzin," growled capriani. "i told you from the first that he would never be able to fill that position," his wife rejoined. "fill--!" capriani shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, "fill--! it takes him two hours to write a business-letter. but i was prepared for that. his office is a sinecure; the salary that i pay him is an alms,--but alfred capriani can do as he pleases there,--and at least the fellow understands something about horses. what outrages me is to see how he squanders my money, the money that i give him. he ransacks the country round to buy back from the peasants relics of his parents. first an old clock, that struck twelve just as he was born, then an old piano, upon which his sisters used to strum the scales. 'tis enough to drive one mad!" frau von capriani looked distressed. "that is a matter of sentiment," she suggested. "a matter of sentiment--a matter of sentiment," capriani repeated sarcastically. "it would be a matter of sentiment and conscience to think of saving up something for his children." "you are right, you are right," the countess rejoined, in her emphatic yet not unmelodious russian-german, "but this time you are in some measure to blame for his folly. i begged you a hundred times to ask him what he would like to keep for himself of the furniture which was entirely useless to us. instead, you had it all put up at auction." "and the proceeds of the sale are to be devoted to the building of a new school, to be entirely independent of ecclesiastical influence," said capriani, "the old rubbish shall aid, willy-nilly, in the spread of modern liberal ideas. it is my aim to root out prejudices not to foster them. would you have me minister directly to malzin's folly? it would be nonsense. it makes me shudder to see this man, who owns nothing, positively nothing, except what i give him out of sheer kindness, and who ought to look ahead, keeping his eyes fixed upon the past, and sentimentally collecting empty bon-bon boxes, the contents of which his forefathers have devoured to the last crumb. he is the personification of the invincible narrowness of his class." "he is a good honest man," the contessa said gently. "honest,--honest!" capriani repeated impatiently, "a man whose desires have been anticipated from his childhood, upon whose plate the pheasants have always fallen ready trussed and roasted, would naturally not contemplate picking pockets. to be sure, he might be tempted to try it, but he can't do it--he is too unpractical to be dishonest. there is nothing praiseworthy in that, for all the honesty that you ascribe to him he is a thorough selfish egotist; without the smallest scruple he robs his own children of thousands." "malzin!" frau von capriani exclaimed, "why he would let his ears be cut off for his children, and if he refused to lose his hands too, it would only be because he needed them to work for his family." "to work!" rejoined capriani ironically. "if he would only sacrifice for their sakes his miserable pride of rank he could do far more for them than by his work! he--and work! do you know what reply he made to my splendid offer for his family vault? 'the vault is not for sale, it is the only spot of home that is left me. i will at least lie among my people when i am dead!' can you conceive of greater insolence?" "insolence--poor malzin--he is as modest....!" "modest!" sneered capriani, interrupting her, "he is fairly bristling with arrogance. a starving pauper, living on my bounty, and all the while thinking himself superior to all of us. intercourse with us is not at all to his taste." "he is always exquisitely courteous to me. i like him very much," frau von capriani declared. her husband's constant attacks upon malzin were beyond measure painful to her. "men of his stamp are always gracious to ladies," snarled capriani. meanwhile his two children had entered the room, arthur and ad'lin, both in faultless toilettes, and both out of humour. the self-same weariness weighs upon both, the weariness of idlers who do not know how to squander time gracefully. perhaps georges lodrin is not far wrong when he maintains that to idle away life gracefully is an art most difficult to acquire, and rarely learned in a single generation. both asked fretfully whether the post had come, and then each sank into an arm-chair and fumed. one by one the various guests then staying in the castle appeared. paul angelico orchis, a conceited little versifier, (lauded in the blanktown gazette as 'the first lyric poet of modern times') and the possessor of a dyspepsia acquired at the expense of others. a farce by him had been produced in blanktown, and for ten years he had been promising the public a tragedy. meanwhile his latest effort was the invention of a picturesque waterproof cloak. frank, the famous tailor carried out his idea in dark brown tweed, in which the poet draped himself upon every conceivable occasion. after him followed two men of the kind which georges lodrin describes as 'gentlemen at reduced prices,' stunted specimens of the aristocracy, who played a very insignificant part in their own circles, and from time to time fled to their inferiors in rank to enjoy a little admiration. one, baron kilary, is a sportsman, insolent in bearing, lewd in talk; the other, count fermor, is a dilettante composer and pianist, affected and sentimental. malzin and his wife also entered; while he bowed silently, and then respectfully kissed the hand of the hostess, charlotte congratulated the two ladies upon the splendour of their attire, and lavished exaggerated admiration upon a couple of costly pieces of furniture which she had often seen before. last of all appeared our old acquaintance, the baroness melkweyser, who had been at schneeburg for a week. what was she doing there? the caprianis looked to her for their admission into austrian society, she looked to king midas for the augmentation of her diminished income,--and something too might be gained from country air and regular meals for her worn and weary digestion. chapter vi. it is really melancholy for people who have been accustomed in paris to entertain crowned heads, to be obliged in austria to put up with a few sickly sprigs of nobility. the menu was very elaborate; the clumsy table service came from _froment-munice_ and the china was sèvres of the latest pattern, white, with a coronet and cipher in gilt; the butler looked like a cabinet minister, and the silk stockings of the flunkies were faultless. nevertheless the entire dinner produced a sham, masquerading effect, reminding one more or less of a stage banquet when all the viands are of papier-maché. the hostess, with baron kilary on her right, and fritz malzin on her left, devoted herself almost exclusively to the latter, asking him kindly questions about his children. the host, seated between the baroness melkweyser, and the countess malzin, contented himself with seeing that the actress's plate was kept well supplied, and with exchanging jests with her which were merely silly during soup, but which grew more objectionable at dessert. the baroness melkweyser studied the menu, paul angelico orchis complained of his dyspepsia and asked advice of his neighbour, ad'lin capriani, as to his diet. moreover he testified his gratitude for capriani's hospitality by praising everything enthusiastically. he remarked that he had visited schneeburg formerly, but that he should hardly have recognised the castle again, absolutely hardly have recognised it, it was so wonderfully improved, he could not see how count capriani could have effected so much in so short a time. whereupon the master of the mansion replied with aristocratic nonchalance: "the place had to be made habitable, but there's not much that can be done with it, it is nothing but an old barracks, an inconvenient old barracks." he then held forth at length upon the improvements which he still contemplated, concluding with, "but i have no room--the schneeburg domain is so contracted, so insignificant! unfortunately all the estates which would serve my purpose are owned by people unwilling to sell." madame capriani tried several times unsuccessfully to check her husband, and fritz looked gloomily down into his empty plate. he had always been so proud of his schneeburg, and that it should not be good enough for this swindler, forsooth!---- fermor looked discontented, and talked to adeline about his compositions, betraying at every word the sentimental arrogance of a narrow-minded, lackadaisical, provincial aristocrat, greedy for adulation, and salving his conscience for his new associations, by making himself as disagreeable as possible to the people whose bread he eats. malzin, albeit in a subordinate position, manifested from habit the instinctive reserve of a true gentleman, fearful of wounding the susceptibilities of his inferiors. the conduct of his fellows was in striking contrast to his own. fermor ignored him. kilary on the contrary continually tried to draw him into familiar talk upon subjects of which none of the others knew anything, a course evidently irritating to the host. malzin was, moreover, the only one at table towards whom kilary conducted himself courteously. to the poet he was especially insolent. at dessert he read aloud with sentimental emphasis a couple of bonbon-mottoes, and then asked, "my dear orchis, are these immortal lines your own?" at which the poet vainly tried to smile. the rumour ran that when his finances were at a low ebb he did sometimes place his genius at the disposal of a vienna confectioner. after dinner the gentlemen retired to the smoking-room to smoke, the ladies to the drawing-room to yawn. "i cannot cease looking at you, this evening, comtesse," charlotte malzin exclaimed, seating herself on a sofa beside the daughter of the house, "your gown is enchanting." "very much too picturesque for this part of the world, they can't appreciate these contrasts of colour in this barbarous country," ad'lin said crossly, as she was wont to receive the actress's advances. "they are far behind the age in austria! _dieu, qui l'autriche m'ennuie!_" the actress fell silent, in some confusion. "what had the poet to say to you, ad'lin?" asked the baroness melkweyser, after she had inspected through her eye-glass each piece of furniture in turn in the drawing-room. "that he could not digest truffles, and that he means to dedicate his next work to me." "ah! the first item is highly interesting, and the last uncommonly flattering," the melkweyser rejoined. "yes, it means that i must order at least fifty copies of the interesting effusion," ad'lin said fretfully, adding with a half smile, "people in our position have to encourage literature--_noblesse oblige_!" the baroness bit her lip and resumed her voyage of discovery, turning to a cabinet filled with antique porcelain. "you really cannot think," ad'lin began, leaving her sofa to join her friend, "how i have longed for you! you are the only link here in austria between ourselves and civilization. i depend upon your forming an agreeable circle for us here." it was noteworthy that since zoë's return to her native land, adeline's familiarity had seemed far less acceptable to her than it had been in paris. "an agreeable circle!" she exclaimed, "that is easily said, but you make it very hard for me. you do not want to know our financiers ...." "the austrian financiers have no position; even the rothschilds are not received at court." "and the austrian aristocracy is excessively exclusive on its own soil--!" said zoë. "ah that exclusiveness is a _fable convenue_," ad'lin insisted, "i am convinced that if austrian society knew us ...." instead of replying, the melkweyser directed her eye-glass towards the porcelain on the shelves of the cabinet. "that is the malzin old-vienna tea-service." "yes, but it cannot be used--it is not complete." "i know it, wjera zinsenburg has the other half." "if it would give the countess the slightest pleasure to complete the set, i should be perfectly ready to place this half at her disposal!" capriani's voice was heard to say. the gentlemen had left their cigars and had come to the drawing-room for their coffee. fermor who was too nervous to allow himself the indulgence of a cup of mocha, sat down at the piano, and began to prelude in an affected manner. leaning in a languishing attitude against the raised cover of the piano, ad'lin murmured, "no one but you invents such modulations. you ought to indulge me with a grand composition, count; have you never completed one?" "i am busy now with a work of some scope for a grand orchestra," fermor lisped, dabbing his limp, bloodless hands upon the keyboard like a nervous kangaroo. "ah! a sonata?--an opera?" "no, a requiem; that is a kind of requiem--more correctly a morning impromptu, the last thoughts of a dying poacher." "oh how interesting! pray let me hear it." "it is a rather complicated piece of music, fräulein capriani," fermor always ignores the capriani patent of nobility--"if you are not especially fond of our german classic masters ...." "i adore wagner and beethoven." "then, indeed, i will .... but the harmony is very complicated!" whereupon he began, with closed eyes, after the fashion of pretentious dilettanti, to deliver himself of a piece of music, the beginning of which reminded one of a piano-tuner, and the intermediate portion of the triumphal march of an operetta, and which, after it had lasted half an hour, and the audience had given up all hope of relief, suddenly, and without any apparent reason stopped short, a common termination where there has been no reason for beginning. "_c'est divin!_" ad'lin exclaimed. "your composition, count, reminds me of the intermezzo of the fifth symphony." "you are mistaken, fräulein capriani, my composition recalls no other music!" fermor said, greatly irritated. with his eyes glowing, his full red underlip trembling, and his manner insolently obtrusive, capriani threw himself down beside charlotte malzin upon the sofa and stretched his arm along the back of it behind her shoulders. "come and help me with my work, count malzin," frau von capriani called kindly from her pile of cretonne. "you have so steady a hand." and while fritz took his place beside her, and began to cut a bird of paradise out of the stuff with great precision, kilary took arthur by the buttonhole and said, "you ought to know all about it young man, how must one begin who wants to grow rich?" "you must ask my father," arthur replied insolently. "all that i understand of financial matters is, how to make debts." a servant brought in the letters and papers upon a silver salver. whilst arthur opened a dozen begging letters, and tossed them aside, ironically remarking, "three impoverished countesses--two barons--a captain ..." and whilst ad'lin hailed with enthusiasm two letters from a couple of french duchesses whom she counted among her friends, the conte hurriedly ran his eye over an unpretending epistle which he had instantly opened. his hands trembled, a strange greed shone in his eyes, and quivered about his lips. quite pale, as one is apt to be in a moment of victory he paced the room to and fro once or twice and then stepping directly up to malzin he exclaimed, "what do you think--coal--! schneeburg is a coal-bed. extraordinary! your father tried after madder, and i--have found coal!" malzin shuddered slightly, but merely said, "i congratulate you!" "malzin would never have forgiven himself if your bargain had turned out a poor one," sneered kilary. there was something in his irony that irritated capriani, a rebellion of caste against the autocracy of money, which he chose to punish. as he was powerless with kilary he turned to malzin and said in a tone of insolent authority, "malzin, get me the map of bohemia that lies on my writing-table." at a moment like this the thin varnish of refinement which contact with the world had imparted was rubbed off entirely, he showed himself in all his coarseness, and this not through any recklessness, but intentionally, in the consciousness that he, alfred capriani might do as he chose. at a moment like this he delighted in treading beneath his feet all who did not prostrate themselves before his millions. malzin had attained a height where such insults did not reach him. but the blood mounted to the cheek of the mistress of the mansion. "arthur, go and get the map!" she said gently. fritz languidly prevented him. "you do not know where the thing is," he said good-humouredly and left the room. capriani went on pacing the spacious apartment in long strides. "they are all alike, these blockheads," he muttered, "when they take it into their heads to work they are more stupid than ever. old malzin tried everything; he ruined himself in artificial madder-red, in lager beer, in sugar and in stocks,--and it never occurred to him that millions were lying in the ground beneath his feet." malzin returned with the map and as every table was overcrowded with bibelots and jardinières, it was spread out upon the piano. capriani eagerly travelled over it with his pudgy forefinger. "the track of the new railway must go here, between the iron works and schneeburg." "then it must go a very long round," arthur remarked, "can you obtain the permit?" capriani stuck a thumb in an arm-hole of his waistcoat and smiled. "malzin, you know the estates around here; to whom does that belong?" pointing to a spot upon the map. "that belongs to kamenz," said malzin bending forward, and fitting his eye-glass in his eye. "and that?" "to lodrin." "then it comes to whether the interests of these gentlemen jump with your own," arthur observed. "if they should work against you, you never can obtain the permit." "pshaw! i understand tolerably well how to deal with these gentlemen." "kamenz will give you no trouble, he is up to his neck in embarrassments, and would be glad to dispose advantageously of a piece of his land," drawled kilary, looking at the map and giving his opinion with lazy assurance. "lodrin's affairs cannot be in a very brilliant condition," arthur remarked; "ever since his majority he has been making no end of improvements, and he is hard up financially." "with such an enormous property as the lodrin estate there can be none save temporary embarrassments," kilary said drily, "and in no case would lodrin allow himself to be influenced by personal considerations. if you cannot demonstrate to him that the new railway will conduce to the universal benefit of the whole country he never will agree to it, and unless he does you can do nothing with the present ministry. a comical fellow lodrin--a perfect pedant in some ways." "no," said malzin, "not the least of a pedant, but a hot head with a heart of gold, and when duty is concerned, he is just like his father." "the old idiot," capriani muttered below his breath, slowly as, with an air that was almost tender he stroked his long whiskers, while an odd smile played about his lips. "in fact you are right, malzin,--a charming fellow, ossi--a superb creature; not one of your austrian nobility can hold a candle to him. but i--you'll see, malzin,--i'll twist ossi lodrin around my thumb." half an hour afterwards the guests separated. frau von capriani, more depressed than usual, retired to her room. the gentlemen went to the garden, and shot at a target; conte capriani, who never could bring down a pheasant on the wing, proved more successful than any of the others in hitting the bull's-eye. when the melkweyser, who had been indulging in a short nap, entered the library half an hour afterwards to look for a 'sanitary novel' she found ad'lin deep in the study of a small thick volume. zoë looked over her shoulder; the book was the 'gotha almanach,' the bradshaw of the austrian aristocracy. "what are you looking for?" the baroness asked. "for the fermors--i want to know who the count's mother was. she is not in this year's list. she was a princess brack, was she not?" "no, his mother was a fräulein schmitt, the daughter of a rich tavern-keeper." "ah!" chapter vii. the malzins walked home through the park. fritz looked perturbed. his wife held her head high, and in no agreeable mood chewed at the stalk of a rose which the conte had cut for her. "lotti," fritz began after a while, "i know that you act without reflection; you were a little imprudent to-day; it would be of no consequence with a man of breeding, but from a man like capriani a lady must not allow the least familiarity." "you always find something to lecture me about," she replied sharply. "i have long known that i am not good enough for you. but i must confess that i have never observed that the ladies of your circle are more reserved than those of mine." "you know none of them," fritz rejoined with incautious haste. "you certainly have afforded me no opportunity of knowing them," charlotte retorted, reddening with anger, "although you probably would have done so, had you not been ashamed of me from the first. count truyn has managed to give his wife a position,--but you--you would rather have died than have stirred a finger for me." this was not literally true, for fritz had once knocked off the hat of an acquaintance who had forgotten to remove it in charlotte's presence; on one occasion he had fought a duel on her account, and on another had horsewhipped a slandering editor, but it was substantially true that he had made not the smallest effort to introduce her to his world. he made no reply now to her reproaches, hung his head, and pulled at his moustache. she went on with angry volubility. "you were ashamed to walk in the street with me, and when you took me to the theatre you always hid yourself in the back of the box, and every day you had some fault to find with my ways. i have watched your aristocratic ladies at the races, at the theatre, and at artist's festivals--and their manners are as free--and it must out--as ill-bred ...." "the ill-breeding of a lady of rank," fritz interrupted her impatiently "extends usually only as far as the good-breeding of the man with whom she chances to be." "i don't know what you mean," the opera-bouffe singer replied. "our ladies know that the men whom they honour with their gay talk recognise their little whims, and merry extravagances as tokens of confidence which they would never dream of abusing. we never allow ourselves to step beyond the line which the lady herself draws. familiarities like those which capriani allowed himself toward you to-day are impossible among people of refinement. of course from him nothing better can be expected; low fellow that he is!" "and you are his hired servant," said charlotte. "yes!" he replied, "i am his servant; it is my duty to select his horses and to write his letters, but i am not obliged to dine with him; that is not in the contract. and from this time i shall accept no more of his invitations. i will not expose myself a second time to the annoyance to which you and he subjected me to-day." charlotte began to cry. "you are cruel to me--and rough," she sobbed. "i have put up with poverty for your sake, sacrificed a brilliant career to my love for you----" "yes--yes, i know--i know--i am very sorry for you--but what can i do?" said fritz. "the only pleasure i can enjoy, you want to deprive me of, when i look forward to it from sunday to sunday." "you enjoy it?--what, for heaven's sake do you enjoy about it?" asked fritz, to whom everything at these sunday dinners was an offence, except the gentle eyes and soft voice of the hostess. "i enjoy mingling at last in fine society," she said stubbornly, and as he only stared at her in silence, she went on, "i know that you despise modern fine folk. but my views are broader and freer, and i have no feeling for aristocratic chimeras!" she had indeed no feeling for chimeras with or without the adjective, no feeling for moral and social subtleties, no feeling for honourable traditional superstitions, for fine inherited weaknesses and illusions, no feeling for all that constitute the moral supports of a caste, although they cannot be expressed in words or grasped with the hand. how could this woman comprehend fritz, fritz who had grown up with chimeras, who had made playmates of them in the nursery? he shrugged his shoulders and was silent. just then the wailing of a weak childish voice fell upon the warm evening air. fritz hurried forward; in front of the small arbour, with his little son in her lap, sat an old woman; it was old miller, his nurse in childhood, who had at last found an asylum in a corner of his house. "the little fellow is crying for his father," she said while the boy smiling through his tears stretched out his tiny arms. "the herr count ought not to spoil him so." "never mind that, miller," fritz said taking the child in his arms. "oh, my pale darling, what should we do without each other, hey?" fifteen minutes afterwards fritz was sitting on the edge of a small bed on which his boy was kneeling with folded hands, looking in his snowy night-gown, that fell in straight folds about him, like a veritable luca della robbia. "come, franzi, have you forgotten your prayer?" "in my small bed i lay me here, i pray thee dearest lord be near, about me clasp thy loving arm, and shelter me and keep me warm." the child murmured sleepily, then offered his lips to his father and lay down. it was a childish prayer--but fritz learned it at his mother's knee from her dear lips--reason enough for teaching it to his son. and until the little man fell asleep, his hand under his cheek, fritz still sat on the edge of the bed and dreamed. chapter viii. yes, of a truth, fritz had grown up with chimeras; they had been his playmates, born and bred and domesticated in schneeburg. to them it was due that fritz had married a second-rate actress; that fritz, under all the most distressing circumstances, had still suffered from homesickness, and had taken refuge 'at home;' that he had always possessed a character not merely respectable, but thoroughly noble; never forfeiting the esteem of his equals although stricken from their visiting lists; and that, when in fulness of time he should make ready for the final journey, he might boldly face these very chimeras and say: "often have i sinned against myself, and my own best happiness, but never, never against you; come therefore and help me to die." his father was a gentleman, a philosopher, a freethinker,--a visionary, if you will. he raved about the new gospel of , as one raves about an exotic flower, because of its unparalleled oddity, and from the conviction that it never can endure our climate. he had all kinds of bourgeois intimates and the "contrat social" was his favourite book. but when his son, not from blind passion, but to satisfy conscientious scruples, married an actress, he was beside himself. when fritz, not without a hint as to the circumstances that had led him to the fatal step, announced his marriage, his letter was sent by the old count to his lawyer to answer. he himself refused any further intercourse with his son. had fritz's mother been living, all might perhaps have been different. his wife would have been personally more distasteful to her than to his father, the fact of the connection would have seemed to her more miserable than to the old count; but compassion for her child would have triumphed finally over every other consideration, her heart might have bled, but she would have taken home the distasteful daughter-in-law, and have tried to educate her for her position. at all events she would have known that when a man has trifled away 'the world,' his own home is his true place of refuge. to all this the old count gave never a thought, although he was kind-hearted, and fritz had always been avowedly his favourite. he saw nothing but the misery and degradation of it all; his heart was benumbed by anger. all that was bestowed upon fritz when he married, was his father's curse, the property which he inherited from his mother, and his share of what had belonged to an elder brother who had died. although he had from the outset belonged among the "_forçats du mariage_," he did not for some time feel the burden of his chain and of the enforced companionship. of an intensely sanguine temperament he had a positive genius for looking on the bright side of life. what annoyed him most at first was being obliged, on account of his marriage, to quit the service. he was terribly bored by having to spend the entire day without his comrades or his horses. his yearly income at this time amounted to the modest sum of six thousand gulden. after he had made out a list of necessary expenses,--that is, added up certain figures upon a visiting card with a gold pencil, he came to the conclusion, with a shrug, that a married man could not possibly live upon six thousand gulden a year, and that therefore, under the circumstances, he might allow himself the privilege of contracting debts. of course he would have thought it niggardly to save up anything while in the army; yet he had never been extravagant, he had always at the end of the month had something left over with which to help out a comrade. he hoped to be able to curtail his household expenses; but there were so many things that no respectable man 'could go without,' and still more, which his wife could not deny herself.-- when fritz was quite a little boy, his father had often admonished him as to the serious nature of life, and had impressed him as a younger son with the necessity of restricting his needs as much as possible, and even of earning his own living. his narrow circumstances in the future, had occupied the boy's mind, and one day he opened his heart to his sister's governess, at that time his confidante. he said to her, "madame! papa yesterday told of a contractor who employed people for fifty kreutzers a day.--is that fair?" "certainly, _mon bijou_. why do you ask?" the boy looked very important, and began to reckon on his small fingers, "fifty kreutzers a day--hm--that makes five gulden for ten persons--if i marry, and my wife keeps a maid, and i a man--and if we have six children beside--five gulden a day--i can afford that at least." at twenty-six years of age fritz's ideas with regard to economy were not much more practical. a household with neither man-servant nor maid-servant did not come within his range of possibilities. he spent a couple of weeks with his young wife at the hotel munsch; a hostelry now out of fashion, but having for generations enjoyed the patronage of the malzin family, and after that he hired a pretty suite of second-story rooms in a retired street, and arranged it according to his taste, and as he honestly believed, as moderately as possible. he had none of the snobbishness of an impoverished parvenu, who is ashamed of being obliged suddenly to retrench, and hides his economies as a crime. on the contrary, he exulted boyishly when he had succeeded in procuring at a moderate price some pretty piece of furniture, an old oriental rug, or a carved chest, nor did he ever hesitate to lend a hand himself; he hammered and tacked with his slender fingers, as if he had been bred to such work all his life. and it must be admitted that, with the exception of the drawing-room, which his wife in spite of his remonstrances persisted in disfiguring with green damask hangings, purchased at an auction with her savings, his little home was a masterpiece of tasteful comfort. his former comrades liked to drop in often for a game of cards with him. there was no high play, and the drinking was very moderate, but the supper, the style of the company, and the company itself, were always alike exquisite. the only disturbing element at these unostentatious gatherings was the mistress of the household, who sat opposite her husband at supper, affected and peevish in manner, and really bored by the high-bred and respectful courtesy with which she was treated. at first fritz had indulged in ideal schemes of educating his wife, but they all came to grief. there was no trace in the wife of the docile devotion of the betrothed. a woman whose whole heart is her husband's never feels humiliated by his superiority. her whole being aspires to him, her perceptions become all the more acute, and in a very short while she learns to divine, to avoid, whatever may offend him. this was, however, by no means the case with charlotte. her love for fritz was of a very humdrum kind, and comprehension of him she had none. she did not acknowledge his superiority. all his good-humoured little preachments upon manners, she listened to with stubborn irritability. she was characterized to an extreme degree by the obdurate narrow-mindedness which sneers conceitedly at everything unlike itself, and absolutely refuses to learn. fine clothes and pedantic affectations awed her, but she had no appreciation for the simple good-breeding of a man whose manners are the natural outgrowth of the habits of his class. genuine good-breeding is like a mother-tongue which is spoken from childhood unconsciously as to its source, and correctly, without a thought of conjugations and declensions. this she neither knew nor understood; she was far better pleased with the artificial manners which are acquired when one is grown up, like a foreign tongue from the grammar, and which are continually seasoned with pretentious quotations, from modern dictionaries of etiquette. the difference between count fritz and a smugly-dressed bagman, lay in her eyes solely in the title. before long fritz grew tired of trying to educate her, and confined himself merely to the most necessary admonitions. time passed--and there was a cradle hung with green silk in the countess's room, and within it lay a boy of rare beauty. charlotte petted and caressed her child with the instinct of tenderness shown by the lower animals towards their young, an instinct which fades out gradually, as soon as the offspring can forego its mother's physical care. fritz rejoiced over the little fellow and had him christened siegfried after the old count his father, to whom he announced the birth of his grandson, hoping that it might help to bring about a reconciliation with the angry parent. but the count took no notice of the announcement. at first fritz's paternal sentiments were by no means enthusiastic, and if at times he caressed the little man, it was more out of kindness towards the mother than out of real interest in the child. on one occasion, however, he happened to enter the nursery just before going out, his hat on his head. the little one was in his bath, an expression of absolute physical comfort in his half-closed eyes, and on his plump little body, every dimple of which could be seen distinctly beneath the clear water. fritz stopped, and playfully sprinkled a few drops of water upon the pretty baby-face. the child opened wide his eyes, and when his father repeated the play, the little one chuckled so merrily that it sounded like the cooing of doves, while throwing back his head and clinching his rosy fists upon his breast. a few days afterward fritz went again to the nursery; this time the boy was just out of his bath and was being dried in the nurse's lap. he recognised his father and stretched out his plump arms to him. fritz could not help tickling him a little, touching his dimples with a forefinger, and catching hold of the wee hands; a strange sensation crept over him at the touch of the pure warm baby-flesh. from that time he went into the nursery every day, if only for a moment. the child grew more and more lovely. his little pearly teeth appeared, and soft, golden hair hung over his forehead. he soon began in his short frocks to creep on all-fours over the carpet, and even to rise to his feet, holding by some article of furniture; and once, as fritz was watching him with a languid smile, the boy suddenly left the chair against which he was leaning, and proudly and laboriously putting one foot before the other, advanced four steps towards his father, upon whose knee he was placed triumphantly quite out of breath with the mighty effort. when a little girl appeared as a claimant for the green-draped cradle, a pretty diminutive bedstead was placed in fritz malzin's room. what good comrades they were, papa, and siegi! fritz talked to the little fellow of all sorts of things that he never mentioned to any one else, of his loved ones, of his home! and siegi would look at him out of his large eyes, as earnestly as if he understood every word. long before he could put words together, the boy learned to say "grandpapa," and when his father, pointing to the photograph of an old castle, that hung framed in the smoking-room, asked "siegi, what is that?" the little fellow would reply "neeburg." the child was his father's friend, his companion, and was loved with an idolatry such as only those fathers can know who are estranged from their wives, and have no other interest in life. of course the child had a french bonne, but her post was almost a sinecure. fritz scarcely lost sight of the child for a moment. shortly after his removal to wiplinger street he had become convinced by certain calculations, that, in view of the high price demanded by hack-drivers, it was a great economy to keep horses. the result of these calculations was attained after the fashion of the clever man who demonstrated clearly that it is far cheaper to live in a first-class hotel than in one of the second class. when siegi was barely three years old, fritz used to put him on the seat beside him in his dog-cart, and drive with him in the prater. for greater security the child was tied fast to the back of the seat with a broad, silken scarf. count malzin's dog-cart was soon one of the best-known turn-outs in the prater; the picturesque, lovely child beside the handsome, distinguished man could not fail to attract notice. siegi was always dressed in good taste, and his soft curls lay like gold upon his shoulders. from time to time his little face was turned up eagerly to his father with some childish question. then fritz would bend over him with a smile, and sometimes put his arm around him. it was a positive delight to see them thus together. many a lady who since fritz's marriage had returned his bow but coldly, now nodded to him kindly as they gazed after the child. once on a lovely day in april, fritz alighted from his dog-cart with his little son and took him to walk, as was customary in vienna, in the prater. he was surrounded in a few minutes by a group of ladies with whom he had formerly been acquainted. siegi had a triumphant success, every one wanted a kiss or a pat from his little hand. "exquisite!" exclaimed one after another. "what a little angel! malzin, you must bring the child to see us." "fritz, do bring him to see me to-morrow at five, my children take their dancing-lesson then. you will come, won't you? you know the way." and fritz, flattered, smiled and bowed. * * * since his marriage he had not gone into society; but for his boy's sake he accepted these invitations; the little fellow must learn to associate with his equals. fritz resolved that he himself should alone endure the consequences of his folly, his son should not suffer from it. although well-bred people of rank in their normal condition usually train their children to a conventional modesty of demeanour, fritz, on the contrary, took pleasure in making his son almost haughty, he, whose own lack of all pretention had been a by-word! when pride stands on the defensive, it always deteriorates somewhat. * * * in spite of the modest scale of his household expenses, fritz found to his surprise that during the first year he had spent just double his income. "it is always so the first year," he consoled himself by thinking, but when the second year was no better but much worse, the matter began to annoy him. at his card-parties, which were still kept up, although charlotte but seldom appeared at them, (a relief usually purchased by fritz with a box for her at the theatre,) one of the guests was a certain baron schneller, a good-natured, well-to-do fellow, who had no taste for earning money, and was in consequence rather in disgrace with his family, who showed great diligence in that direction. he squandered his income among antiquities and ballet-girls. his volunteer year he had served in fritz's squadron. in his embarrassment fritz applied to schneller, and asked whether he knew of any more profitable investment for money than austrian government bonds? whereupon the banker's indolent son replied that he himself always invested upon principle in mortgages, but if fritz wanted to know, he would ask his brother, who was at the head of his father's banking-firm. the next day he came, in his good-natured way, to see fritz, bringing a list of 'safe stocks,' which were just then paying enormous dividends, and saying "my brother sends his regards, and begs you to consider him entirely at your service in any financial operation." with characteristic carelessness, fritz delivered over his property to the banker, and the banker protested that it was an honour to oblige the young gentleman. after this fritz felt free to spend three times as much as before. his property swelled and swelled without his comprehending the mysterious reasons for its increase. at last it began to assume the most unexpected dimensions. this lasted for some time. one day the banker informed the young count that he was a millionaire, and asked him at the same time if he did not wish to realize. "where is the use?" said fritz, "there is no hurry,--er--i'll have a talk with you about it one of these days. i have no time just now." he had promised the children to take them to the circus; of course he had no time for business. he was dining with schneller, when he suddenly heard a young government official, who did not belong exactly to financial circles, say. "a sorry prospect--the evening papers say that the sternfeld-lonsbergs are shaky." fritz was startled. little as he troubled himself about business affairs, he knew that the greatest part of his property was invested in sternfeld-lonsbergs. he looked fixedly at his host, who, however, only shrugged his shoulders, and remarking, "merely an insignificant depression," scraped a piece of turbot from the half-denuded vertebrae of the fish which the servant was handing him. fritz continued to talk to his fair neighbour with the self-possession of a thoroughly well-bred man, while the japanese dinner-service, with the cut glass, and flowers on the table danced wildly before his eyes. after dinner, his eye-glass in his eye, and a pleasant smile on his lips, he took occasion to glance furtively at a paper, lying on a little table. his blood fairly ran cold; suddenly baron schneller stood beside him. "you are entirely wrong to be worried," he asserted, and fritz laughed and shrugged his shoulders as if the affair in question were a mere bagatelle. but the next day he wrote a note to the banker begging him to dispose of his stock for him. the banker dissuaded him from selling, the market was unfavourable; for the present he insisted the only thing to do was to wait. fritz complied; shortly afterwards the banker advised him to take part in a complicated transaction which fritz took no pains to understand, but which schneller assured him positively would result in enormous profits. it was simply a reckless piece of stock-gambling. fritz agreed to everything--what did he know about it? his financial affairs began to inconvenience him more and more. he wanted to be rich. just at this time he had to pay a couple of large bills, which had not been presented for three years. he thought of his father. good heavens! the old count could not be angry still. but, after years of alienation he could not in a financial difficulty make up his mind to appeal to him without further preface. "no, no, that will not do," he said to his small confidant, siegi. "we must first see whether grandpapa cares for us, and if he does then we will make our confession; if not--_vogue la galère_." he never guessed the terrible misery that menaced him. poverty was a phantom of which he had heard, without believing in it--it was as incomprehensible to him as death to a perfectly healthy man. and so siegi's bonne had to dress the boy in his newest sailor suit, and his father took him to be photographed. the picture was excellent. fritz took a boyish delight in it, and showed it to all his acquaintances. he thought it impossible that the grandfather could resist that cherub face. he wrote the old count a letter, every word of which came warm from his heart, telling him how he longed to see him, and then he guided siegi's hand--the boy had just begun to write the alphabet large between pencilled lines--to write upon the back of the photograph: "dear grandpapa, love me a little--i send you a kiss and i am your little grandson. siegi." he awaited an answer in feverish but almost unwavering hope. the fourth day brought a letter from schneeburg. fritz recognised his father's handwriting and hurriedly tore open the envelope. it contained nothing save siegi's photograph, which the old count had returned without a word. fritz clinched his fist and stamped his foot. then he lifted his little son in his arms, kissing and caressing him as if to atone to the boy for the insult cast on him. it was impossible to ask any favour of one who could act thus, even were he his father. this was at the end of september, and shortly afterwards came ruin, utter inevitable ruin! not modest poverty which privately plucks our sleeve and whispers, "retrench--economize!" no, but downright brutal poverty, that seizes us by the collar with a dirty hand and wrenching us out of the warm soft nest of our daily habits, casts us out into the cold barren street with "starve! vagabond! freeze!" the million had disappeared, and when the banker, schneller, announced to fritz his ruin, he added, "of course you cannot be forced to meet your obligations, herr count. the matter lies partly in your own hands." fritz stared at him! the worst of it all was that his property was not sufficient to cover his indebtedness! a multitude of petty creditors suddenly flocked around, saddlers, tailors, shoemakers, upholsterers, whose bills mounted to thousands. fritz was beside himself. small tradesmen must not lose by him. he broke up his entire household, and disposed of everything, from the oriental rugs in his smoking-room, to siegi's black velvet suit and venetian lace collar. but with all that he could do he could not pay every one. some of the lesser creditors were coarse and pressing, but most of them only meekly twirled their caps about in their hands, murmuring, "we can wait, herr count; we rely entirely upon the herr count." he lived through each day dully, almost apathetically. the dreariness and emptiness of his house made no impression upon him. when the time came for him to part with his horses--a member of the _jeunesse dorée_ of vienna bought them at a high price--he took siegi and went down into the stable, where he fed the beautiful creatures with bread and sugar, and stroked their heads and patted their necks; and when he turned and left them neighing and snorting with delight--it seemed to him that a piece of his heart were being torn from out his breast!.... * * * every day his wife asked him when he was going to appeal to his father, but he made no reply. after the insult that the old count had offered to his darling, nothing should ever induce him to make another appeal. nothing? so he thought then. "my father must have heard of my unfortunate circumstances," he said to himself, "and if it does not occur to him to help me, there is nothing that i can do." he determined to find a situation,--of course one befitting his name and station. if every ancient noble name to-day in austria cannot lay claim, as in france in louis the fourteenth's time, to an office at court, or to a salary, there are at least a hundred kinds of sinecures that can afford the means of living suitably for their rank, to young scions of the nobility who have not sinned against the prejudices of their caste. his fatal marriage aggravated the difficulties of malzin's position. the horizon of his existence contracted and darkened more and more. the dogged determination which, closing accounts with the past, resolutely clears away the débris of a ruined life from the path which is to lead to a new existence, fritz did not possess. his was the passive endurance of pride, which calmly bows beneath the burden, and drags on with it to the end, simply because it scorns to complain or to appeal to compassion. _one_ feeling only was stronger within him than pride, and that was love for his children. were he alone concerned, he would rather have starved than prefer a second request after the first had been refused, but he could not bring himself to see his children slowly starve. he applied to several individuals who had always been on terms of great intimacy with his family, but after some had refused to receive him, and others had ignored his request with a forced smile, he felt paralysed, and resigned himself for a while to melancholy, brooding inactivity. there must come a change sooner or later, he thought. in the meanwhile he lived upon--debt, and could not comprehend why professional usurers should need so much urging to induce them to lend him, the probable heir of schneeburg, a paltry couple of hundred gulden. had he been more exactly informed of his father's circumstances, this would not have surprised him so much. but he had heard nothing of the old count for years. a strange repugnance had prevented his speaking of him to strangers,--it would only expose his own unfortunate estrangement from his father to their indiscreet curiosity. every day he had a secret hope, although he hardly admitted it to himself, that the old count would take pity upon him, and suddenly appear providentially. but his father did not appear, and thus it was that finally he, fritz malzin, with his wife and children occupied two dingy third-story rooms in leopold street, rented from his mother-in-law, who kept a lodging-house for gentlemen. charlotte from morning until night bewailed her husband's unconscionable heedlessness, but in reality she was much happier than in wipling street. to lounge about all the morning in a slatternly dishabille, to help prepare the breakfast for the lodgers, to gossip a little and flirt a little, and then in the evenings to array herself in the finery which she had contrived to smuggle into her present quarters, and to go to ronacher's or some other beer-garden, where half a dozen second and third-rate coxcombs addressed her as 'frau countess,' and paid court to her,--such a life was bliss after the tedium of her former existence. she went out every evening, leaving fritz at home with the children, revolving all kinds of improbable possibilities which might suddenly improve his condition, and devising schemes dependant upon lucky accidents that never happened. sometimes a little warm hand was thrust into his; and a soft voice whispered to him: "papa, tell me a story!" then rousing himself from his sad reveries, he would try to make up some merry tale, but siegi would shake his head, and nestling close to his father with his arms clinging about his neck and his head leaning against his father's cheek would beg, "tell me about schneeburg, papa." the winter with its long nights wore on in close rooms poisoned by coal-gas, and pervaded by the cramping sensation of wretched confinement. spring came; siegi had lost his rosy cheeks, and his merry laugh. every afternoon towards sunset his father took him out to walk. the child coughed a little. one warm day in april the clouds were hanging low, while ever and anon in the narrow street a swallow skimmed anxiously to and fro. siegi was weary, and his little feet dragged one after the other, when suddenly he pulled his father's hand, joyously shouting: "papa, papa--look--don't you see?--there is our miesa!" fritz looked. it did not take an old 'cavalry man' an instant to recognize in an animal harnessed to a fiacre, one of his handsome horses of aforetime. "miesa! how are you, old girl?" he said caressingly. the creature recognised him instantly, and whinnied her delight. fritz patted her neck and lifted siegi up that he might kiss the white star on the animal's forehead, as he used to do. then they resumed their walk. without saying a word fritz stroked his little son's cheek;--it was wet with tears. the poor little fellow was crying silently, for fear of grieving his father! fritz felt a strange, choking sensation. he took the boy to a confectioner's, but the child could eat nothing. that night siegi was taken ill. the physician pronounced it inflammation of the lungs. lying in his father's arms for three days and nights, the boy suffered fearfully, and then the crisis was over. at the end of three weeks the little fellow could leave his bed, but he was paler and weaker than ever. during siegi's illness fritz borrowed a hundred gulden from a former friend. shortly afterwards he saw this friend in the street and was advancing to meet him when he saw him cross over the way with the evident intention of avoiding him. fritz's blood was stirred at this, and blind, reckless rage seized him. the paltry hundred should be repaid at any cost. he sold his winter overcoat, and the golden chronometer which his father had given to him on his sixteenth birthday, and which was to have been an heirloom for siegi. he paid the hundred gulden--but ah, how often he repented it! chapter ix. among the lodgers at the widow schmitt's, as charlotte's mother was called, was a sallow-faced old woman, whose room was a small, dark, comfortless hole, and who wore the same shabby, green gown, summer and winter, year in and year out. she was known as frau pick, and she was a professional beggar. one day, on returning from some humiliating errand, fritz heard one of his sisters-in-law call to his wife: "pick is waiting."--"i am ready," was the reply, and charlotte came out into the passage with a letter in her hand. fritz sprang to meet her, snatched the letter from her, forced her back into the room and, entering, closed the door behind them. the letter was addressed to the archbishop of vienna. "what does this letter contain?" he asked angrily, seizing her so rudely by the wrist, that she screamed and fell upon her knees before him; she did not answer his question, however. "is it a begging-letter?" "yes." he thrust her from him indignantly. "shame upon you!" he exclaimed. "it is all your fault!" she replied scornfully, "if you won't work, i must beg." "ah!"--he staggered as if from a blow full in the face, snatched up his hat and went out. before night he had a situation in the office of a tramway company, at a hundred gulden a month. the summer was more sultry than usual. the air in vienna seemed fever-laden. the trees in ring street no longer rustled dreamily as in spring, there was a sound among their parched leaves as of a low cough. if a rose bloomed out in the public gardens in early morning, before evening it looked dry and withered, like a reveller returning from a masked ball; the blue danube was as tawny as a canal, and vienna reminded one more than ever of manzanares. the theatres were deserted, the tramways overcrowded, all who could went out into the country. pedestrians hugged the wall on the shady side of the street; the skies were one monotone of blue. the glare of the house-fronts made the eyes ache. the pestilent summer atmosphere of cities hung over vienna, saturated with decay, and reeking with filth. a deadly epidemic broke out; in almost every block one met a sad litter, borne by silent sanitary officials. * * * siegi grew weaker and more weary day by day; he coughed a little but never complained. fritz consulted his old family physician who merely prescribed nourishing food and country air. fritz insisted upon knowing whether any danger was to be apprehended--the old man remained silent, and of a sudden the father felt that freezing thrill that comes of touching a corpse. for the first time he recognized the possibility of the child's death. all his pride broke down at the thought; he wrote immediately to his father, unfolding to him his own need and the child's condition, and imploring permission to bring the boy to schneeburg. days passed into weeks; his letter was unanswered. he lived on mechanically with sufficient mental force to fulfil his duties at the office. he performed them slowly and with difficulty, but he was treated with consideration. even had there been a way close at hand out of the misery he could hardly have found it now. every morning siegi's weak little voice sounded weaker, as he said, when his father left him, "come back soon!" why had he repaid that hundred gulden? there was no conceivable humiliation to which he would not gladly now have submitted could he but procure for siegi the comforts that were needed! but to have to haggle over the price of an orange or of an ice! there were moments, when he ground his teeth, and in his heart avowed that he was ready and willing to beg, to steal for siegi. but not every one who will, can be a rogue. once or twice he met a 'friend' who still lingered in vienna. he advanced towards him--with words of begging on his lips--only to be seized with a fit of trembling--no, he could not--he could not--it was impossible! and scarcely had his 'friend 'passed by before he cursed himself for his--cowardice. weaker and weaker grew the child. once fritz took it to the prater to amuse it. the gay music of the band, the carriages, all that the summer had left, in which the boy had once found such delight, now cut him to his little heart. they sat together upon a bench, beneath the dusty trees. the child looked at the throng of vehicles with eyes wide and fixed--the father looked at his son. "does it amuse you? do you like it, siegi?" he asked, bending tenderly over him; the boy smiled faintly and said, "yes, papa!" but, in a few moments he leaned his tired little head against the father's breast and lisped, "let us go home." only a little while longer and siegi could not leave his bed--and fritz heard the dread word 'consumption!' he knew that it could be only a question of weeks, and sometimes said to himself that it would be better for the child if death would come quickly. but he thrust the thought from him. no, no, he yearned to hear as long as possible the little voice, and to stroke the thin cheek. the rosy childish face was wan and pinched, the arms looked like little brown sticks, the delicate tracery of the blue veins about the temples grew daily more distinct, the brow grew more like marble.... then came mornings when fritz, going early to his office, feared that he should not find the child living upon his return in the evening. as he mounted the stairs when he came home his heart would seem to stand still--he would enter the room very softly. the little head would move on the pillow, a hoarse little voice would gasp: "papa!" and the father's heart would leap for joy! it came towards the end of august--in a heavy, stifling, sultry night. he was alone with his child. charlotte had retired; she could not look upon death. the heat was intolerable. the windows were wide open, but they looked out upon a court where the air was no cooler than in the sick-room. the fragrance of the roses and mignonette, which fritz had brought home with him to perfume the air a little, floated sadly through the small room. it seemed as if the death struggle of the flowers mingled with the death struggle of the child. siegi lay in his little bed, propped up with pillows. his breathing was so short and quick that it could hardly be counted. "papa!" he gasped from time to time. "what, my darling? do you want anything?" "no,--only--when are we going to schneeburg?" "soon, my pet--very soon!" the child became half unconscious, tossed from side to side, and plucked vehemently at the sheet with his emaciated little hands. delirium set in, he laughed aloud, chirrupped to imaginary horses, and then with a thin, quavering little voice, began to sing an old french nursery song that his bonne had taught him: "_il était un petit navire_...." poor fritz's blood ran cold, he took the child in his arms, and clasped him close. the cooler air of dawn breathed through the room--the light of the poor candle flickered strangely. gray shadows danced on the wall like phantoms--the low chirp of a bird was heard in the distance. suddenly the flame of the candle leaped up and died out. fritz started and gazed at the child--it was dead! chapter x. the next morning fritz received a letter from his father enclosing a draft for a thousand-gulden note, coupled with the old count's cordial and anxious words. his son's last letter had reached him in the most complicated roundabout way; he had just returned from a voyage to australia, and had known nothing of fritz's unfortunate circumstances. in reply fritz merely wrote, "the child is dead." * * * it was the afternoon after the funeral, and fritz was all alone in the house. charlotte had taken the children for a little walk; there was a sharp ring at his door. he rose and opened it. a white-haired old gentleman of distinguished mien, asked, "is count malzin----" "father!" stammered fritz. the old man advanced a step, eagerly scanned the face that had grown wan and haggard almost past recognition, then opened wide his arms and clasped his son to his heart. all anger, all bitterness on both sides was forgotten. they sat down in the dim, sordid room in which siegi had died, and fritz laid bare his heart. they sat close enough to read the deep sympathy in each other's eyes, and to hear each other's low tones, and in the midst of his inconsolable grief, fritz rejoiced in being once more with some one who understood him, some one to whose loving compassion he could confide the wretchedness of his life. he told his father everything; of his marriage, of his imprudence--of his misery. he soon perceived that the old count had believed charlotte to be worse than she was, and therefore had refused to acknowledge siegi as his grandson. but that was all past and gone! he made his son bring out all the likenesses of the dead boy, and was absorbed in every detail concerning him; he asked endless questions, and seemed as if he would thereby fain have assumed a share of his son's overwhelming grief, relieving fritz of it to that extent at least. at last steps were heard outside, and charlotte entered with the children. fritz winced. "father, this is my wife." the grand old count advanced to meet her as if she were a princess, called her "daughter" and kissed her forehead. he could not sufficiently caress and pet the children. the next morning fritz with the children paid him a visit at the hotel munsch, and they took leave of each other with affectionate cordiality. "of course you will come to schneeburg with your family as soon as possible," the old count said anxiously, as they parted. "you need your home, my poor boy." and fritz rejoiced--in the midst of all his grief,--at the thought of home. they had already begun to get ready to leave vienna, when a letter arrived from schneeburg. "dear fritz, hard as it is to write it, i must ask you not to give up your situation in vienna for the present. my poor, dear boy, i can do nothing for you until my affairs are arranged. only have patience and all will soon be well, etc...." * * * when the hoped-for arrangement was completed it was discovered that the old count was penniless. in his costly expedients to raise money he had begun frittering away his property and then--it seemed incredible--he became infected with the general mania for finding millions on the highway, and had entangled himself in a colossal speculation in australian gold mines. conte capriani, with whom he had become acquainted in vichy, had convinced him of the certainty of gain in the affair. capriani's name alone was sufficient warrant for the value of the stock. the old count was made president of the company; his name was used to inspire the public with confidence,--his noble old name which he had borne so honourably for sixty-five years! the first year the company paid enormous dividends--out of their capital. in the second year matters began to look suspicious. the conte slowly withdrew from the scheme--he found that certain things were different from what he had supposed; he had been falsely informed.... he advised the count, who went to paris to consult him, to dispose of his stock slowly without exciting suspicion. but the count would not listen to anything of the kind. he had pledged himself to the public, his easy confidence had induced hundreds of men to buy the stock, he had urged many of them to do so thinking it was for their advantage. among them were poor people, impoverished relatives, nay even old servants, his children's former tutors who had invested all their savings in this unfortunate scheme, upon his recommendation. he was beside himself, bought up as much of the stock as he could, and went himself to australia to investigate matters. he, who in his whole life from his school-days up had never known anything of figures beyond what enabled him to keep the reckoning at whist, now ciphered and calculated, bringing all his powers of mind to bear upon the possibilities of profit. he found matters by no means as desperate as had been represented in europe--the affair might have been made a success with prompt energetic management; what was needed was more capital. but the confidence of the stockholders was shaken; the count upon his return to europe tried in vain to issue fresh stock, he applied fruitlessly to the conte capriani, representing to him that as the originator of the entire speculation he was bound to help. the conte maintained that he was powerless. the stock fell lower and lower, fell with bewildering rapidity. one day fritz received a letter: "schneeburg must be sold." the poor fellow felt as if his sore heart had been struck with a hammer. his sad yearning for his home was turned to a burning thirst--a consuming desire. he was as homesick as a peasant, nay--as a slav. men who live in cities and change their dwelling-place three or four times, never strike root anywhere, and consequently can have no conception of the homesickness that attacks a man who is separated from the soil upon which he and his ancestors for generations have been born and bred. a man thus bred has become acclimated like a plant, to this special air, this special soil, and however long the years of absence, wherever he may have lived meanwhile, he will always yearn for 'home.' fritz had caught a cold upon leaving wipling street, at the same time that siegi had been taken with the illness that ended in his death. fritz recovered, but his health was shattered, his voice was husky, and h» had feverish nights which in spite of weariness were wakeful. for hours he would pace the wretched room where stood siegi's empty little bed, which he had not brought himself to have removed, and would conjure up visions of schneeburg. sell schneeburg! in his pain at this fresh blow he forgot for a moment his grief for his child. memories of 'home' thronged about him with a vividness that savoured of mental hallucination. he saw the morning sun glitter in the dewy moss that lay green on the thatched roofs of the village, he saw the very puddles before the houses wherein the swine wallowed, and a flock of fowls scratching on a muck-heap, and a group of shivering children cowering beneath the cross before the smithy. he saw the pond in the middle of the village; the little dusky waves swelled and rippled beneath the nipping wind of autumn and a single rugged elm cast its long reflection across the broken surface. he saw the soft black soil on the edge of the pond stamped with countless impressions of webbed feet. he saw the geese themselves, hissing and flapping their wings while the sunlight played upon the rough pink surface of their plucked breasts. thatched roofs, swine, and geese had certainly never interested him much--these detailed impressions had been made upon his mind all unconsciously--they belonged to the whole. he saw long transparent wreaths of mist like ghostly shrouds, floating above the freshly-ploughed fields, and the crows flapping above the brown leafless trees, in gloomy processions, mourners for the dead summer,--a dun-coloured cow was standing between two gnarled apple-trees by the way-side, looking inquisitively out of her dark-blue glazed eyes. the pictures grew confused, and again distinct. he saw the park with its broad emerald meadows where the venerable trees grew in large dense clumps. he knew the voice of every single tree, the rustle of the oak differed from the murmur of the copper-beech; he knew the very tree which would turn orange-coloured in autumn, which one only yellow, edged with black, and which one dark crimson. they stirred their grand old heads and broke into a chant; it sounded like a magnificent choral through the still autumn air, while single leaves, frosted with dew, as with delicate molten silver, loosed their hold and sank slowly fluttering down upon the grass. and the kitchen garden, that paradise of childhood, with its hoary apricot-trees, whose mellow fruit always dropped on the old-fashioned sage beds. ah, what fruit it was, so big, and so yellow, and so juicy! then he laughed softly at something that had happened twenty years before, and--waking from his visions, and his reverie, passed his hand across his brow. where was he? sitting in the room of a miserable lodging-house, beside the empty little bed of his dead child. he lay down very weary. the last thing that he saw distinctly before falling asleep was a large circle of red gravel in front of schneeburg castle, furrowed with delicate ruts. these ruts formed the figure of eight--the first figure of eight which he, a boy of fifteen, had drawn in the gravel with his father's four-in-hand--the delicate fragrance, not perceptible to every one, of wild strawberries floated past him, and then all faded. sleep compassionately laid her hand upon his heart and brain. he slept the sleep of the dead for a couple of hours, and the next morning his torture began afresh. he could have wandered barefoot like a beggar to schneeburg, only to be able to fling himself down on that dear earth, and kiss the very soil of his home. the sale was long in concluding,--purchasers chaffered as usual, when in treaty for an impoverished estate. there were fears that it would be brought to the hammer. but in the spring capriani appeared and offered a price for schneeburg which was at least sufficient to cover the count's indebtedness. his lawyer urged the old man not to delay accepting this offer, but siegfried malzin still hesitated. for three days he wandered about schneeburg like one distraught, then he began to yield conditionally, but all conditions vanished before capriani's energy. malzin lost his head, and made many injudicious concessions. he sold with the estate very many valuable articles that he ought to have kept for himself. he forgot everything--and as a man at a fire will finally rescue in triumph an old umbrella, and a child's toy, so he rescued from his property, in addition to the family vault, which from the first he insisted upon keeping, nothing, save--the stuffed charger which stood in the hall, and which a malzin had bestridden on the occasion of the liberation of vienna by sobiesky. the morning after the deed of sale had been signed, the former possessor of schneeburg was found dead in his bed--heart-disease had delivered him from misery. * * * on one and the same day fritz heard of the sale of schneeburg and of his father's death;--he was crushed. capriani had a weakness for taking into his service impoverished men of rank. they worked but indifferently well, as he knew; but nevertheless he preferred to employ them. he paid them well, and treated them cruelly. one day he offered fritz the post of private secretary. to the astonishment, nay, to the horror, of all his friends, fritz accepted the position. on a cool evening in may he took possession with his wife and children of the little cottage on the borders of the park, close to the kitchen garden, and a sense of delight mingled with pain, thrilled through him, as he hurried along the paths of the dear old home that now belonged to another. he had to warn his children not to run on the grass, not to pull the flowers, and upon his own land!--yes, his own by right--he never could appreciate that this land had ceased forever to be his. he could not look upon capriani except as a temporary usurper. he could not but believe in counter revolutions--what was to bring them about he could not tell. sometimes when he suddenly came upon old miller, his former nurse who had found an asylum with him, he would say: "miller, do you remember this--or that?" and upon her "yes, count," he would smile languidly. all the fire, all the impetuosity of his nature was extinct. sometimes he roused himself to feel that it was his bounden duty to do something to reinstate his son in his rights. but what? conte capriani, to be sure, had begun life with a single gulden in his pocket, but that was quite a different thing. it was not for fritz malzin to enter the lists with the stock-jobber, who knew so well how to keep just within the letter of the law. and so he continued to live, sadly resigned, dreaming of old times, hoping for wonderful strokes of fortune that never took shape. all the while he indulged in visions, and every evening, when he laid his cards for patience he consulted them, always asking the self-same question--"will schneeburg ever revert to my children?" book third. chapter i. a jingling of bells, a clatter of hoofs from five spirited bays harnessed in russian fashion, and hardly seeming to touch the earth as they fly along, a rattle of wheels, a whirling cloud of dust,--and oswald lodrin's five-in-hand came sweeping round a corner in one of the old-fashioned streets in rautschin. people ran from everywhere to stare,--a housemaid cleaning a window, leaned out at the risk of her neck, to follow the gay equipage; two small boys going home from school, paused and vented their delight in waving their caps and cheering; oswald nodded to them kindly. his eyes were aglow with happiness, he had a white rosebud in his button-hole. his future father-in-law sat beside him in the driver's seat, and georges was on the seat behind. it was the day before the election. oswald had just come from castle rautschin, where, according to agreement, he was to pick up his uncle to drive with him to the railway station, and he had taken this opportunity to display his new five-in-hand to his betrothed. the five horses clattered along gaily, as if to the races, instead of to a railway station. "we must hurry, there is the signal," said georges half rising from his seat, to gaze in the direction of the station. "don't be afraid," rejoined oswald, "it is an express, to be sure, but if it sees us coming, it will wait!" "true! i forgot we were in austria," said georges laughing. the bays flew like birds along the avenue of ancient poplars. the sun shone on their trim, plain harness, upon their glossy hides; white and blue butterflies were fluttering above the earliest wayside-flowers. a few minutes later oswald drew up before the station, built austrian-wise, after the ugly fashion of a swiss cottage. "sapristi! he too is going to the election," exclaimed georges, as he observed capriani's equipage. "you may be very sure he will not hide his light under a bushel," grumbled truyn. "and i quite forgot to have a railway coupé reserved for us. did you remember it, uncle?" asked oswald. time passed. oswald's servant hurried off to get the tickets, and when the gentlemen went to take their places, they found that there were but two first-class coupé's, one occupied by a lady with her invalid daughter, the other by the caprianis, father and son. what was to be done? it was most vexatious; the three gentlemen, with their servants bearing portmanteaux and dust-coats, the station master and the conductor, all stood on the platform in consultation, while the train patiently waited. the third signal whistled, conte capriani appeared at the door of his coupé with a smile of invitation. georges calmly shifted his cigar from one corner to the other of his mouth. "better open an empty second-class for us," said truyn frowning. "i have none quite empty," the conductor explained; "but this gentleman will get out at the third station." "it is the cattle-dealer from kamnitz," whispered oswald with a little grimace, after glancing through the window of the coupé. but it made no difference to his uncle who immediately sprang in and took his seat, followed by the young men. what if the man were a cattle-dealer? truyn remembered having seen him before, and at once entered into conversation with him upon the price of meat, a conversation in which oswald, remarkably well up as he always was in all agricultural matters, took part. the cattle-dealer alighted at his destination, greatly impressed by the affability of the noblemen, and convinced that all he had heard of their arrogance was false. "if the coupé only did not smell so insufferably of warm leather!" exclaimed truyn after the dealer's departure, "and ugh! the man's cigar was positively--" "it often happens now-a-days," interposed georges, "that a gentleman is forced to travel second-class to avoid a stock-jobber. the question in my mind is, when will our civilization be so far advanced that the stock-jobber will travel second-class to avoid one of us." "we shall never live to see that," said oswald. "the insolence of those people waxes gigantic," said georges. "it is our own fault; if we had not danced hand-in-hand with them before the golden calf, they would not now be so presuming," observed truyn, "remember -- ." "hm,--our worship of that idol showed simplicity, to say the least," remarked georges, "the golden calf returned so much gratitude for our homage." "so much gratitude," growled truyn. "i did not share in the worship, but i do in the disgrace!--but enough of that! can capriani vote? he has not owned schneeburg for a year yet." "no, but has he not another estate in northern bohemia?" asked georges. "you are right, he has," said truyn. "i suppose he will vote with the liberals." "in all probability!" replied oswald. "_tous les républicains ne sont pas canaille, mais toute la canaille est républicaine_." "i do not think that capriani openly ranks among the liberals," remarked georges, "i know of a certainty that not long ago he placed large sums of money for charitable purposes at the disposal of several ladies of the faubourg st. germain." "that was when he was a candidate for the jockey club," rejoined oswald. "i heard about that. ever since he was black-balled there, he sings a different song. he is organizing liberal schools at schneeburg, and has a great deal to do with universal enlightenment." "confound universal enlightenment!" railed truyn. oswald shrugged his shoulders, "i should not shed a tear for it," said he, "in the first ardour of my charitable schemes i took some interest in it, but i soon detected the wretched business, masked by that high-sounding phrase;--it means universal distribution of rancid scraps of learning sure to provoke an indigestion which as surely will develop into an enlargement of the spleen. that kind of knowledge never widens the horizon of the masses--it does nothing, except pick holes in their illusions." "widen the horizon--pretty stuff that!" said truyn, the reactionary. "in my opinion a contracted horizon is the condition of happiness for the masses." "my dear fellow, if you attempt to advocate such views ...." began georges, half laughing, half indignant. "my views, remember," interrupted truyn, "are the result of years of experience; i have lived here all my life, and know the people better than any freshly imported herr capriani, blown hither, heaven only knows whence. what we want is a contented, well-fed, warmly-clad people, that will play merrily with the children on saturday evening, go piously to church on sunday morning, and not discuss too much on sunday afternoon." "yes, of course," assented georges. "what you want, first and foremost, is a people that won't disturb your peaceful enjoyment of life. there's no denying that." "i am perfectly open to conviction," asserted truyn with dignity. "as soon as you prove to me that these disturbers of the public peace promote the happiness of the masses, i will ground arms before them." "happiness!--i don't believe that those people care as much as they pretend for the happiness of the masses," said oswald, looking up from his note-book in which he had begun to scribble rapidly. "happiness is conservative--they would gain nothing from that. as far as i can see, all they want is to rouse the discontent of the people by constant irritation," and he turned to his note-book again. his scribbling did not seem to run as smoothly as before. "there you are right," agreed truyn. "their aim is to arouse the discontent of the people--the discontent of the masses is the tool of their entire party, and they will go on sharpening it until some fine day they'll cut their fingers off with it, and serve them right." "decry the degenerate portion of the species as much as you choose," replied georges, "you cannot but acknowledge that modern democracy has been of immense service to mankind." "_verité de monsieur de la palisse_," muttered oswald, without looking up. "don't talk to me of your 'modern democracy,' i made its acquaintance in france--this 'modern democracy' of yours," thundered truyn in a rage. he drew a deep, shuddering breath, lighted a cigar and gazed out of the coupé-window, apparently to allay his political anxiety by the sight of his dearly-loved fatherland. he did not succeed, however, for before a minute had passed, he turned to georges again and exclaimed angrily, "how delightful to contemplate the next generation; what a charming prospect! a people all ignorant atheists. i ask no severer punishment for the agitators who have wrought the mischief in this generation, than to be obliged to govern the next. "i suppose they themselves would desire nothing better," said oswald smiling. "that's perfectly true; all they are struggling for, is power," muttered truyn. "excuse me, my dear friend; but what are you struggling for?" asked georges. "what are _we_ struggling for," repeated truyn, looking at him compassionately, "what are we struggling for?--i will tell you;--for the emperor and our fatherland, which means for order and justice, for the dignity of the throne, for the sanctity of home, for the fostering of beauty and nobility, for all the wealth of human achievement which we have inherited from the past, and ought to bequeath to the future--in a word, georges,--we are protecting civilization." "bursts of applause from the right--aha--congratulations to the orator from the left!" said georges laughing, then turning to oswald who was still scribbling, he observed, "i rather think you have been taking short-hand notes of your uncle's speech. we will send them to otto ilsenbergh, he will be delighted." "nonsense!" said oswald. "i am composing a telegram." "in verse?" georges asked innocently. "georges! as head of the family i desire to be treated with more respect," said oswald, laughing. "oh, it occurred to me, only because you were making so many corrections," rejoined georges. "the thing is quite difficult--it must be so worded that gabrielle shall understand it,--and the telegraph operators shall not; i cannot manage it." "suppose you refresh your powers with a glass of sherry," proposed georges, taking down an appetizing lunch-basket from the rack above his head, and drawing forth a bottle and three wine-glasses. the wine had a decidedly soporific effect upon the three travellers. truyn's political excitement was soothed, and after drinking to a better future, all three leaned back in silence. truyn pondered upon the shy, timid confession that his wife had made to him that morning early, very early, as they were sauntering together in the park, while the sun's first slant rays were breaking through the shrubbery, and the morning-dew was still glittering on the meadows. "the whole earth seems bathed in tears of delicious joy," his young wife had whispered, and then through her own happy tears she had begged him to give her a 'really large sum' from her own money that she might make some of the poor people on the estate happy too. gradually his thoughts wandered, and grew vague; the sounds of railway bells, and the shrill whistle of the engine, the grating voices of conductors, and the monotonous whirr of wheels mingled, subsided, and died away; his latest impressions faded, and, instead of the green park of rautschin, a dim roman street rises upon his mental vision, with a procession of masked torch-bearers accompanying a coffin;--the picture changes, the roman street is transformed to a lofty hall so tragically solemn that the sunbeams lose their smile as they enter the high windows and glide pale and wan through the twilight gloom to die at the feet of ancient statues. he looks about him, lost in surprise and wondering where is he?--in the tomb of the medici?--or among the monuments of the melancholy gray church of santa croce? no, he suddenly recollects it is the bargello, and yon white marble, that gleams through the dim religious light in such lifelike, or rather deathlike, beauty, revealing, as it lies outstretched, such clear-cut, nay, such sharp outlines, and the noble attenuation of youth, eager and fiery, is michael angelo's 'dead adonis,' the ideal embodiment of the springtime of manhood crushed in its bloom. anon vapour curls upward, and the crimson flicker of torches plays over the white statue, the masked torch-bearers stand around it, a wailing chant echoes through the hall--who is it lying there listlessly, with the ineffable charm of a fair young form, which death has suddenly snatched, before the poison of disease has wasted and deformed it?-- truyn started, broad awake, every pulse throbbing.--merciful god! how could he dream anything so horrible! oswald sat opposite, with eyes half-closed, an extinguished cigarette in his hand. his face wore the expression of absolute content which is so often strangely seen on the face of the dead and which none except the dead ever wear, save the few, who, by god's grace, have been permitted to behold heaven upon earth. truyn could not away with a sensation of painful anxiety. "for heaven's sake, ossi, open your eyes!" he exclaimed. "what is the matter?" asked oswald. "nothing," said truyn, "only...." at that moment the train stopped. "pemik!" shouted the conductor, "ten minute's stop," and then opening the coupé door he politely informed the travellers that another coupé was now at their service. chapter ii. pernik is the junction of several railway lines, trains coming from two separate watering-places connect here with trains from prague, and set free the travellers who have tried the virtue of the various baths. ladies with faded faces, and bouquets of faded flowers, were wandering about looking for hand-bags gone astray or for waiting-maids, men were busily munching, glad to forget over their first sandwich, the dietetic limitations to which they had been forced to submit while undergoing a course of the baths; locomotives were hissing and puffing like monsters out of breath after a race; the sunshine glittered on the flat roofs of the railway-carriages, the whole atmosphere reeked with coal-dust, and hot iron; there was the usual bustle of hand-cars piled with luggage pushed along the rails, of the shifting of cars on the tracks, and of vendors of fresh water and pernik beer, with newspaper boys loudly extolling their various wares. escorted by the obsequious conductor, and followed by the servants, the three conservatives were making their way through the hurly-burly when they nearly ran against a young man, who, with his hands in the pockets of his rough coat, was striding through the crowd, never turning to the right or the left, in a line as straight as that of the railway between st. petersburg and moscow. "pistasch!" exclaimed oswald. "ah, i thought i should meet you somewhere." all began to talk at once, when suddenly pistasch turned, and said, "good-day!" to conte capriani, who was coming towards him with extended hand, and an air of great cordiality. oswald and truyn held themselves very erect, looked straight before them, and, passing pistasch and capriani, entered their coupé. "i do not understand kamenz," said truyn, after they had installed themselves comfortably, and georges had called from the window for a glass of pernik beer. oswald, his elbows propped on the frame of his window, was taking a prolonged observation of the interview between capriani and pistasch kamenz. the third bell rang--the speculator and the nobleman shook hands and separated; then pistasch approached the coupé where sat the three conservatives, and asked, "any room in there for me?" "room enough, but we're not sure that we ought to let you come with us, you renegade!" said oswald, unlatching the coupé door. "are you too going to prague for the election?" "no," said pistach lazily, "not if i know it, in this heat. i am going to the races--but i shall vote." "such indifference, nowadays, is culpable," said truyn gravely. "this is a serious time." "bah! it is all one to me, who goes to the reichsrath;--moreover, whoever he may be, he exists principally for the benefit of the newspapers," replied pistasch apathetically. only a few years previously, truyn himself had defined the reichsrath, as a 'circus for political acrobats'--but his political views were now daily gaining in consistency. an interest in politics is usually aroused in men of his stamp, when they are between forty and fifty years of age--at a time when the taste for champagne begins to yield to that for claret. almost all men are thus aroused at two different periods of life; in early youth and in late middle age. that which ten years before truyn had ridiculed, was now invested for him with a sacred earnestness. "we must be true to our convictions for our country's sake!" he exclaimed. "has any one really any convictions,--political ones i mean?" asked pistasch, "my conviction is that it is all up with us, but the country will last as long as i shall--after that i take no interest in it." "and is this your latest creed?" asked truyn indignantly. "it is a very time-honoured creed, uncle," said georges, "if i am not mistaken it was the fundamental article of faith of that lugubrious solomon in a full-bottomed wig, who played such unholy pranks in france, under voltaire's reign. '_apres nous le déluge!_'" "louis fifteenth, do you mean?" asked truyn. but pistasch observed, "you have become fearfully erudite while you have been abroad, georges. i fancy you are preparing to apply for a professorship of history, in the event of the social cataclysm that seems at hand." all the while the train is rushing onwards, past pastures seamed by narrow ditches, past turnip-fields, past villages with ragged thatched roofs, and tumble-down picket fences upon which red and blue garments are hanging to dry, while lolling over them are sunflowers, with yellow haloes encircling their black velvet faces. nowhere is there a trace of romantic exuberance, everything tells of sober, practical thrift. a white, dusty road winds among slender plum-trees, and along it is jolting a small waggon, drawn by a pair of thirsty dogs, their tongues hanging from their mouths; a labourer, half through his swath in a clover-field, fascinated by the whizzing train, stops mowing and stares with open mouth and eyes. truyn has become absorbed in the contents of 'the press' which he holds stretched wide in both hands. oswald, georges, and pistasch have improvised a table out of a wrap laid across their knees, and are indulging in a game of cards. "what's the news, uncle?" oswald asked as he shuffled the cards. "the authorities have forbidden the importation of rags at any austrian port; and a jew has been butchered somewhere in russia," pistasch replied incontinently. truyn paid no heed to oswald's question but all at once he dropped the newspaper. "what is the matter?" asked the young men. "wips seinsberg has died suddenly!" said truyn. "poor devil!" said oswald, with about as much sympathy as we feel for people not particularly congenial. "he was a good fellow, but somewhat vacillating! ever since his marriage i have seen very little of him." "was he married?" asked truyn, who, during his stay abroad, had lost sight of wips seinsberg. "he married into trade," oswald said curtly. it is odd; elsewhere the daughters of tradesmen marry into the nobility;--in austria the sons of the nobility marry into trade! "into trade?" truyn repeated slowly, and interrogatively. "what did he die of?" asked pistasch. "it does not say," replied truyn re-reading the notice in the newspaper. "hm!--that looks suspicious," said pistasch. chapter iii. the election is over. pistasch has shaken hands with all the middle-class land-owners, and has done wonders with that haughty condescension of his wherewith he was wont to charm the hearts of such people. truyn has been enlightened by his political friends as to the state of bohemian affairs, and oswald has been cordially congratulated by every one. he is one of those universally popular men before whom even envy and malice lower their weapons. his career has been hitherto like the triumphal march of a young king--let him but appear, and lo! an illumination, and flowers strewed before him. after the election truyn went to dine at the chief restaurant in prague with some friends whom he had met for the first time for years;--georges, pistasch, and oswald with the indifference of youth took their lunch at 'the black horse,' whither they went from the station. then georges departed to revive old associations in various quarters of ancient prague. oswald's father had been wont to pass his winters in vienna, but his younger, poorer brother had his winter quarters in the comparatively humble moldavian town. georges looked up the confectioner who had been his first creditor, wandered dreamily through the gray precincts of the public school where he had studied for two years, after his tutors could do nothing more for him, walked across the picturesque carl's bridge to the lesser-town, the hoary old lesser-town, the home of the aristocracy of prague, cowering in pious veneration at the feet of the kaiserburg, like a grey-haired child who still believes in fairy stories. there, in one of the angular, irregular squares, just opposite two tall narrow church windows, stood the small palace where georges passed his boyhood, and which his father finally sold to a wealthy vinegar manufacturer. he scarcely recognised it again. the old stucco ornamentation had been painted a staring red; and a dealer in hams and sausages had his shop in the lower story. "_tempera mutantur!_" muttered georges. * * * in a spacious room, tolerably cool, the shades all drawn down, the furniture consisting of dim misty mirrors in shabby gilt frames, of cupboards with brass hinges, and of green velvet chairs and sofas, oswald lay back, in an arm-chair, laughing heartily at pistasch's account of a late adventure. pistasch went to one of the three windows, and drawing the shade half up looked out into the street. the front of 'the black horse' looks out on the _graben_, the _corso_ of prague. all whom cruel fate had compelled to remain in town during the intolerable heat of the season, were lounging about in the late afternoon upon the heated pavement of the square. students with the genuine high-german swagger, over-dressed misses, round-shouldered government clerks, a wretched poodle scratching at his muzzle, an officer with jingling sabre, hack drivers, dozing peacefully on their boxes while their horses, with forelegs wide apart and heads in their nose-bags, dreamed of the 'good old times' when they caracoled beneath the spurs of gay young cavalry officers,--those 'good old times' whose chief charm for hack horses as for mortals, may perhaps consist in the fact that they are irrevocably past. the sultry heat beats down on all, debilitating, oppressive. "how long have you known that capriani," oswald asked his light-hearted friend, after a pause. "i really cannot tell you," was the reply, "he once did me a favour without knowing me, except by sight, and then--then he came to me one day with some trifling affairs that he desired i should arrange for him, and referred to the former kindness he had shown me." "and ever since then you have been upon friendly terms with him?" "not quite all that," replied pistasch, shrugging his shoulders, "but what would you have? he consults me about his horses--his ambition is to win at the derby;--and i consult him about my investments, the purchase of stock, etc." "and each overreaches the other?" said oswald, smiling. "up to this time i have the advantage," affirmed pistasch, "and i have a prospect too, of a sinecure as the president of the grünwald-leebach stock company." "with which of course you will have nothing to do except to inspire the public with confidence, and rake in money," said oswald. "incidentally," pistasch rejoined calmly. oswald drummed upon the arms of his chair, sitting erect, and looking very grave. "take care, pistasch; 'those who lie down with dogs, are sure to get up with fleas.'" "you are a reactionary martinet," growled pistasch. "am i the first to associate with speculators? barenfeld, calmonsky, hermsdorf--are all men very different from myself, but you see their names at the head of all kinds of banks and stock companies." "unfortunately;" said oswald, "that charlatan of a capriani has infected you all--you all want to learn from that gentleman the secret of manufacturing gold. but you will learn nothing, and will inevitably all burn your fingers. i should think you might take warning from poor old count malzin." "oh, malzin was such an unpractical man, he looked at everything from an ideal point of view," replied pistasch. "so much the better!" exclaimed oswald eagerly. "that was why throughout the whole business it was his property alone that was sacrificed. you cannot imagine the harm done by this dabbling in speculation. it undermines our whole social order. we are at best not much else than romantic ruins. so long as the ruins can succeed in inspiring the public with respect, just so long they may remain standing. but let them once lose their prestige, and they will be regarded as useless rubbish, and as such be cleared away as soon as possible. what preserves us is a strict sense of honour, and a contempt for ignoble methods of money getting. pride without a chivalric back-ground is but a shabby characteristic, and if ...." some one knocked at the door, and the waiter entering handed oswald a visiting-card. "_le comte_ alfred de capriani," read oswald, "it must be for you," he said contemptuously, without noticing the few words written under the name, as he tossed the card to pistasch. "no," said the latter, "it is for you--look there--read,--'begs count lodrin for a brief interview.'" "extraordinary presumption!" grumbled oswald, and then, with a shrug, he told the waiter to show the conte in. "you consent to receive him?" asked pistasch. "good heavens, yes!" replied oswald, smiling, "he has just done me a kindness, my dear pistasch, and has come for his pay. there are people who play the usurer with their kindnesses as well as with their money. i will tell you the story by-and-by." "very well. adieu, for the present; in half an hour i'll come and take you to the theatre;--she's not bad,--giuletta as _gretchen_." and pistasch departed; a minute afterward capriani entered the room. chapter iv. there are two ways of manifesting haughtiness,--that of count pistasch, and that of oswald. if pistasch had to receive an obnoxious visitor, he kept his cigar in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets;--oswald, on the other hand, at such times observed the most marked and the most frigid politeness. he received capriani with a slight inclination of the head, and the conventional form of greeting, invited him to be seated, and took a chair opposite, naturally supposing that the conte, with business-like promptitude, would immediately begin to speak of the purpose of his visit;--but no!--the conte remained mute, only rivetting his large eyes upon the young man. why should oswald find those eyes so annoying? how came it that he seemed to have seen them before in some familiar face? there was nothing bad in them--on the contrary at that moment they expressed only intense admiration, an expression, however, by no means to oswald's taste. there might be reasons why he should condescend to discuss business-matters with conte capriani, but he thought it entirely unnecessary to subject himself to the conte's admiration. he therefore broke the silence. "you have done me a great favour," he began drily, "i shall be glad to show my gratitude for it." "ah, such a trifle is not worth mentioning," said capriani. "i was exceedingly delighted to have a chance to testify the cordial regard that i have always entertained for you." "quite insane," thought the young man. then aloud. "i confess that this regard is rather incomprehensible to me,--moreover,--i believe you wished to speak with me upon business." "certainly!" replied capriani, "but the business was merely a pretext,--imagine it,--a pretext for me,--a business-man _par excellence_--to obtain an opportunity of conveying my personal sentiments ...." "the obtrusiveness of these creatures passes all belief," thought oswald. "i beg you," he said, "to take into consideration the fact that my time is,----unfortunately, not at my own disposal, and that consequently it would be well to come to the point. i think i can guess the purpose of your visit. count malzin informed me not long ago of your wishes. they are, so i understand, that i should give my support in an application to the government for a railway franchise, or rather that the plan of the railway, already projected, should be modified to meet your requirements--am i right?" "a trifle,--a trifle," said capriani taking a compendious map of bohemia out of his pocket and spreading it out upon the table between oswald and himself. "the projected track lies here--and here," he explained drawing his finger along the map. with something of a frown oswald attentively followed the course of that pudgy, sallow forefinger, saying in an undertone, "pernik, zwilnek, minkau,--that track seems to me entirely to conform to the present pressing need of the country,--will you now show me the alterations that you desire." capriani's forefinger began to move again, "tesin, schneeburg, barenfeld." oswald's face grew dark. "that track would be very disadvantageous for the x---- district," he observed. "you have estates in x----" said capriani hastily, and imprudently. cautious and diplomatic as he was in business, his caution could go no further than his comprehension of human nature. the circle of his experience had hitherto comprised only those human weaknesses in manipulating which he had always shown such consummate skill. he had no faith in genuine disinterestedness; he held it to be hypocrisy, or, at best, only traditional habit,--aristocratic usage. he had no idea of how his words grated upon oswald's sensitive ear. "you have estates in x----, herr count." oswald's lips curled indignantly. "that seems to me a secondary consideration," he rejoined sharply. "not at all," asserted capriani, "i would not for the world run counter to your interests, i have them almost as near at heart as my own...." "that really is...." oswald began to mutter angrily between his teeth,--and then controlling his impatience by an effort, he said coldly, lightly tapping the map as he spoke. "a little while ago you did me a favour, and it would be a satisfaction to me to testify my appreciation of your courtesy as soon as possible, but i think your projected alteration of the railway very disadvantageous for the country. however, i am quite ready to consult an expert." the blood of the cr[oe]sus tingled to his very finger ends. there was something profoundly humiliating in oswald's pale proud face. he did not comprehend the young man's moral point of view, he perceived only the haughtiness that rang in his words, and it aroused his antagonism. suddenly he remembered,--and there was a kind of bliss in the thought,--the pecuniary embarrassments in which oswald was probably involved. this was the only ground upon which he could show superiority, and make the young man aware of it. "consult an expert? an empty formality!" he said in a changed, harsh voice. "let us be frank--the interests of the country in this whole affair are of very little consequence--private interests are at stake--yours and mine; i grant that the x---- district will be damaged by the new track, but on the other hand tornow wilt gain immensely. and such trifles are not to be despised even by a count lodrin,--the track passes principally over very unproductive land in your estates my dear count. you have only to name your price for that land, and i am entirely at your service." for a moment there was absolute silence. an angry gleam flashed from oswald's eyes as he fixed them on the conte. the ticking of the two men's watches could almost be heard, the lounging steps of the passers-by in the street below were distinctly audible. at last oswald said contemptuously and clearly: "the sale of my pastures is not of the slightest importance to me in comparison with public interests. moreover, we, you and i, do not speak the same language, we might talk together a long time and fail to understand each other. therefore it seems useless to prolong this conversation." with which he arose. capriani, however, did not stir, but calmly returned the young man's look. something like triumphant scorn, something that was almost a menace shone in his eyes. "you refuse then to speak a word to the ministry in favour of my scheme?" he asked slowly and with a sneer. "decidedly," replied oswald. with head slightly thrown back, twisting his watch chain around his forefinger, he looked down at the cr[oe]sus. he was one of the few to whom haughtiness is becoming. was it possible that capriani, the least imaginative, the most avaricious of men, could succumb to this personal charm? the conte suddenly arose, gathered up the map, crushed it together, and dashing it on the floor, stamped on it. "i could carry it out, and it is my favourite scheme," he cried, "but what of that, i give it up, alfred stein can do as he chooses. i throw away millions for your sake! for your sake, count oswald!" his agitation was terrible and extreme, as he held out both hands to the young man. oswald angrily retreated a step. had the man escaped from a lunatic asylum? just then the door opened. "well, ossi?" pistasch called.--"ah!"--perceiving the conte--"beg pardon for intruding." "not at all," said oswald decisively, without looking at capriani, "we have finished." the conte bowed and withdrew. but he turned in the doorway and said, "might i beg you, herr count, to carry my remembrances to your honoured mother. for although she does not know conte capriani--she will surely be able to recall doctor alfred stein." whereupon he disappeared. oswald went to a marble table whereon stood a caraffe of water, and as he took it up he met his own glance in the mirror hanging above the table. a shudder crept icily over him. he poured out a glass of water, and drank it at a draught. "what is the matter?" asked pistasch. "nothing," oswald replied slowly, and almost dreamily. "talking with that--that scoundrel has agitated me. i feel as if i had just got rid of some loathsome reptile." chapter v. "is smoking allowed, i should like to know?" three times pistasch made this impertinent little remark as he gazed about him in 'the temple of national art.' it was a temporary temple, neither unsuitable, nor wanting in taste, but built in the rapid, superficial manner of a circus, constructed over night as it were, and it was now filled to overflowing with bohemian lovers of music. the four gentlemen were sitting in a proscenium box; truyn and georges in front, pistasch and oswald behind them. the opera was faust, the _mise en scène_ was rather primitive, and the tenor had a cold; but the principal part was sung by an italian prima donna who had not only a magnificent voice, but also a pair of uncommonly fine eyes. it was during the third _entr'acte_ after the cantatrice had been enthusiastically applauded that pistasch allowed himself the foregoing impertinent observation. "do you want to be turned out?" asked georges. "i spoke quite innocently, and seriously," said pistasch. immediately afterwards he recognised in the next box a young man as a certain doctor of law, with whom he had been associated a few years before on the committee of a charity ball. he extended his hand to him round the front of the box, asked respectfully after the health of a deaf aunt, and after a talented sister, and even made inquiries about a cross cat, a pet of the doctor's, all in faultless idiomatic bohemian, thus establishing his reputation as a thoroughly genial and national nobleman. truyn looked extremely dignified, repeatedly expressed his great pleasure in the progress made by his beloved countrymen, in the course of the last fifteen years, as well as in the advancement of the national cause. once during the conversation he attempted to make use of the bohemian idiom, but he only excited the merriment of his auditors. oswald was pale and silent. "what is the matter with you, my boy?" asked truyn, observing with some anxiety, his weary air, and the dark rings round his eyes. "i am not quite up to the mark," said oswald. "i hope you're not going to be ill," remarked truyn. "bah! he hasn't yet recovered from his conversation with capriani," said pistasch. "for my part i cannot understand how you can be in the slightest degree affected by what such a man as that says or leaves unsaid." "we are not all such philosophers as you," georges observed, glancing anxiously at his cousin. the door of the box opened--a slender, dark-complexioned man entered. "good evening! how are you?" "it was sempaly, younger brother of prince sempaly, to attend whose marriage he had just returned from the east. he was much tanned and his sharp features wore an air of languid weariness. prince sempaly had a few days previously married nini gatinsky. the new-comer was warmly welcomed, and then, of course, inquiries were made concerning the bridal pair, truyn declaring his pleasure in their marriage. "it pleases me too, exceedingly," said sempaly, with more warmth than he was wont to display. "they are both to be congratulated. nini was always a dear creature, and she is prettier now than ever; and a nobler character than my brother's i have never known." "one thing however surprises me," observed pistasch, the indiscreet, looking inquisitively at sempaly, "your brother has been a widower for five years; it cannot be that he has spent all that time in bewailing the loss of the princess. why did he not grasp his happiness before?" "i cannot enlighten you on that point," replied sempaly with a shrug. but truyn said, smiling, "perhaps it did not depend altogether upon oscar; nini may possibly have had a voice in the matter." "you too are going to have a wedding soon," said sempaly, apparently desirous of changing the subject. "how these young people are growing up! if the resemblance to his mother were not so striking, i should hardly recognise your future son-in-law. let me congratulate you," and he held out his hand to oswald, "congratulate you most sincerely. and how are you at home?" he added, turning suddenly to truyn. "all well," truyn replied a little stiffly. "pray, carry to your wife and daughter the regards of--one who shall be nameless," said sempaly with bitterness. a short pause ensued; then he began, "what do you think of seinsberg's suicide?" "suicide?" exclaimed truyn. "did you not know it?" asked sempaly. "i suspected something of the kind," said pistasch. "what was the cause of it?" asked truyn. "too intimate an acquaintance with the conte capriani?" surmised pistasch. "you have about hit the nail on the head, pistasch," said sempaly, turning his back to the stage and speaking towards the interior of the box. "it is terrible to think how many of us have fallen victims in quick succession to the rage for speculation." "it is all over with us!" said pistasch. "do have done with that eternal refrain of yours,"' said truyn indignantly. "well, georges agrees with me, and even ossi seems to be infected with our disheartening ideas," rejoined pistasch, "he declared to-day that we were nothing but romantic ruins." "ah, the ruins in austria stand firm;" rejoined truyn, always the same reactionary idealist, "of course we must consider how to adapt the ancient structure to the needs of the age." "do you think so?" said sempaly, twirling his moustache. "would you turn the coliseum into a gas-works? for my part i am not greatly in favour of the practical adaptation of historical monuments. bah! leave us as we are! the ruins will remain standing for some time yet, and in virtue of their time-worn uselessness, will manage to overawe the practical modern architecture that is springing up all around them, until the next earthquake, and then--crash--" he made a quick, characteristic gesture--"and after the downfall those who carp at us the most now will perceive how large a share of poetry and civilisation lies beneath the wreck. it is all over with us, but what is to come hereafter?" "what is to come hereafter? that is easy enough to foretell;" said georges quietly, "the universal dominion of the caprianis!" "you do capriani by far too much honour," rejoined truyn. "do not be too sure," said sempaly, "he is more dangerous than you imagine. it makes me fairly shudder to see how he encroaches upon us, how he hates us, and how much mischief he can do us." "i wish i knew how he contrived to scrape together so much money in so short a time," sighed pistasch plaintively. "i have heard that like sulla, and various other great men, he owes his rapid success to the fostering protection of the other sex;--they say he has had immense good fortune in that direction, and in spheres where it was least to be expected," said sempaly. "what! such a low cad as he!" the elegant pistasch shrugged his shoulders incredulously. "well--" sempaly gazed into space in a characteristic way; then still twirling his moustache he said with a melancholy cynicism all his own: "there are certain clumsy night-moths who are strangely skilled in brushing the dew from weary flowers in sultry nights." oswald, who had been bestowing but a languid attention upon the conversation, now exclaimed angrily, "i detest such vague imputations,--no one has any right to sully the fame of a number of unknown women by a suspicion that--that--" confused by sempaly's surprised, searching glance, he stopped short. "what is he thinking of?" asked sempaly, looking round at the others. "a betrothed lover cannot tolerate any aspersion cast upon the fair sex," said georges. "_qu'a cela ne tienne_," rejoined sempaly, "the betrothed of gabrielle truyn ought to be above such sensitiveness. gabrielle comes from the corner of the earth, which love divine sheltered beneath angels' wings, when the devil showered his poison over all creation. happy he who meets with such a girl!" "you do not know her," said truyn, whose eyes, nevertheless, sparkled with gratified paternal pride. "i knew her as a child," said sempaly slowly, "and i know who completed her education." for a moment they were all silent, and then truyn began, "i must tell you a delicious bit of gossip, sempaly;--only fancy, in the spring, in paris, capriani, one fine day, sent that goose, zoë melkweyser, to sue for gabrielle's hand! what do you think of that?" "incredible!" exclaimed sempaly. "was it not?" said truyn, who took special delight in recounting this tale, and turning to oswald, he went on, "our gabrielle and a son of capriani,--was there ever such a joke?" but oswald was silent. "you seem inclined to take your rival extremely tragically," rallied pistasch. "this is the tenth time, at least, that i have heard the story," said oswald angrily. "you'll have an irritable son-in-law, truyn, at all events," interposed sempaly with a sneer. at this moment pistasch, whose rage for popularity was always on the alert, called out over the heads of sempaly and truyn, "good evening," to a tall, red-haired young man who had slowly made his way to the front of the pit. with delight in his eyes and a succession of nods, the red-head acknowledged the greeting. "who is that?" asked georges. "the surveyor's clerk who assisted at the polls to-day--an old acquaintance of mine," said pistasch. oswald's glance fell upon the red-head. he had recognised in the man at the polls the same whom he had struck in the face with his riding-whip, in the dingy little inn-parlour. the encounter in the morning had made no impression upon him, but now.... "good heavens, how ill you look!" exclaimed truyn. "i feel wretchedly," said oswald in a forced voice, putting his hand to his head, "do not let me disturb you, i will go home." "you make me anxious, my boy," said truyn, "wait a moment, and i will go with you." "no, no, pray uncle, it is really not worth the trouble, i can easily find a fiacre," remonstrated oswald, in a strained unnatural voice. but truyn, always anxious about those dear to him, could not be deterred and the two left the box together. "what is the matter with lodrin to-night?" asked sempaly as he took truyn's seat. "i could not understand him. eight years ago, when i saw him last, in vienna, he was such a bright, merry fellow...." "well--" and pistasch drew a long breath, "he is just beginning to suffer from the phylloxera." georges replied to sempaly's further inquiries, for pistasch had become absorbed in an endeavour by sundry little grimaces to put out of countenance the siebel of the performance, who was skipping awkwardly about the stage in boots much too tight. in this interesting amusement pistasch forgot all else beside. chapter vi. "you really do not know what you wish," said truyn in surprise when oswald changed his mind for the third time about leaving prague. after going with truyn to the races on the first day succeeding the election, he would not hear of attending them with georges and pistasch on the second day. it was settled that he was to return home with truyn; then he began to waver and fidget, and at last he telegraphed, countermanding the carriage that had been ordered to meet him, and got up a sudden interest in the horses of the y---- stud which were to race for the first time. before long, however, this interest subsided, and to truyn's great surprise oswald informed him at a moment's notice, that after all he was going home with him. "you will send me over to tornow, uncle--or shall i telegraph for the horses?" asked oswald. "good heavens, no! you can spend an hour with us, at rautschin and take a cup of tea, and then i will send you home, you whimsical fellow, you," replied his uncle, and so they drove together through the quiet summer morning to the station. the streets were deserted except by the street sweepers, with their watering-pots busily laying the dust. the wheels of the hack rumbled noisily over the uneven pavement past brilliant cafés and shop windows, finally by the fine new national bohemian theatre, until their sound was deadened by the wooden planks of the suspension bridge. as usual the bridge is undergoing repairs; and this delays the hack, which, in addition is impeded by a battalion of infantry and two lumbering ox carts; there is a strong smell of mouldy planks, and hot pitch, by no means adding to the fragrance of the morning air. but these trifling annoyances cannot provoke truyn, or destroy his pleasure in gazing on his native town. the moldau, slaty grey in hue, with silvery reflections, flows among its green, feathery islands, and, parallel with the modern suspension monstrosity, the mediaeval königsbridge, picturesque, and clumsy,--the statues on its broad balustrade black with age like the primitive illustrations in some old chronicle,--spans the stream with its solemn arches. the kaiserburg, surrounded by haughty palaces with an unfinished gothic cathedral, looks down from the summit of the hradschin, upon its image mirrored in the water in waving lines, and columns tinged with green. the morning sun glows on the five red glass stars before the green st. john on the karlsbridge, and far away on the left and right, far into the receding distance, until all objects are mellowed and blent, stretch the banks of the river like a long drawn symphony of colour dying away in palest violet. "after all, it is a fine, a magnificent city!" exclaimed truyn with enthusiasm. "pistasch said yesterday that prague was a dismal hole," was oswald's reply, "you may both be right--it all depends upon how you look at it." the phrase falls keen and chilling upon truyn's enthusiasm, like ice into boiling water. surprised, and well nigh irritated, he turned to his future son-in-law. as, however, he is far less sensitive than good-natured, a glance at oswald converts irritation into eager compassion: "i wonder where you can have caught it?" he sighed, shaking his head. "good heavens, what?" asked oswald. "i wish i knew," said truyn, "either intermittent fever or a slight touch of jaundice,--for a man of your age and with your constitution there's no cause for alarm, but your mother will reproach me with your looking so ill!" then truyn leaned out of the window of the hack to admire the hradschin once more, before subsiding into a corner with a sigh of content, and lighting a cigar. oswald's nature is certainly as poetic as truyn's, and never before had he driven over the suspension bridge, on a summer's morning, without revelling in the beauty of the bohemian capital. but to-day everything is metamorphosed, beauty is ugliness. for him the world within two days had undergone a transformation. the human mind is like a mirror, upon the quality whereof depends the character of the reflection in its depths; in one mirror all things are reflected yellow, in another green, in a third every line is vague, shadowy and undecided; one shows objects lengthened, another broadened, and should the mirror be cracked, everything that it reflects will be distorted. chapter vii. zinka and gabrielle were at the railway station to meet truyn, both gay, cordial and surpassingly lovely. the sight of them, and their merry talk at first brightened oswald's mood. but suddenly at tea, which on the travellers' account was a substantial meal, a wretched sense of discomfort attacked him anew. as he had often laughingly boasted of his punctilious fulfilment of any commission from a lady, gabrielle, before he left for prague, had entrusted to him, to have repaired, a gold clasp of hungarian workmanship set with rare, coloured stones. when at the table she asked him, "how about my clasp--did you bring it with you, or is the jeweller to send it?" he started, saying, "forgive me, i forgot all about it." gabrielle stared--"forgot--my commission?" "good heavens! i am not the only man who ever forgot anything!" exclaimed oswald irritably. it was the first unkind word he had ever uttered to his betrothed. astonished and grieved she cast down her eyes. but truyn, who, as long as oswald was well and merry, was continually finding fault with him, being now seriously concerned about the young man's health took his part. "have a little patience with him, comrade," said he to his daughter, "he is not well,--look at him, a man who looks as he does must not be scolded. when he is himself again we will both scold him roundly." "forgive me, ella," entreated oswald humbly, holding out his hand to her. "i have an intolerable headache, uncle. please have the carriage brought round, i must go home." chapter viii. the road from rautschin castle to tornow goes directly through the village, across the market-place, and past the inn, 'the rose.' involuntarily oswald glanced towards the unpretending front of the tavern. conceited and bedizened, with a dirty coat, and with bare feet thrust into morocco slippers down at the heel, the same waiter is standing in the doorway, just as he stood there on that rainy afternoon in spring, when oswald took refuge in the inn-parlour. was everything to be forever reminding him of that odious scene?--in prague he had fancied that he should soon be able to shake off the hateful sensation produced by the interview with capriani, just as we all overcome the nervous shudder, caused by some revolting spectacle. but no! for three days it had lasted and he could not rid himself of it,--on the contrary this hateful sensation was growing more defined. of course he did not frame his suspicion in words, he was ashamed of it; he called it an _idée fixe_, resulting from nervous irritability still remaining from a slight sunstroke which he had had the year before, but for all that, he could not away with it. countless memories of trifling events, dating from earliest childhood, crowded upon his mind, all pointing, with a sneer, one way. there was a lump in his throat, a weight as of lead upon his heart; the pain waxed more and more intolerable. he could have leaped out of the carriage and have flung himself down in the road with his face in the very dust, in an agony of shame and horror! for the first time in his life he was reluctant to go home; he was afraid of meeting his mother. there was a kind of relief in the thought that she was not expecting him, and would not come to meet him. he clinched his hands tightly, and gazed abroad, striving by the sight of distinct, familiar objects, to exorcise the evil phantoms that possessed his soul. but everything that his eyes beheld was stamped with ugliness and dejection. the leaves on the trees were limp and dusty. the grain, lodged by the storms, lay on the ground, half rotted in its own luxuriance. the farmers could recall no former year so rich in promise, so poor in fulfilment. when at length he reached the castle, he could hardly bring himself to ask after his mother, or to go and look for her. how could he, while his mind was filled with such vile abomination? he went up to his room, where the first object that met his eyes was the white death-mask upon the wall. he grew dizzy, a black, crimson-edged cloud seemed to rise before him; he flung open the window,--the air cooled by the sunset, and laden with the fragrance of flowers, played about him, and refreshed him,--he breathed more freely. just then a soft, gentle sound fell upon his ear--his mother's voice! he shivered nervously from head to foot. how sweet, how noble was that voice! "so, so, old friend; fine, good darling! bravo, old dog, bravo!" these words spoken with caressing tenderness, reached him through the silence. he leaned out of the window--there she sat in a large wicker garden-chair, playing with his newfoundland, that, with huge forepaws upon her lap, was looking familiarly into her face. her full, elegant figure, about which some soft, black material fell in graceful folds, stood out against the background of a clump of pale purple phlox in luxuriant bloom. oswald watched her in silence; the beautiful placid expression of her features, the rich harmony of her voice, the tender grace of her movements, as she passed her hands lovingly over the dog's head and neck,--all appealed to him. he never could tire of watching those hands. so slender and delicate that a girl of eighteen might have coveted them, there was something more about them than mere physical beauty, something clinging, pathetic, which is never found in the hands of young girls or of childless women. they were true mother-hands,--hands with an innate genius for soothing caresses; oswald recalled the time when he had been extremely ill, and those delicate, white hands had tended him day and night with untiring patience and unsurpassable skill;--he could even yet feel their touch upon his suffering, weary limbs. and this saint,--his mother, his glorious, incomparable mother,--he had presumed to sully by such vile suspicions! he, her son! without another thought he hurried down into the park. he saw her at a distance. the dog was lying quiet at her feet; she sat with hands clasped in her lap, and in her half-closed eyes there lay the look of the visionary, dim or far-seeing, always beholding more, or less than the actual. the dog heard his master's step and began to wag his tail, then rose, barking with joy, and ran to meet oswald. "ossi!" and the countess opened her arms to him. not even from his betrothed had he ever heard a tone of welcome so fervent, and as his mother clasped him close, and kissed him, he felt as if god himself had laid his hand upon his sore heart and healed it. gone were all his evil surmises, all fled, leaving only a sensation of angry self-reproach. "you are a day sooner than you said," she exclaimed, kissing him affectionately. "well, i shall not complain, i am a few hours richer than i thought." "how so, mamma?" "do you not understand? do you really not yet know that i am counting the thirty-three days before your marriage--the last days that i shall have you to myself--and that to each one as it goes, i bid a sad farewell? let me look at you,--my poor child, how you have come back to me! you look as if you had had an illness." "i have felt miserably, really wretchedly ever since i went away," he admitted, speaking slowly and without looking at her. "uncle erich diagnosed either the jaundice or intermittent fever, but it does not amount to anything, i am well again." "you do not look so," said the countess, shaking her head. "take an arm-chair, that seat is very uncomfortable." he had seated himself upon a low stool at her feet. "no, no, mamma," he replied smiling, "this seat is all right, and now tell me of what you were thinking as i came towards you. your thoughts must have been very pleasant!" "must you know everything," she replied gaily, "i had no thoughts,--my dreams...." she patted him lightly on the cheek and whispered--"were of my grandchildren." "indeed? perfectly reconciled, then, to my marriage?" "we must learn to acquiesce in the inevitable, and--and--it really would be delightful to have a chubby little ossi, in miniature, to pet, and cosset." he did not speak, but leaned a little forward and pressed the hem of her gown to his lips. "you goose!" she remonstrated; but when he raised his head she perceived that his eyes were filled with tears. "what is the matter?" "a momentary weakness, as you see," he said with forced gaiety; adding earnestly,--"i am not ashamed of it before you. of the evil that is in us, we are more ashamed before those whom we love than before all the rest of the world; but of our weaknesses we are ashamed only before those to whom we are indifferent!" paler and paler grow the blossoms of the sweet rocket, sweeter and sweeter their fragrance rises aloft, like a mute prayer,--twilight hovers over the meadows and the leafy summits of the lindens grow black. the quiet air is stirred by the village bells ringing the angelus. the countess folded her hands,--of late years she has grown devout. oswald is overcome by intense lassitude, the lassitude that follows the sudden relaxation of nervous tension in men upon whom severe physical exertion has no effect.--he lays his head upon his mother's knee, and recalls the time when, only twenty years old, and smarting under a severe disappointment, he had taken refuge there. then he had lain his head upon her lap, and sleep, wooed in vain through feverish nights, had fallen on him.--he remembers how, regardless of her own discomfort, she had let him sleep there for hours, never moving, lest he should be disturbed. and how many other instances of her love and self-sacrifice fill his memory! she strokes his hair, and for a moment he wishes he might die, thus, now, and here,--yes, it would be far better, a hundredfold better to die thus at her feet, his heart filled with filial adoration, than to have to live down again the anguish of the last three days. book fourth. chapter i. after all, what had induced conte capriani to spend his summer in austria? his wife and his children were unutterably bored in their exile, and he--he was consumed with secret chagrin. he had intended to astound the earth whereon he had once run barefoot, but nothing had fulfilled his expectations, absolutely nothing. the austrian climate did not agree with him, decidedly not. instead of the intoxicating consciousness of triumph wherein he had hoped to revel, he was tormented, from morning until night, by a sensation of rasping humiliation. his arrogance sickened, shrivelled up; even his possessions suddenly seemed to him insignificant. his wealth was, to be sure, more easily convertible into cash, more available than that of the austrian aristocrats. but what availed his airy, fleeting millions compared with these well-nigh indestructible possessions, rooted for centuries in native soil? * * * many, many years before, on a muddy road the sides of which were spotted with patches of dirty snow fast melting in the early spring, little alfred stein had run behind a high old-fashioned green coach hung on spiral springs, and had tried to steal a ride on the hind axle. the bearded coachman--a stout, patriarchal coachman with a broad fur collar--looked back, saw him, and snapped his whip at him, so sharply that the boy, frightened, let go the axle, and fell off into a puddle. a chubby child, at the carriage window, leaned far out to see him, and laughed, without any malice, loud and heartily, as all healthy children laugh at anything comical. but rage seized young alfred, and when he could do it unobserved, he clenched his fist, and shook it at the carriage. at that time his envy did not reach higher than to a green coach, with a stately fur-clad coachman who could cut at all barefoot boys who were clinging on behind. how many miles his envy had travelled since then, how many ragamuffins his coachman had since then whipped off from his carriages, and yet at times it seemed to him that in reality he had not gained a step since that warm damp day in spring, when he had fallen into the puddle, and had been laughed at by the saucy little boy. the child of poor parents, his extraordinary beauty had attracted the notice of a bohemian countess, who oddly enough was the owner of that same green coach. he was the best scholar in the village school, and the countess befriended him. he became the playmate of her proud, good-natured, indolent children. by-and-by he shared their lessons, and his progress was remarkable. he was patted on the shoulder, his diligence was commended, and at last, by dint of flattery and servility, he obtained the means to study in vienna. the years of his student life were most wretched. he possessed neither the dullness nor the imagination that can make poverty tolerable, but his were the endurance and the cunning that overcome poverty. averse to no secret infamy, he, nevertheless made a parade of morality, and was an adept in what a witty frenchman calls _le charlatanisme du désintéressement_. although a sybarite by nature, and susceptible to all physical enjoyment, the instant that the attainment of his aims was at stake, he became a pattern of abstinence. he knew how to allow himself to be heaped with benefits, without acquiring the reputation of a parasite on the one hand or of a man who used his friends without any show of gratitude on the other. from the outset of his career he owed his success, not alone to his personal beauty, but to his faculty for intuitively detecting the evil propensities of others, and for privately pandering to them, yet always preserving a show of indulgent charity withal. his medical practise opened to him the doors of certain social circles which would else probably have been forever closed to him. he practised medicine for a while at fashionable watering places, and he had many distinguished patients among the fair sex; at last, however, his marriage to a rich russian girl relieved him from the necessity of pursuing his profession, and led his speculative mind into other paths. his wife's fortune, however, was soon but a small part of that which he accumulated and added to it. always restless, often unprincipled, he heaped up his millions, seeming fairly to conjure money out of other men's pockets. his greed of gain was no petty passion, there was in it something of the heroic. wealth was not his end, but a means to his end, a weapon,--power. in paris this power had not failed him, but in austria no one was dazzled by it except those towards whom he felt utterly indifferent. day by day he grew more irritable, more bitter; what did his millions avail with these austrian aristocrats who, had, with indolent elegance dragged after them for centuries, in spite of all levelling tendencies of any age, the burden of their ancient traditions--called by the liberals prejudices--and who had grown weary at last of justifiable carping at their official and unofficial prerogatives, and had taken refuge upon an island as it were of determined exclusiveness, where, entrenched as behind the wall of china, they loftily ignored all the revolutionary hubbub around them. he had succeeded in much, why should he not succeed in making a breach in this wall of china? this was the aim of all his efforts. he was one of those who would fain destroy what they cannot attain. by a thousand enticing temptations he had striven to arouse the avarice of the _right honourables_, as he called them, that the base, degrading greed of gain might bruise the strict sense of honour that was like a 'hoop of gold to bind in' austrian exclusiveness. to brand an aristocrat as a swindler would be a keener joy than to make him a beggar. he had hitherto had only a few petty triumphs in this direction, but he was too ambitious, too clear-sighted to be contented in the long run with these trifling victories. * * * one consciousness of terrible import to others had at times afforded capriani some consolation, but of late even this consciousness had lost somewhat of its soothing charm. when, after his return from prague, kilary had asked him, with a sneer, if he had really succeeded in twisting oswald lodrin around his finger the conte had replied with some embarrassment, "we have not done with each other yet, but i rather think that what i said to him will have an effect." and while he was making private marks with coloured pencils upon his business letters, or telegraphic despatches which arrived in large numbers for him every day, he repeated to himself, again and again: "it will have an effect!" chapter ii. it is evening in the drawing-room at tornow, and the air breathes soft and fragrance-laden through the open window; the monotonous chirp of the crickets sounds loud and shrill as if to drown the sweet plaint of the nightingale. beyond the circle of light cast by the lamps more than half of the spacious room is quite dark. the countess lodrin is bending over an embroidery frame, busied in working the zinsenburg crest upon a hassock; oswald, georges, and pistasch, who, when the races were over had accepted an invitation to come to tornow with georges, are eagerly discussing a false start. oswald, the quietest of the three, glances from time to time at his mother. he has, to be sure, succeeded in shaking off his ugly _idée fixe_, and in regaining his former cheerfulness; but yet, by fits and starts, he is assailed by a paralysing sensation of dread. then he takes refuge with his mother; by her side the odious fancies have no power. there are times when he is possessed by a wild impulse to deliver capriani's message, to ask his mother whether she ever really knew doctor stein and to watch the effect; but at the critical moment his heart has always failed him, and he has been ashamed of yielding even thus much to his disgraceful weakness. when they have exhausted the false start, georges and pistasch enter upon a discussion of the best method of shoeing horses. this interesting topic absorbs them so entirely that neither perceives that for several minutes the countess has been searching for something which she has mislaid,--finally even stooping to look for it on the floor. it is oswald who rises and asks, "what are you looking for, mamma?" "a strand of scarlet silk." the two gentlemen of course feel it their duty to offer their services, but too late; oswald has already picked up the silk. this trifling diversion, however, puts a stop to the sporting talk. "mimi dey came to see me this morning; i asked her to dine with us on thursday." "is elli rhoeden coming too?" asked oswald. "if i am not mistaken she has gone to kreuznach," observed pistasch. "yes," said the countess, "unfortunately we cannot depend upon her, but you will probably enjoy the society of fräulein von klette. mimi will do her best to make her stay at home, but she cannot promise." "is she living still,--that spanish fly?" asked georges, surprised. "indeed she is, and with the same enormous appetite," pistasch calmly declared, "i believe she is qualifying herself for the post of minister of finance; her talent for levying taxes is more brilliantly developed every year. unfortunately her sphere of action is limited to the circle of her most intimate friends." "it appears that she has just embarked in a novel and very interesting financial enterprise," remarked the countess with a smile, "she is raffling a sofa cushion." "oh, that famous negro head," observed pistasch, "she has been working at it for two years, and she issues a fresh batch of chances every three months." "before i forget it," said the countess half to herself, "would you not like to write to fritz to come to dinner day after to-morrow, ossi? we shall be entirely by ourselves. he will feel at home, and i am always glad to entice him to forget his sorrows, if only for a few hours." "i paid him a visit yesterday," said georges, "he is going down hill very fast in health. he asked eagerly after you, ossi, and mentioned that he had not seen you for a long while." "ossi avoids schneeburg, for fear of an encounter with the _phylloxera vastatrix_ who, as he prophesies, is to be the ruin of us all," said pistasch banteringly. oswald had risen to light a cigarette at the lamp; his hand trembled a little. "i will write to fritz, mamma," he said, "i am afraid i have rather neglected him of late." chapter iii. "our poor count fritz is going fast," said old doctor swoboda every time that he returned from schneeburg to rautschin and stopped at the inn to drink a glass of beer; this time he remarked it to herr alexander cibulka, who always took a lively interest in schneeburg. "ah, indeed? well, he has not much to lose in this life," rejoined eugène alexander, "if i had to depend for my living upon alms, as he does, i'd put a bullet through my brains!" and herr cibulka ran his stubby fingers through his bushy hair. he was very proud of such unfeeling expressions, which he considered, heaven only knows why, as particularly fashionable. "and how is the conte capriani?" he continued, "and the charming ad'lin,--a superb creature, eh?" and eugène alexander affectedly wafted abroad a kiss from his finger tips. "don't know," growled the old doctor, "i don't associate with them." "ah, true," said herr cibulka compassionately, "i quite forgot, you do not associate with them." eugène alexander cibulka was the only man among the _haute volée_ of the market-town who had enjoyed the honour of an invitation from capriani. the invitation,--there was but one,--was to a _déjeûner_, and inspired him with not a little pride. he described it as a most memorable, 'brilliant episode,' in his monotonous existence, and he celebrated it in lyric phrases. what had so charmed him it would be hard to tell; madame capriani had found it impossible to understand him, although she had good-humouredly tried to do so,--his sentences were so interlarded with compliments,--and consequently she was obliged to confine herself to phrases of conventional courtesy; adeline had spoken only in french, which of course excluded him from conversation with her, and when he picked up her handkerchief she thanked him as haughtily as if she resented his not presenting it on a salver; the conte had urged him to partake of the various dishes, ringing the changes upon one invariable theme. "you had better take some--you don't get such a chance every day." modern culture had certainly treated him ill, but all the more was he convinced of its immense superiority. there was but one adjective that in his opinion, could in any wise fitly characterize the new household at schneeburg, and that was, 'sublime!' two years previously, in old malzin times, he had also on some occasion or other dined at schneeburg. the old count had received him with distinguished, though formal, courtesy, had insisted upon his preceding him into the dining-hall, and had taken great pains to find subjects for conversation that should not exclude his guest. he had been very much better treated at schneeburg then,--but no raptures came of it. on the contrary he had declared, with a shrug, that count malzin's style of living was very 'middle-class,'--that it was a pity too, that the count spoke so low that it was difficult to understand him, and that really there had not been enough to eat. in spite of the old count's courtesy and of the simplicity of the dinner, cibulka had somehow on that occasion been keenly sensible of the gulf between himself and the master of schneeburg, and it seemed to him now that capriani's millions had avenged him of the affront caused by the personal superiority of the former possessor of the castle; this delighted him. it flattered his self-importance to hear capriani--no one knew why,--call castle schneeburg a little hunting box, nothing but a hunting box, and then to hear him say: "oh, malzin, _apropos_, did you write to the saddler? you must make haste--indeed you are very dilatory!" and then, when fritz had departed, to have the cr[oe]sus suddenly turn to him, to cibulka, and remark confidentially, "that fellow, malzin, is really an incumbrance, but what can one do?--he must be provided for." eugène alexander, a despicable specimen of a despicable class, servilely rubbed his hands, and murmured, "the herr count is most generous, but indeed that is an easy matter for the herr count. poor devil! i really am sorry for malzin." poor devil indeed! the old doctor was right, fritz was going fast. every afternoon at the same hour he had a high fever,--he looked like a ghost. in speaking he had a habit of contracting his underlip, which gave to his face the hard, pain-begotten lines with which the pre-raphalites portrayed the dying christ. ready at any minute to drop from fatigue, he was yet driven forth by constant restlessness to go dragging over forest and field, obliged at ever-lessening intervals to rest upon a stile, or upon the steps of some way-side cross. there he would sit gazing abroad and repeating to himself, with the exaggerated appreciation that men always cherish for that of which they are deprived, that schneeburg was the finest estate in bohemia. when he strode through the golden stubble fields, the reapers would gather about him and with many a merry, kindly word encircle his limbs, in accordance with an ancient bohemian custom, with wreaths of straw. he would respond with some friendly jest, and purchase his release by a gratuity more in accordance with his former means than with his present circumstances. the people were still loyal to him, to the peasants and day labourers he was always "_our_ herr count." whenever he appeared among them they ran to him, kissed his hands, and invoked countless blessings upon him. there had been a time when he protested impatiently against these rather obtrusive demonstrations, but now he took pleasure in them. he knew the people almost all by name, and frequently talked with them, when to be sure they never failed to make some complaint against their new master, under whom in point of fact they were very well off; but they none the less complained of him just to please their herr count. but though the peasants and labourers were thus loyal to him, the new servants and superintendants showed no such respect. the conte had not retained in schneeburg a single one of the former servants; he had dismissed them all without pensions. the knowledge of this had added bitterness to the old count's last moments. he had interceded for his people, and when he could obtain nothing save vague promises, he had intended to use his influence elsewhere for their protection, but death had intervened and put an end to his good intentions. probably none of the dismissed were worth much--the housekeeping at the castle had been slipshod and easy-going,--all things had been allowed to take their own course. no provision for the old servants had been included in the original contract when they were first hired, and the income from schneeburg had not been large enough to warrant the reservation of a pension fund, but no one had ever been dismissed on account of increasing age, or of physical infirmity. almost all of them had been born upon the estate, and had expected to die there. and now, suddenly, schneeburg was 'swept clean' of them, as the conte expressed it. some of them were plunged into hopeless poverty; fritz discovered this, and the misery of not being able to provide for _his_ people was an added pang. meanwhile there was a horde of new servants at schneeburg, all young people, with modern ideas, fresh from industrial schools, stocked with correct views of their multifarious duties, and with independent opinions in politics. at first, whenever fritz met them, he greeted them with the kindly affability with which he was wont to treat inferiors, but this condescension from one in his circumstances seemed to them ridiculous; they laughed among themselves at his courtesy. he did not observe this for some time, and when he did so he simply took no notice of the menials. they however continued to ridicule him, and to clear away, pull down, and alter ruthlessly. whilst fritz sat wearied and worn in his gloomy room, among his shabby relics, teaching his little daughter french, or his boy the alphabet, he could hear the thud of the falling stones, as the time-honoured out-buildings were being demolished, and every sound struck a direct blow at his poor, sore, foolish heart. the conte's behaviour towards him daily grew more intolerable, especially ever since his return from the election. every petty disappointment was wreaked upon fritz. of course! fritz was the only member 'of the caste' upon whom the conte could vent his anger. his brutalities fritz could endure, but what outraged him beyond measure was to have the conte assume an air of frankness, and behind the mask of friendly interest presume to ask all sorts of personal questions,--the bitterest of pills for malzin! "oh heavens, how long am i to be in gaining the summit of calvary?" the poor fellow sometimes asked himself. to-day he had been visited by a ray of light, emanating from the cordial, affectionate note, in which oswald invited him to the family-dinner at tornow. "forgive me for not having seen you for so long," oswald concluded, "only remember all that i have to do. the castle is turned upside down in anticipation of a certain coming event, but, nevertheless, we shall be heartily glad to keep you with us for a couple of days. but we will discuss this to-morrow." of course fritz accepted the invitation. he knew that it would bring on a scene with his wife--but what, after all, did he care for that? he could not but anticipate the morrow with pleasure, and after he had dispatched his reply by the tornow messenger, he walked out into the park. it was early in august, and the floods of rain which had fallen in june and july had been followed by stifling sultriness. fritz was both stimulated and wearied by the state of the atmosphere, without being conscious of any special degree of heat. his disease had made such progress that he was subject to chilly sensations, even when the thermometer stood very high. as usual, he sought out the most retired paths of the park, paths where he felt sure of meeting no one, and of being able to indulge unmolested in his customary day-dreams. he reached a miniature lake, embosomed among proud, old firs, its surface glassy as a mirror held aloft by the nixies to the sky. tall reeds with brown heads fringed its shores, and nodded to the white waterlilies reposing among their flat, green leaves. perfect silence reigned; not only did the stately firs preserve their customary, dignified quiet, but even the leafy trees were too listless to-day to exhale their wonted 'murmur mixed with sighs.' each leaf drooped wearily. no bird uttered a note, the stillness was as profound as in mid-winter. nature lay motionless, no audible pulse throbbing, sunk, as it seemed, in a mysterious swoon. fritz sat down upon a bench rudely constructed of birch boughs, and gazed dreamily around. as always when alone, his thoughts reverted to the past, and now he smiled at a memory of langsyne. he recalled how as a child he had tried here to learn from the gardener's sons how to skip pebbles on the surface of the water. he had succeeded but ill; his pebbles all sunk directly to the bottom. he remembered too that very near this small lake there was once a little hut with a mossgrown, shingled roof, resting upon four fir-tree trunks. there the little malzins had played robinson crusoe; the hut had been a fort besieged by savages. perhaps it was no longer in existence; capriani might have had it cleared away; fritz arose to look for it. it was still there; he could see the gilt crescent sparkling on the gable of the old, shingled roof. as he approached it he heard voices, and would have withdrawn, had he not recognized them as those of his wife and capriani. in some irritation he drew nearer, but found nothing to justify any interference; charlotte was sitting busy with some sewing, while the conte was talking to her,--that was all. when fritz, with his pale face of disapproval appeared in the doorway of the summer-house, an ugly smile passed over the features of the conte. "you come in the nick of time," capriani said carelessly, and without the least embarrassment. "sit down, we were just talking about you." "indeed? very kind," murmured fritz, taking a seat, and glancing rather sternly at his wife. "we were just speaking of your children. hm, my dear malzin,"--the conte stroked his long whiskers,--"have you laid by anything for those youngsters?" fritz cast down his eyes. "how could i have done so?" he rejoined in a monotone. "you certainly might lay by something from your present salary," the conte said with emphasis. "you seem entirely to forget that i have only had my present salary for two months," said fritz bluntly. the conte bit his lip. "oho!" he exclaimed, "have i offended you again? i assure you i mean well, very well by you. tell me your views with regard to the future of your children." fritz shrugged his shoulders. "i really have none; the poor things will have to shift for themselves," and his voice trembled. "of course you mean then to give them a good education, to enable them to earn their own living," continued the conte. "that is all right, but allow me to ask how you mean to do this?" fritz passed his hand--the white, transparent hand of consumption--wearily across his forehead. "i hope to send my little girl to hernals," he began, "where she can be educated for a governess." "ah--!" the conte looked disapproval--"a very unpractical scheme, it seems to me, very unpractical. she will become very pretentious in her ideas at hernals, and will gain but little that can be of real service to her. remember your circumstances, my dear fellow, remember your circumstances,--we will discuss them by-and-by. and what do you think of doing with your son?" "oh franzi is still so little," said fritz in hopes of cutting short the conversation, the conte's arrogant, domineering tone was most irritating, it stung him like nettles. "all the more reason for providing for his future," the conte insisted, "in consideration of the chance of your being suddenly taken from him." "true, true," sighed fritz. "well then, i hope to live long enough to place him in a government school for cadets, after which through the influence of my relatives, he can obtain a commission." the conte laughed contemptuously. "just like you!" he exclaimed, "the same haughty, aristocratic idler as ever! you'll learn sense after a while, my dear fellow. i have thought of something for franzi; your wife is quite agreed to it." charlotte who had seemed to be absorbed in her sewing, nodded. "the countess always takes a sensible view of affairs, she looks things in the face," continued the conte; "begging your pardon, my dear fellow, there is more common-sense in her little finger than in your whole body. we will find franzi a place in a dry-goods establishment. the business is neither unhealthy, nor confining, and if it goes against your grain to put him in such a situation here in austria (to speak frankly i think any such objection very petty,--my views in this respect are more enlightened) why i will see that he gets one in paris at the _louvre_ or at the _printemps_; a clerk in one of those great houses often gets a yearly salary of from fifteen to twenty thousand francs!" fritz started to his feet and made several attempts to interrupt the conte, but his voice failed. a singing was in his ears, his blood was coursing hotly, wildly through his veins. "my son!" he gasped hoarsely, "my son, clerk in a dry-goods shop! i'd rather kill him myself!" he felt a terrible oppression in his chest, and then came sudden relief; in an instant he grew deadly pale with bluish tints about his eyes and temples. he stretched out his hands aimlessly as if to ward off some catastrophe, not knowing why he did so,--then mechanically felt for his handkerchief, pressed it to his lips, and fell senseless on the floor. chapter iv. the lodrins dined early during the warm summer months; they wished to have the cooler hours of the late afternoon for riding, driving or walking. the dinner on thursday at which fritz was to have been present was at two o'clock, but at the last moment he sent an excuse without any special cause assigned. of course fräulein von klette had not been persuaded to stay at home. erect as a grenadier, and with an enormous reticule to contain her sewing, her headdress, and any chance presents that she might receive, she made her appearance with mimi dey, who good-humouredly assured the countess lodrin, for the tenth time that ossi and gabrielle were incomparably the handsomest betrothed couple in austria, and then greeted zinka with perhaps rather exaggerated cordiality. thanks to the imitative instinct that rules the world, all the ladies of the vicinity modelled their behaviour towards zinka upon that of the countess lodrin. mimi dey had declared lately to several of her acquaintances who were asking about erich truyn's marriage, "zinka is as much of a lady as i am," and this significant verdict had its share in establishing upon a firm basis zinka's social position. pistasch watched zinka curiously; with all his languid insolence, he was possessed of sufficient tact to perceive what she was and to comport himself towards her accordingly. as usual, when not in the bosom of her family, she was rather silent; her gentle voice was heard only occasionally; she looked very pretty, and seemed to be occupied with anything rather than her own beauty, with every one else rather than with herself. the two topics of the hour were the upset that had befallen young capriani and his four-in-hand the day before, and the murder of an old widow in a village near schneeburg. the accident to the four-in-hand of course afforded all the gentlemen the liveliest satisfaction; they were unanimous in their surprise that the catastrophe had been delayed so long; the murder in karlowitz opened for truyn a wide field of moral and political considerations. as this murder was the first that had occurred within the memory of man in all the country round, he did not hesitate for a moment to ascribe it to the demoralizing influence of capriani. there is probably no evil, from a murder to an epidemic, which truyn would not have liked to trace directly or indirectly to the sinister influence of conte capriani. oswald who had been merry enough at first gradually grew taciturn and monosyllabic. "capriani's ears must tingle," he exclaimed at last, no longer controlling his impatience, "can we talk of nothing else but that scoundrel!" "do not grudge us this innocent amusement," rejoined truyn good-humouredly, and pistasch added, "i cannot see why it should make you nervous. the mere sound of capriani's name affects you as an allusion to the cholera affects other men." oswald changed colour, and georges proposed a toast to the betrothed couple. after dinner, whilst they were all drinking coffee in the drawing-room, pistasch contrived a _tête-à-tête_ with his cousin mimi dey for the purpose of asking all sorts of questions about zinka, which he could not well put directly to the lodrins. "is she the same sterzl about whom there was so much talk in rome? the girl who--etc.,--etc.?--a very delightful person, really charming." it was beginning to be the fashion to declare zinka charming. in the meantime the heroine of the roman romance, was sitting beside the countess lodrin on a small divan in a dim corner of the spacious room, and whispering, "have you heard?" "of course i have! ossi learned it from your husband; i congratulate you with all my heart," replied the countess in a low tone, taking the young wife's hand in her own. "and you understand how very glad i am," whispered zinka, blushing, and brushing away a tear. the countess smiled her own grave beautiful smile, and nodded assent; zinka moved a little closer to her. "who should understand it better than you?" she whispered. she felt a positive reverence for the countess, whose kind and tender treatment of her she could not but regard as a special mark of favour and distinction. the childlike deference of her manner towards the elder lady was very graceful and very winning. "if--if the good god should grant me a son," she whispered more softly still, and with a deeper blush, "i should like to learn from you how to educate him." countess wjera laid her hand kindly on zinka's shoulder. "your husband will be a better teacher there than i can be; that ossi is what he is is due to the grace of god,--not to me." "and is it by god's grace alone, that ossi has preserved so profound and filial a veneration for his mother?" the countess took her hand from zinka's shoulder; the younger woman, startled, gazed into her face. "it is nothing," said wjera, with a forced smile, "a pain in my heart--it will soon pass." mimi dey, with pistasch, was approaching the corner where the countess and zinka were sitting, and noticing wjera's sudden pallor, inquired as to its cause, instantly vaunting the merits of a certain specific, in which she had implicit confidence. as soon as fräulein klette observed that the conversation was taking a medical turn, she too joined the group. "wjera, i know a wonderful remedy; a swiss physician, gave me the prescription,--it really will cure everything,--everything." "from scrofula to 'despised love,'" added pistasch. he knew the famous prescription well, and knew, too, that it was the basis of one of fräulein klette's numerous financial man[oe]uvres. "it really is an extraordinary remedy, wjera, and it would do you good, too, mimi;--it would be the very thing for zinka i am sure," fräulein klette rattled on. "i have wrought wonders with it. do let me have a few bottles of it put up for you." "you needn't take that trouble, carolin," said pistasch maliciously, "i have two or three quarts of your specific on hand, and it will give me pleasure to supply the ladies." "as you please, i do not insist," said the fräulein chagrined; whereupon she drew from her reticule the famous negro's head and with great energy and a very long thread began to embroider a sulphurous gleam on his ebony nose. chapter v. the fierce heat of the day is over, the rays of the westering sun cast mildly gleaming bands of gold here and there amid the pleasing confusion of furniture in the drawing-room, where both coverings and hangings of flemish stuff made the prevailing colour a dim, cool green. the world forgetting, the betrothed pair were standing by a little table whereon was a large, blue sèvres vase, filled with crimson jacqueminot roses, a vase, whereof the depressing shape was that of a funeral urn, and whereof the decorations were after the pedantic taste of the first empire, with medallions of gaudy flowers upon a dark-blue surface. oswald and gabrielle had just agreed in declaring the vase almost as hideous as the pretentious monstrosity placed in the library of the vatican as a memorial of napoleonic generosity. "mamma's russian relatives have a positive passion for blue sèvres vases, and green malachite table tops upon gilded tripods," said oswald, "but one cannot throw a well-meant gift out of doors!" and then they went on to talk of the future, of their wedding-trip which was to be to the east, and to laugh over certain events of the first days of their young affection, in that fair spring-time in paris. suddenly gabrielle interrupted their talk with "now you are yourself again, but at dinner you looked so cross, i was absolutely afraid of you!" "oh, you foolish little girl, how could you be afraid of me?" "you mean that a great lion like you, is far too noble to hurt a poor little king charles!" he shook his head, saying, "i never should think of comparing you to a king charles." "to what would you compare me then?" she asked, lifting her large, shining eyes to his. "are you angling for flattery, ella?" he said banteringly. "flattery from you?" was her half-offended reply. "ah, i did not mean that,--i will tell you to what i love to liken you," he whispered very softly, leaning towards her,--"to a white lily, ella,--you are just as pure and fair, with a golden heart deep down in your breast." her dark-blue eyes glittered with tears of tenderness. "oh ella, if you only knew how i long to clasp you in my arms this moment, and kiss away the tears from those dear eyes! but ...." and he gave a glance around. "no one is looking," she said saucily. it was true; the ladies were absorbed in teazing pistasch about his last conquest, and truyn and georges were again at it in argument over the internal policy of the government; but none the less did the sound of her own audacious little speech startle gabrielle, and when oswald with a merry glance whispered "say that again, gabrielle," she turned away. "how papa is shouting!" she observed in order to change the subject as quickly as possible. and in fact truyn's voice is tolerably loud as he utters the significant, momentous words: "it is our mission to protect the people from the influence of ambitious political theorists, and from its own folly!" "he is in a downright fury," assents oswald, "let us try to calm him, ella." and as they went together towards the two politicians, oswald said, "would you not like to have a rubber, uncle, before you carry out your mission?" truyn, as became his age, had a weakness for whist, quite as pronounced as for politics, and therefore accepted the proposal. the ladies were politely invited to play, but no one accepted save fräulein klette, and since pistasch refused point-blank to have her for a partner, the four gentlemen sat down to the game by themselves. the sunbeams slant more and more, one long, level ray is now shining directly through the bouquet of crimson roses in the ugly sèvres vase, the flowers glow like strange, weird jewels. a carriage stopped before the castle. "who can it be?" said countess lodrin. it was the baroness melkweyser. the customary greetings over, she begged the gentlemen not to let her interrupt their game, and sank into an arm-chair beside the countess lodrin. "i hope i do not disturb you!" she exclaimed. "i really could not stand it another hour over there. i was perfectly wild!" "aha!" mimi dey smiled provokingly. "i cannot pity you as much as you seem to expect, zoë; i thought you would repent it, when i heard you were staying with those queer people." "what would you have?" said the baroness meekly enough, "i have known those caprianis ever so long, they live magnificently in paris." "indeed?" asked mimi, "does any one visit them?" "oh yes, crowned heads even," said zinka, "and especially princes of the blood travelling incog." "oh, they--why, they go even to the _mabille_," said mimi, "and--well--perhaps there is a certain similarity between ....!" "oh, no, no," interrupted zoë, "they have very decent manners; capriani even turned out of his house lately a person who came without an invitation." "really?" said zinka, "that, certainly, shows great progress; but is it true that at the conte's last ball neither the eldest daughter, nor her husband was present?" "yes," zoë admitted. "those are some of the insolent airs with which larothière contrives to awe his father-in-law." "go on," said mimi. "i do not say that only the _élite_ appear at these balls. _c'est toujours le monde à côté_, as they say in paris, but,--good heavens! these caprianis have been of service to me, and they always heaped me with attentions, but here they are beginning to behave positively disagreeably to me." "perhaps your services in your native country have not answered their expectations," said mimi, "pistasch told me that you had been invited to schneeburg on purpose to introduce the caprianis into austrian society. was that only one of his poor jokes, or ...." "i really did promise to do my best ...." "my dear zoë'," exclaimed mimi dey horrified, "had you clean forgotten your austria?" "no, i had not forgotten it, only i fancied that in the last twenty-five years you might have conformed somewhat to the spirit of the age; but no, you are precisely the same as ever. when will you cease to entrench yourselves behind triple barriers?" "when we feel sure that no suspicious individual will try to invade our realm," said mimi; "our circle, moreover, is quite large enough, and if we are asked to admit a stranger, at least we have a right to discover beforehand whether he will or will not be an acquisition." that this didactic little speech was uttered principally for her edification, the countess truyn was perfectly aware. she merely smiled calmly. "i have no prejudices," asserted fräulein klette boldly. "i am perfectly ready to be introduced to the caprianis." "yes, you are a great philosopher," replied mimi, gravely patting her on the shoulder, "we all know that." "i shall not fail to represent to capriani the advantage to be derived from your acquaintance," said zoë drily. "and now i must make haste and execute a commission; i should really prefer to extricate myself from these associations, but since i have got into the claws of this vulture i must keep him in good humour at least until he has gotten my finances into a better condition. and that brings me to what i have to ask of you, wjera; i want you to do me a great favour." up to this point the countess lodrin had taken no part in the conversation, but had continued, apparently lost in thought, to work away with her large wooden needles at her woollen piece of knitting. zinka, who had been watching her, thought her unusually pale. "a favour? what is it?" asked the countess. "it is about your 'old vienna' set of china, which you used to be so anxious to complete. the other half was at schneeburg, and now belongs to capriani. when he learned from me that you--er--were very fond of the set, he--er--asked me,--very kindly, as you must admit,--to offer you his half." the countess's large wooden needles clicked louder, and more busily than ever, but she said not a word in reply. "you really would do me a very great favour, wjera," persisted the baroness, "three weeks ago he asked me to say this to you, and i have only to-day brought myself to do it. you will embarrass me exceedingly by rejecting the china." then wjera with a quick angry gesture dropped her work, and looked up. her face in its stern pallor was like chiselled marble, but a dark glow shone in her eyes; zinka thought that she had never beheld anything more beautiful or more haughty than that face at that moment. "what price does your herr capriani ask for the china?" she asked curtly. "price?--price?--he will deem himself only too happy by your acceptance of it...!" "ossi, that's a revoke!" exclaimed pistasch spreading out two tricks upon the whist-table. "he is playing very carelessly," remarked truyn. "every allowance must be made for a man in love," said georges kindly as he shuffled the cards. oswald, whose back was towards his mother, heard her say: "your monsieur capriani's officiousness seems to me to pass all bounds. pray tell him _de ma part_ that i am quite ready to buy the service of him, at any price that he may name, however high, but that it is not my habit to accept gifts from those with whom i neither have nor wish to have any social intercourse." "but, good heavens! i had forgotten one half of my message," said zoë, striking her forehead. "he expressly hoped that you would see in this little attention nothing more than a proof of respectful esteem from a former servant,--he would not venture to say friend,--of your family. he assures me that he attended yourself and your husband years ago while you were in the riviera, and he declares that if you do not recognise conte capriani, you will surely remember doctor--doctor--i have forgotten the name--but at any rate the doctor that you had there." "why it must be stein!" exclaimed fräulein klette. "yes, that was the name," said zoë. "why, i knew him," fräulein klette went on eagerly. "you must remember me to him; he was practising at nice, when i spent the winter with the orczinskas. the women raved about him--he was a very handsome man then, and he had invented a hygienic corset, all the women wore it.--you must have known him too, wjera. i am certain that i met him once at your villa, that winter that you and your husband passed in the riviera." "he declares that he attended your husband," said zoë. there was a brief--a very brief pause, and then the countess said clearly and distinctly, "possibly, but it does not interest me, and you can tell him from me that i do not remember it!" "how young you look when you're angry, wjera," said mimi dey, laughing, "the old demon flashes in your eyes when you're vexed." "there's a deal of pleasure in playing whist with you, ossi," exclaimed truyn at the same moment,--he was oswald's partner,--"that's five trumps that you have thrown away--i had a slam in my hand." "how could i guess that you had anything in diamonds?" "i led." "clubs." "no, diamonds! just look." "don't you think that ossi, when he puts on that gloomy face, looks astonishingly like young capriani?" observed pistasch. no longer master of himself oswald threw his cards down on the table. "come, come, behave yourself, ossi," said truyn. "there's no use in trying to jest with you: you are as sensitive as a commoner," grumbled pistasch. "let us rather say as irritable as a crowned head," said georges laughing, "_les extrèmes se touchent_." "i really believe it is the reappearance of your old family spectre which must have affected your nerves lately, ossi," pistasch said innocently. "which family spectre are you talking of?" asked oswald hoarsely. "have you several of them then?" asked pistasch. "i know only of the blind one that laughs--my man told me to-day while i was dressing that it has been heard laughing again. the butler had told him so." "the gardener was talking to me of it to-day too," said georges, "but i told him that there have been no ghosts since ' ; ghosts as an institution were quite done away with by the march revolution, whereupon, as he is an aspiring person addicted to free thinking he replied that he had arrived at that same conclusion himself." "stupid superstition!" muttered oswald; then controlling himself by an effort he said very quietly, but pale as ashes. "shall we not have another rubber?" chapter vi. the world of spirits is a favourite topic with your aristocratic dilettanti, and every austrian family _qui se respecte_ has its spectre. the zinsenburgs have their white lady, the truyns their magnificent four-in-hand, which, as the fore-runner of any terrible domestic calamity, rattles past the windows of the truynburg in the bohemian forest--no one knows whither or whence.--the kamenz family have only a black hand that inscribes weird characters of fire on the walls; the lodrins have their blind woman who is heard laughing when disgrace or misfortune threatens the family. of all the family spectres in bohemia this laughing, blind woman is the most grisly. her origin dates from dim antiquity. the legend runs that in the eleventh or twelfth century a knight, wolf von lodrin, married in accordance with a family arrangement, but with no love on the bride's part, a beautiful and noble maiden. inflamed with passion for her, and finding it impossible to win her affection, in an evil hour, and in a fit of devilish rage, he struck her across the face with his riding-whip, and blindness followed the blow. overcome by horror at what he had done the knight fell into a brooding melancholy, and at last killed himself. when his blind widow was told of it, she laughed; she herself lived to be a hundred years old, but after the knight's suicide she never spoke a single word,--only every time that any calamity befell the family, or one of its sons suffered disgrace she could be heard laughing. it was this blind spectre that still haunted tornow. formerly she had been seen frequently, it was said, a tall figure in grey, with a black bandage over her eyes, and an uncanny smile upon her pale lips, and the apparition always preceded some dire family misfortune. her laugh had last been heard the day before oswald's birth, wherefore it was feared that either the mother or the child would die, or that the countess would give birth to some monster. but when a beautiful boy was born, and the mother recovered after her confinement much sooner than had been predicted, the blind cassandra rather fell into disrepute, especially as both the count and countess set their faces against any belief in her existence, the count because of his devout religious faith, and the countess because she was too enlightened to encourage any such superstition. oswald had never bestowed much thought upon the spectre, merely smiling in a superior way when it was mentioned, but in the present excited, irritated state of his nerves even the superstitious gossip of his old servants made an impression upon him. during the rest of the evening, however, he put forth all his force to obliterate the impression that his irritability at the whist-table had made upon truyn and pistasch. and he succeeded; but when, after all the guests had departed, he retired to his room for the night his strength was exhausted. the old torture assailed him, only it was even keener and more agonizing than that which he had brought with him from prague. he tossed his head from side to side on his pillow in feverish sleeplessness. endowed from boyhood with that faultless courage which is rather a matter of temperament than of education, to-night for the first time in his life he was thrilled with a vague dread. every noise, however slight, made him catch his breath with a suffocating sense of oppression. at last his eyes closed in troubled and restless sleep, but his anguish pursued him in his dreams. he seemed to be lying upon a meadow of emerald green, with bright flowers blooming all around, and gay butterflies fluttering here and there, while above him arched the cloudless blue, lit up by golden sunshine. suddenly he felt the earth beneath him move, and he began slowly to sink into it. overcome with horror he tried to arise, but the more he tried the deeper he sank into what was loathsome, slimy mud. he awoke, bathed in cold perspiration, gasping for breath, his heart beating wildly. he gazed around; everything wore a weird unwonted look in the half-light of the summer night that encircled every object with a halo of grey mist. through the open windows the heavy, sultry air floated in and out. he listened,--everywhere was silence, all nature lay as under the ban of an evil spell. then a stir broke the silence,--did something rustle softly?--he seemed to hear the very wings of the night-moths fluttering above the flowers. his father's death mask glared white through the gloom; it grew longer and longer as if fain to descend from where it hung---- what was that----? a low chuckle seemed to sound behind the very wall beside him! the bodiless shadows floated hither and thither and suddenly grouped themselves in one spot; a tall grey figure with bandaged eyes and white lips drawn into a scornful smile stood leaning against the wall--it moved! it glided to his bed; uttering a cry he grasped at it; it vanished and he fell back on his pillow. a few minutes afterward a light step approached his door, the latch was cautiously lifted, and his mother in a long white dressing-gown, holding a lighted candle in a little flat candlestick, entered. her bedroom was just beneath his, and she had heard his cry. "ossi!" she called gently. "yes, mother!" "what was the matter?" "i had a bad dream." she lit the candles upon his table and leaned over him, scanning his features, startled by their ghastly pallor. "what is the matter with you, ossi?--i cannot endure any longer to see you silently suffering such pain and distress." "nothing," he said dully--"nothing." "nothing! can you--will you say that to me,--to me, your mother! a while ago, when you returned from prague, i thought you changed, but you soon recovered; yet all last evening i was conscious that you were tormented by some secret anguish. for god's sake, tell me what it is." as she spoke she stroked his arms soothingly from the shoulder downwards. "if you only knew what torture it is to me to see you suffer without being able to help you, or at least to share your pain with you!" the nameless magic of her presence affected him more powerfully than ever--her tender caress produced in him the delightful, languid sensation of convalescence. for a moment he half-resolved to tell her everything, that she might once for all allay his pain. but his cheek flushed,--how could he?--no, he must master it of himself. he pressed both her hands to his lips.--"do not ask me, mother, i pray you," he murmured, "how often must i repeat that i cannot, try as i may, tell you everything." the countess gravely shook her head. "that excuse does not satisfy me; i can understand that it is easier to speak of certain things to a father than to a mother, but don't you know that never since your boyhood have i tried to keep you in leading-strings? when did i ever play the spy upon your actions, or meddle with what did not concern a mother?" "never, mother dear, so long as i was well and happy," he assented, involuntarily adopting a tone of tender raillery, "but, if i happened to hang my head,--oh, then, you were sometimes very indiscreet." "a son who is ill or unhappy is always about two years old for his mother," she said. "come now, confess; i am an old woman, you can speak out before me. i am convinced that your exaggerated conscientiousness is leading you to magnify some very commonplace affair;--an old love scrape is perhaps casting a shadow over your betrothal...." "you are mistaken, mamma, there is nothing to trouble me in my past; it is all as if it had never been." "well, then, what troubles you?" for a moment he did not speak, then he said in a low tone rather hastily, "a wretched nervousness--sorry fancies! can you believe it?--just before you came in, i saw plainly, as plainly as i see you, the laughing blind woman come towards me!" "are you beginning to suffer from the lodrin hallucinations?" the countess exclaimed. the 'lodrin hallucinations,'--she uttered the words carelessly, without reflection. his soul drank them in thirstily. "apparently, mamma, but i shall get rid of them, i shall certainly get rid of them," he replied in a clear, joyous voice. "and what other fancies did your nerves suggest?" she asked, scrutinizing his face anxiously. "loathsome imaginings which sullied my heart and soul, and which i tried in vain to banish, foul suspicions of those whom i venerate most. i was free from them in your presence only, mother, and that is why i have come to you so often of late; these phantoms never dare to assail me when i am with you!" the countess arose and extinguished the candles; for a while there was silence. "mother," he said softly, and almost overpowered by sleep as he took her hand in his, "tell me what it is that rays out from your hallowed eyes, with power to chase all shadows from my soul?" again there was silence. for a few minutes she listened to his calm regular breathing. he had fallen asleep. with hands folded in her lap, deadly pale, and with a look of horror in her eyes, she remained seated on the edge of the bed. the day had just dawned when she arose. oswald half awoke and opened his eyes. "you here still, mamma? oh what a delicious sleep i have had!" "sleep on, my child," she whispered, leaning over him and kissing his brow, before she left the room. she glided slowly along the corridor, her hand upon her heart. "shall i have the strength," she murmured, "shall i have the strength?" chapter vii. if he could only have got hold of these lodrins,--if he could only have found an opportunity to speak with them, he could have humbled their pride before now, the conte said to himself. he was still endeavouring to find some such opportunity; yesterday he had positively forced his friend the baroness melkweyser to drive over at last to tornow to lay at the feet of the countess lodrin the antique set of china, albeit not in the name of the conte capriani, but of her humble servant, doctor alfred stein. he was curious to hear what zoë would have to tell, but after her return from tornow zoë had incontinently retired to her apartment with a violent headache, and the request that a cup of strong tea might be sent to her. the headache lasted all through the next forenoon to the great vexation of the conte, who was, moreover, in extreme bad humour. he was annoyed by a trifle, a perfectly absurd trifle, but it had sufficed to stir up all the gall in his nature. his _maître d'hôtel_ had given him warning this morning, or, as that worthy expressed it, had handed in his resignation. when the conte, who set great store by him, asked him his reason for so doing, and whether his salary was not sufficiently large, monsieur leloir, with the respectful air proper to the well-trained servant that he was, but with a distinctness that left nothing to be desired, replied that the salary corresponded to his wishes, and he had nothing to object to in the treatment that he had received, but--he felt too lonely, secluded,--"_monsieur le comte voit trop peu de monde_." two highly satisfactory messages, brought him shortly afterwards by the telegraph that connected his study at schneeburg with the business world, did not suffice to drive this vexatious occurrence from his mind. he looked considerably sallower than usual when he appeared at lunch. all the rest were seated at table when the baroness melkweyser appeared. in her character of convalescent she wore a gorgeous, brocade dressing-gown upon which was portrayed a forest of gigantic sunflowers against an olive-green background. otherwise she betrayed no indication of feeble health; her appetite was particularly reassuring. "you are very subject to headache nowadays," said the conte, in a tone of reproof. instead of replying zoë helped herself for the second time to omelette with truffles, and parmesan cheese. "perhaps the long drive was too fatiguing," suggested the mistress of the house, always kindly desirous of atoning for her husband's rudeness. "had you a pleasant visit at tornow?" asked fermor. "it is always pleasant to see dear old friends again," said zoë curtly. her mood was undeniably irritable; apparently she had laid in a stock of arrogance at tornow, that would last her several days. "i really must go over to tornow," said fermor, "i trust, baroness, that you did not mention my having been here so long; the countess might well think it very strange that i had not been over to see her." kilary smiled, and fermor went on in his affected, drawling way. "very admirable people, the lodrins, but they are not very interesting to me;--they are too matter-of-fact;--they have too little feeling for art." after lunch, whilst fermor was testifying to the depth of his feeling for art, by improvising on the grand piano an accompaniment to a new ode by paul angelico, who, in his immortal waterproof, draped like sophocles, stood opposite and read the ode aloud in a sonorous voice out of a little volume bound in red morocco, capriani took occasion to draw zoë melkweyser aside that he might ask: "did you have any opportunity yesterday to deliver my message to the countess lodrin?" "yes," replied zoë drily. "and what answer have you brought me?" "the countess says she is quite ready to purchase the china of you." "to purchase it of me!" repeated the conte, pale with anger, "but my dear zoë,"--in moments of great excitement the conte was wont to call the baroness by her first name,--"but my dear zoë what did you propose to her?" "exactly what you told me." "indeed?"--the count drew closer to her, and leaned forward,--"did you tell her that i laid the china at her feet, not in the name of the count capriani, but of the doctor stein whom she knew years ago in the riviera?" "yes, and i told her that you said you had formerly attended the count, her husband." "well?" "she replied--do you really wish to hear her reply." "yes." "well, then, she replied, 'that may possibly be so, but i do not remember it.'" the conte grew still paler, and his face wore an ugly expression;--he picked up a paper-knife of beautiful oriental workmanship, and began to toy with it restlessly. "i beg you to observe," zoë began, "that i am entirely innocent in this matter. you certainly remember that i postponed for weeks the delivery of your message, and that i fulfilled your commission reluctantly at last. i told you beforehand what the result would be; but you were so perfectly sure that the countess would remember the name of stein...." "what's the matter?" asked kilary approaching them. "what agitates you so, my dear capriani." "the conte is determined to prove to me that nothing can withstand his power, not even a paperknife," said zoë sharply, pointing to the one which the conte was bending. "or the lodrin arrogance," observed kilary, "eh? my dear capriani, in my native town in upper austria they have an old proverb, 'what can't be lifted must be let alone.' now if you would only take this proverb to heart you would save yourself a vast amount of time and vexation." just then the paper-knife snapped in two, and the conte threw the pieces on the floor. "who is riding past?" asked the baroness, with undisguised curiosity, leaning out of the window by which she had been standing. "it must be count kamenz," said ad'lin, who had been busy encouraging by her applause the united, artistic efforts of fermor and paul angelico, "i am surprised that he has not paid us a visit before now." "no, it is the lodrin cousins," said kilary, "they are evidently going to see malzin." ad'lin looked disappointed. and the conte turning away from the baroness and kilary began to pace the room slowly to and fro. after a while he paused in front of his wife, who with a sadder face than usual was cutting out her cretonne flowers. "you went to see the malzins to-day,--how is he?" "very ill; unlike other consumptives, he is perfectly aware of his condition, and consequently the future of his children lies heavy on his heart. i did my best to comfort him--but that was little enough." "do you know whether he still proposes to go to gleichenberg?" her husband interrupted her. "yes, he is getting ready to go. müller, the old nurse voluntarily offered to accompany him; she could not find it in her heart to have him waited upon and tended by strangers." but müller's touching devotion did not interest capriani in the least. "this is evidently just the time to talk with him about the vault," he said as if to himself. "what do you mean?" exclaimed frau von capriani startled out of her usual submissive gentleness,--"with an invalid!" .... "come, come, let us have no sentimentality!" he interrupted her sharply. "you know i understand nothing of the kind." chapter viii. in his childhood, beside his father's sick-bed, oswald had learned how to treat an invalid with rare tenderness; but what he never had been taught nor could have been taught,--what was his very own nature,--was his impetuous, untiring kindheartedness, a kindheartedness that was never content with passively theorizing, but always refused to discontinue effort even in the case of the most distressing emergencies, and always longed to soothe with hope the pain which it could not cure. fritz, on the day after the dinner, had sent a note to tornow, telling of his sad condition and of his projected journey to gleichenberg, and oswald and georges had instantly ridden over to schneeburg, where they found fritz coughing incessantly, propped up with pillows in a large easy-chair before his writing-table, painfully endeavouring to write out his last will. ten minutes of oswald's presence sufficed to cause life to wear a different aspect for fritz. oswald scolded him for giving them all such a fright with that desponding note of his, protested that a man looking as well as he did had no right to depress his friends with melancholy forebodings, told of the miracles wrought by gleichenberg on many of his acquaintances, and declared that 'a mere hemorrhage' was of very little consequence, particularly in cases like fritz's where consumption was not in the family. "i had one, when i was a volunteer, after parade one day," he concluded, "and i never should know it to-day." "that must have been something different, ossi," said fritz, laughing at his friend's earnestness;--the laugh brought on a violent fit of coughing. oswald put his arm around him and supported his head;--"it will soon be over, hand him a glass of water, georges, there...." "however low down a fellow may be, it lightens his heart to look into your eyes, ossi," said fritz, taking breath after the cough had gone. "you're right there, fritz," georges agreed, "and yet there's no more inflammable, and momentarily unjust man in the world, than he." "yes, but then...." began fritz. "now be quiet," oswald ordered, "the best thing for you to do would be to lie down for a while, and we will do our best to entertain you without making you laugh." "thanks," said fritz, "but i .... i should like to say something to you. when a man stands on the brink of the grave...." "aha, you are posing again as an interesting invalid," oswald rallied him; "well--georges, go down stairs and pay your respects to pipsi, there's a good fellow; i hear her chattering with her little brother beneath the window;--i know how pleased fritz is with your visit, but, just now, you are a little in the way." georges laughed, and withdrew bowing low. they were left alone in the long, low room; against the windows the leaves of the old apricot-trees rustled dreamily, and the air was fragrant with the scent of the last flowers of summer. the portraits of fritz's parents and of their imperial majesties looked down from the wall, their outlines rather vague in the darkened apartment, and on the old door-jamb, scored with the children's names a prismatic sunbeam was playing. "now tell me, fritz, what is the matter? you know there is no need of any beating about the bush between us," said oswald leaning towards the sick man, "speak low, i can hear you." fritz fixed his gaze upon the door-jamb where among the old names two new ones had been written, 'pipsi five, franzi three years old.' "god knows, i have no reason to cling to life," he said with a sigh, "and yet my heart is sore at the thought that next year i shall--make no mark there!--poor children!--who will care for them when i am gone?" his voice broke, and it was with difficulty that he kept back the tears. "i have taken a great deal of pains with them, and hitherto they have been good little things,--at least so they seem to me ...." "your children are charming," was oswald's warm assurance. "are they not?" gasped fritz, and his hollow eyes sparkled, "but they are still so little--when i am dead they will run wild. capriani will not let them starve--assuredly not; but _how_ will he provide for them?--and my wife agrees with him in everything--that is the worst of it;--ossi, in my will i have expressed a wish that my children should be separated from their mother. she does not care for them very much; i think she would be glad to be rid of the burden of bringing them up .... and i have begged you--you will not take it ill of me, ossi,...." he hesitated. "would you like me to be their guardian?" "ah, ossi!" "then that is settled," said oswald, holding out his hand, "and, moreover, my mother told me to tell you that when i am married she should have nothing more to do, and would take pleasure in attending to the education of your little ones. you can hardly ask anything better for them." "ah, ossi, your mother is an angel!" "indeed she is," said oswald gravely. "she is well?" "no, she was very weary to-day at dinner, she had a sleepless night from anxiety on my account--my poor mother! and now since your mind is easy on all points, old fellow, it is to be hoped that you'll torment yourself no longer with gloomy forebodings, but do your best to get well and strong. let us recall our poor exiled georges, shall we not--_ça_! who's there? some one knocked!" "come in!" said fritz. conte capriani entered, a roll of parchment in his hand. oswald winced. "for heaven's sake stay," panted fritz, holding his friend fast by the wrist. "yes, pray stay, my dear count," said capriani, who must have heard fritz's words, or had understood his gesture. "i knew that i should meet you here, but what i have to arrange with our friend, malzin, might as well be discussed before a hundred witnesses. i am really glad to see you again--our last conversation came to so sudden a termination," and the conte familiarly held out his hand to the young man. oswald measured him from head to foot with a haughty glance, and put his hand in his pocket. then leaning his elbow upon the high back of fritz's easy-chair, he stood motionless while capriani angrily pushed a chair near to the table and sat down. "so, my dear malzin, you are off for gleichenberg," he began, with his left thumb stuck into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, and his right hand resting on the roll of parchment on his knee. oswald's gaze was fixed with a strange curiosity upon the face of the stock-gambler; all the loathsome ideas which had sullied his soul of late recurred to him; how disgraceful, nay how ridiculous his foul suspicions seemed when confronted with the flesh and blood capriani. meanwhile the conte, irritated to the last degree by the young count's cold stare, continued, "you must, of course, be desirous of settling your affairs, malzin, before your departure. under present circumstances you ought to be glad to be able to provide for the future of your children." "certainly; i have discussed it fully with my relatives," murmured fritz, trembling with agitation, and clasping his thin hands on the table. "discussed?--that can lead to nothing," capriani asserted, "i see, i see, the same loose way of attending to business. a matter of such importance ought to be definitely settled. it is time for you to listen to reason, as regards that vault; of course we all hope that you will return from gleichenberg sound and well, but we must be prepared for the worst. if you close your eyes to this you leave your children unprovided for, and you, you alone will be to blame, seeing that by merely executing this deed of sale for that burial-vault--downright rubbish--you will receive the extremely handsome and liberal sum of thirty thousand gulden. now, pray be reasonable." the conte spread the parchment out on the table before fritz, dipped a pen in the ink, and handed it to him. the tears came into the wretched man's eyes. "my poor children!" he groaned and took the pen. on the instant oswald snatched the fateful parchment from the table, and threw it on the floor; "you shall not sign it, fritz!" he exclaimed, his voice hoarse with indignation; then turning to the conte, he said sharply, "you see that my cousin is not equal to the excitement of an interview like the present. may i beg you to leave us?" the conte sprang up, his breath came in quick gasps, and a dark menace shot from the eyes that he rivetted upon the young man's face. "may i beg you to leave the room," oswald repeated with icy disdain. "you show me to the door?"--the conte said, beside himself with rage,--"you dare to do this to me--you--were not my hints the other day plain enough?...." oswald lost all self-control; "scoundrel! liar!" he gasped hoarsely. his riding-whip lay on the table--he seized it and pointed to the door; "begone!" he thundered. for an instant capriani hesitated, baleful threatening flashing in his eyes. "i am going," he said, "but you shall hear from me!" and the door closed behind him. quivering with rage, oswald turned about. "my god! fritz ....!" he exclaimed in terror. fritz had risen from his chair, and after advancing a step, had fallen drenched in blood beside his couch! chapter ix. the hemorrhage had at last been arrested, the doctor sent for, and the sick man put to bed. oswald was sitting beside him, awaiting the arrival of the physician. from time to time he whispered a comforting word to the invalid or gave him a bit of ice. some one gently lifted the latch of the door. "ossi!" georges called softly. "well?" "capriani has sent this note to you." "to me? let me have it." oswald took the note and retired to the bedside again. shortly afterward he appeared in the adjoining room where georges was, his eyes filled with gloom, his face ghastly pale. "what does the dog say?" "he asks where his second can find me, as i might not like to receive him beneath my mother's roof. he is right--!" "second?" georges interrupted him. "have you quarrelled?" "yes, he was insolent to me and to fritz, and so i called him a scoundrel and turned him out of the room." "and you are going to accept his challenge?" "yes!" "you, you mean to fight with conte capriani--with a wretched swindler, with no claim to the satisfaction of a gentleman? are you insane? do you not see how such a duel must degrade you?--show me his letter that i may know what to do, and then let me go to him. i assure you that the matter can be settled in a quarter of an hour; it is nothing but empty brag on his part." "i tell you that i insist upon this duel," exclaimed oswald, beside himself. "upon a duel with an adventurer who, with his money, comes from no one knows where? it is impossible, downright impossible! show me his letter." oswald changed colour, felt in his pocket--"i have not got it,--i threw it away--" he stammered disconnectedly, "moreover, the letter has nothing to do with the matter. go to him,--it is against all rule,--but i will not have his seconds cross my threshold. one second is enough for me, i will not have another dragged into this disgusting affair. arrange everything with kilary, and as soon as possible--pistols!" "pistols?--at thirty-five paces?" "fifteen if he chooses,--or for all i care across a handkerchief!" georges went close up to his cousin, and looked into his eyes as if to read his very soul; then he drew a long breath and said, "you are not alone in the world, ossi,--you have a mother and a betrothed who idolize you! and yet you would hazard your life for the sake of a single angry outburst, for a mere whim; you would accept the challenge of a man who, spurred on by envy and wounded vanity, is capable of anything, and to die by whose hand could only disgrace you? and all because--because you are possessed for the moment by some fixed delusion which makes life intolerable to you!" oswald winced. georges went on, "the only one who could gain anything by your death is myself,--and god knows i would give my life at any moment to save yours! i do not grudge you the position that you occupy." "what do you mean? what stuff are you talking," oswald interrupted him imperiously; his face was still ashy pale, and his voice sounded harsh--"'you do not grudge me the position that i occupy!'--perhaps you think you have a right to it?" "but, ossi!--how can you--? you are beside yourself--you are insane!" ejaculated georges, utterly confounded. "yes, yes,--i have known it for some time, georges, i am losing my reason!" oswald murmured in broken, weary tones. he groped for support, sank into a chair, and covering his face with his hands, sobbed like a child. there was a long pause. at last oswald raised his head. "now, go!" he said in a sharp tone of command, such as he had never before used to his cousin. "go to him--pistols--and soon. if you will not go, i will send pistasch,--judge for yourself whether that would improve matters!" and georges shrugged his shoulders and went. chapter x. as soon as he was alone oswald took the conte's fateful letter from his pocket, and read it through once more. no! he had read it aright, there it stood in black and white!.... "after what i have thus told you," so the letter concluded, "it is evident that a duel between us two can be nothing but a mere formality--it is, however, a formality which i demand as due to my honour as a man ...." he must go to his mother and show her the letter; there was nothing else to be done--nothing--! he must know whether he had the right to shoot him down like a dog, or .... he was overcome by a sudden dizziness, and the thought occurred to him, 'what if i should faint away, and some one should find this letter here and read it--!' he rose, lit a match and burnt the letter, with a feeling akin to relief when nothing remained of the disgraceful document, save a few ashes. george's words recurred to him; evidently georges suspected something wrong, that was clear,--but what? the contents of that letter he could not suspect. but what if it were true? what if some one should discover it? every one would flee from him, even those who had loved him most. and on a sudden he himself felt a fearful, paralysing disgust at the blood in his veins! a dull lump seemed to rise in his throat,--it choked him. 'but it cannot be,' he said to himself, 'it cannot be.' then he sat still for a long time, scarcely daring even to think; he himself did not know for how long, but when at last the door opened and georges entered, he noticed that it had begun to grow dark. "well--the affair is settled!" began georges gloomily. "for when?" "to-morrow morning at six o'clock--devil that he is, it could not be soon enough for him; he pretended that he must leave for paris in the evening; probably he thought that if the duel were delayed you might reconsider it, and instead of giving him satisfaction for the insult of which he complains, add to it the thrashing which he deserves." oswald sat leaning his head on his hand and did not speak. "god knows, i would not have gone to him," georges went on, "if i had not hoped to arrange matters amicably, even against your will,--if i had not thought i could persuade him to withdraw his crazy challenge! but the swindler has resolved to fight you; it is the greatest social triumph that he has achieved in all the years that he has been trying to climb. kilary told me, in so many words, that it was only for show, that it was to be a mere formality,--but--. even that cynic, kilary, declares that he cannot understand your condescension. well, you rank so high in public opinion, that people will only wonder at your eccentricity. will you say good-bye to fritz, or shall we go immediately?" fritz had fallen asleep, oswald would not disturb him, and so they rode off. there must have been a storm in the neighbourhood; the air had grown cooler, a light wind whirled the dust aloft. heavy broken clouds were driving overhead, and where the sun had set there was a glow as of a conflagration, as if the sun in descending had set fire to the clouds. the red light slowly faded, and all colours were merged in melancholy, uniform gray. the two men rode on in silence, which was broken at last by oswald; "georges, i know that if this affair turns out badly to-morrow you will be blamed for your share in it, blameless though you be. wherefore i will leave a letter behind me, telling how i absolutely forced you to be my second." "what an idea!" exclaimed georges angrily; then he added affectionately--"if so terrible a misfortune should occur, i should have neither heart nor head to care what people said! moreover, after what kilary told me, there can be no chance of any tragical conclusion to the affair." "one never can tell," rejoined oswald. georges was startled, and after a short pause began. "don't be childish, ossi! it depends entirely upon you whether this duel ends harmlessly or not;--there's not much honour to be gained in provoking a mad dog. since you condescend--to my utter mystification--to fight with capriani, do not irritate him by disdainful conduct on the ground. a very minute portion of courtesy will suffice to satisfy him,--but thus much is absolutely necessary!" oswald made no reply. after a while he turned his horse. "where are you going?" asked georges. in a constrained, unnatural voice oswald replied. "you ride on towards home, i should like to go to rautschin to see gabrielle, before...." georges, who had failed to understand so much in his cousin's behaviour through the day, thought this desire at least quite natural. he let oswald go, and rode on alone to tornow. he looked round once after oswald, and was surprised to see him ride so slowly,--he was walking his horse. what the young man wanted was,--not to clasp his betrothed in his arms,--all that he wanted by this prolongation of his ride was the postponement of the interview with his mother. when he reached rautschin he stopped short and looked up at the windows of the castle. he thought of the first happy days of his betrothal in paris; image after image passed before his mind with beguiling sweetness;--for a moment he forgot everything. the windows of the corner drawing-room where the family were wont to pass their evenings were open;--he listened. he could hear them talking, and could distinguish zinka's soft, somewhat veiled tones, and the sweet, childlike voice of his betrothed, but without catching her words;--once he heard her laugh merrily, almost ungovernably. when was it that he had last heard that very laugh? he shuddered,--it was on the evening of his betrothal in the avenue labédoyère--when zoë melkweyser had unfolded her ridiculous mission. and from out the past resounded distinctly on his ear; "gabrielle and the son of the conte capriani--! gabrielle and the son of capriani!" he struck his forehead with his fist.--over the low wall on this side of the castle, that separated the park from the road, hung the branch of a rose-bush heavy with marèchale niel roses. oswald plucked one, kissed it, and tossed it through the open window of the drawing-room. "good-night, gabrielle!" he called up. when she came to the window to bid him welcome, she saw only a horseman enveloped in a cloud of dust trotting quickly past the castle in the direction of the little town. chapter xi. night had set in, and oswald had not yet returned to tornow. the countess was waiting for him, sitting beside a table whereon stood a lamp with a rose-coloured shade. georges had told her that her boy had gone round by the way of rautschin, which she had thought quite natural, but none the less was she anxious for his return. the clock struck a quarter past ten; perhaps he had returned after all and had not come to her. but no, he would certainly have come to ask after her health; he had thought her looking ill to-day, and had been anxious about her, had tenderly begged her to lie down for a while to recover the sleep that she had lost on his account. she had tried to smile at him unconcernedly, but it had been a hard task; a casual remark by pistasch that morning had informed her of oswald's interview with capriani in prague, at which no one else had been present, and which had agitated him excessively. she divined his misery. his love for her, and his confidence in her were so unbounded that he regarded his torturing suspicion as an _idée fixe_. perhaps this temporary distress of his would pass away without its cause ever being mentioned between them. god grant it might! but if not? if he should come to her to-day or to-morrow and say 'mother i cannot of myself be rid of this,--forgive me, mother, if i lay down at your feet this burden that oppresses me, and beg you to soothe my pain!' she shuddered as this possibility occurred to her. what answer should she make? 'shall i have the strength to lie?' she asked herself, and then she told herself, 'i must find the strength; what do i care about myself? my whole life for years has been falsehood and deceit,--but he must have peace--his life i must save!' she knew that if she could succeed in uttering this lie calmly, his suspicion would be laid at rest forever, that no evidence in the world would prevail with him against her word. how she should continue to live on after this lie, was quite another thing, but she could die, and god knew she would willingly lay down her life for her child. she tried to shake off these evil forebodings. all that she dreaded might never come to pass; surely she might succeed, by preserving a calm, circumspect demeanour, in slaying his doubt, in destroying his suspicion without recurring to a direct falsehood. poor woman! upright to a rare degree as was her nature in its essence, it became distorted beneath the terrible burden weighing on her, and she was ready to resort to every petty artifice that could afford her any stay in her miserably false position! she had buried her sin deep, deep, and had reared above it a wondrous temple sacred to all that is fairest, noblest, and most unselfish in the world. so grand and firm was this temple towering aloft to the blue skies, that she dreamed it would endure forever. she trusted it would. out of love for her child she had grown devout. for years she had prayed the same prayer every evening: "oh god! i thank thee for my dear, noble child--accept his excellence, as an atonement for my sin!" she believed that god had heeded her prayer, nay, she even believed, in her boundless affection for her child, that god had wrought a miracle in her behalf! she forgot that the great mysterious power that shapes our destinies never transgresses the laws that it has made, and that the consequences of our guilt inexorably pursue their way, until their natural expiation is fulfilled. in this case that expiation took a shape far different from any that a mother's tender heart could have devised. the clock had struck eleven. her anxiety increased although she could not have defined her dread. her windows were open, she listened;--at last there was the sound of hoofs, the jingle of a bit and bridle. she breathed a sigh of relief. a few moments elapsed, and then a weary, lagging step came along the corridor to her door;--why did that step instantly reveal to her that the decisive moment had come? there was a knock at her door,--oswald entered. "forgive me for disturbing you so late, mamma," he said in a tone lacking all animation, "i saw your light from below...." "late?--it is hardly eleven o'clock; you know that you never disturb me, dear child. since when have you learned to knock at my door? the next thing you will send in your name." the forced gayety of her tone did not escape him. "oh, i did not know--i--" he murmured vaguely, dropping, without kissing, the hand which she extended to him; then he took a seat near her, but outside of the little oasis of light shed by the lamp on the table beside the countess. "you came home by the way of rautschin?" "yes." "are they all well there?" "i do not know; i did not go in, it was too late." "and fritz? how is the poor fellow?" "very ill!" "did you give him my message?" "yes, he sends you his thanks." oswald seemed metamorphosed. never before had he answered her so curtly; she glanced at him anxiously, he was sitting leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his head resting on his hand like one longing to carry out a terrible resolve. a distressing silence ensues. he feels as if he were about to ask of a competent authority whether or not there be a god. he cannot bring himself to do it, and then too how shall he shape the fearful question?--how can he utter anything so vile in her presence?--he who all his lifelong would rather have blasphemed in a church than have spoken an evil syllable before his mother! the minutes pass; tick, tick, goes the antique watch with the silver face on the countess's writing-table. he clears his throat. "mother!" he begins. she interrupts him. "i feel very ill, ossi!" she says, rising with difficulty from her arm-chair, "give me your arm, i should like to go to bed." but he gently urges her back in her chair again. "only a moment, mother; i have something to say to you,--i cannot spare you!" "well--say it then!" she sits erect, deadly pale, clutching the arms of her chair; he stands before her, one hand resting on the table, his eyes cast down. "it will not pass my lips," he murmurs, "it will not;--my _idée fixe_ has assailed me again with a strength that i cannot master, try as i may,--it perverts and absorbs my sense of duty, my conscientiousness.--mother....!" the blood rushes to his face, "mother--could you forgive me if, in a fit of madness, i struck you in the face?" can she ever forget the imploring, despairing tone of his voice? "yes, what do you wish?--i cannot understand--" she stammers. he gazes at her in surprise. "mother!" he exclaims--his breath comes short and quick, when, as though repeating memorised phrases, he says, "capriani and i have quarrelled--to revenge himself upon me he has written me a letter in which he says that you----" he sees her sudden start--"great god! can you dream of what he accuses you?" she gasps for breath, her lips part, she tries with all her strength to say "no!"--has god stricken her dumb? struggle as she may only a faint gasp issues from her lips, no word can she speak! "mother!" he moans, "mother!" she is mute. the ground seems to rock beneath his feet, the outlines of every object grow indistinct, dissolve into undefined spots of colour which fade and mingle. for a moment he stands as if turned to stone; then he turns towards the door, walking slowly as if under a crushing weight,--on a sudden he hears the rustle of skirts behind him, two frail, ice-cold hands clasp his arm;--half-fainting his mother crouches beside him on the floor. "my son! my child!" she gasps "have mercy!" but he loosens the clasp of her hands, without impatience, without anger, with the apathy of a man whose heart has been slain in his breast, and leaves the room. chapter xii. it was over,--over and gone,--sentence had been pronounced,--her child's life was destroyed. this she repeated to herself again and again, without any clear comprehension of the fact, as she lay, still half-stunned, on the floor where she had sunk down when he left her. after a while she staggered to her feet, and began to move aimlessly to and fro, steadying herself at times by grasping a chair or table. at last she sank into a seat, her memory had given way;--she asked herself the meaning of the dull weight at her heart, her eyes wandered vaguely around, her thoughts dazed by agony groped backward through the past, and forward through the future, finding no resting-place. she recalled her child's birth, and how every one rejoiced in it, except herself; when the doctor showed her the little thing as a perfect model of a baby, did she not thrust it from her impatiently? farther back, beyond oswald's birth, all light faded--everything was dark. that within her which had sinned had been so long, so completely dead; a woman capable of such a lofty ideal, whom maternal affection had so entirely purified and refined, could not but lose all comprehension of her past. all her inner life preceding the hours of oswald's life, was to her mental consciousness misty and undefined; the birth of her child had revealed a new world to her, and though for years she had denied it, and had crushed down the mother in her, it was none the less true that after his birth she had no interest save her child. urgent regard for her health prompted the physician to order that she should nourish the boy herself, if only for the first two months of his life; she obeyed him fretfully, eyeing the child suspiciously--nay, well-nigh malignantly,--when it was first placed in her arms, and then .... then she enjoyed it, and longed for the hours when her baby was to be brought to her, and when the two months were over, and the physician informed her that she could now without detriment to her health hand over the child to a hired nurse, she was angry, and felt strangely vexed with the man, who after all had thought only to please her in relieving her of what he supposed was an intolerable burden. what was intolerable to her was the idea of laying her child on the breast of a stranger, and for an instant she was on the point of flatly refusing to do it. but no, that would have been too eccentric, and she gave the boy up. for a couple of days she feared she should lose her reason, so consumed was she with restless jealousy; she could not sleep at night, and when the hours came round at which her baby had usually been brought to her, she trembled from head to foot, and sometimes burst into tears of agitation and longing. she could not forget the warm little bundle that had lain upon her knees, and the boy had thriven so well in her arms, had begun to be so pretty, to smile back at her and to gaze slowly about him in solemn surprise, after the fashion of such human atomies, to whom everything around is strange, and a deep mystery. still she conquered herself and avoided all sight of the child, trying to divert her mind, but--'the wine of life was drawn.' the child's existence caused her infinite torment; she was not one whom shams could satisfy. she called everything by its right name, and this foisting of a false heir upon the lodrins she called, in her soul a crime. sometimes she wished he would die--that would have untangled everything;--good heavens! how many children die! but he--was never even ill, he throve and grew strong. the count, who had never before ventured upon the slightest remonstrances with his headstrong wife, now reproached her continually for her neglect of the child. she listened to him with brows gloomily contracted and lips compressed, but said not a word in reply. in winter she could contrive never to see the boy, but in summer this was more difficult, especially at times when her husband declared that he could receive no guests at the castle, that he wished to be alone. she could hardly set foot in the park without hearing soft childish laughter, or without seeing some plaything, or the gleam of a little white dress among the bushes. once, on a lovely day in june, after a thunder-shower, as she was walking in the park she suddenly noticed two tiny footprints on the damp gravel. she stood still, her eyes riveted upon the delicate outlines, when from the shrubbery close at hand a little creature toddled up to her, grasped her dress with his chubby hands and looked up roguishly at her out of his large dark eyes. but she extricated herself, and hurried past the little man so quickly and impatiently, that he lost his balance and fell down. what else could she do but turn and look at him....? had he cried like other children of his age it would probably have made no impression upon her; but he sat stock-still, his little legs stretched out straight, and gazed at her in indignant surprise like, a little king to whom homage had been denied. he could not understand it. he was a comical little fellow, with tiny red shoes, a white frock that did not reach to his bare knees, and a broad-brimmed, starched, linen hat tied beneath his chin, shading his charming little face. in a flash her heart was conscious of a consuming thirst; she stooped and lifted him in her arms. some children there are who dislike to be caressed, and will fretfully turn away their heads from their mother's kisses, but little ossi was of a different stamp, and responded with a bewitching readiness to his mother's tenderness, nestling his head on her shoulder with a satisfied chuckle, and pressing his little lips to her cheek. for just one moment she resolved to yield, she would forget everything, and take her fill of kisses, and of delight in his beauty, in his bright eager looks, and in the droll way in which words, robbed of every harsh consonant by rosy little lips, came rippling like the twittering of birds. "papa!--papa!" the child shouted. she looked round,--there stood the old count watching her in mute delight. "has he conquered you too at last?" he exclaimed, "there's no finer little fellow in all austria than our ossi!" and he held out his hands to the child. she let him be taken from her, and without a word walked away toward the castle. ah, what a wretched night she passed after this episode! no, she would not think of him, it hurt too much. time passed; for weeks she would not look at him; then suddenly she would appear when he was taking his lessons, and for a couple of days she would watch him with a morbid intensity which sometimes degenerated into lurking distrust; then finding nothing to justify the distrust she would again turn from him. in spite of his excellent disposition the boy might perhaps have grown up a good-natured but inconsiderate egotist, had not count lodrin taken an unwearied interest in his training, guiding him aright with the most affectionate gentleness. the influence of the frail old man upon the child was invaluable. in the society of an invalid so tender and so loving, the boy learned what he could have learned nowhere else,--to bow before weakness, and helplessness, the only two potentates whose sway natures as proud as oswald's acknowledge. he learned to refine his innate haughtiness by the most considerate delicacy towards his inferiors, and to consider his pride as inseparable from devotion to duty and an impregnable sense of honour. sometimes the countess would steal to the door of the library, where the father and son were wont to talk together, and would listen. she did so once when the old man was seriously reproving the boy for some rudeness that he had shown towards his tutor. "i know it, papa, i am wrong, but herr müller is a coarse kind of man, and i cannot abide coarseness," she heard the boy say, and the old man rejoined gently, "he is unfortunate, ossi, remember that before all. how, think you, could he endure his lot if in his veins ran such blood as yours?" all things swam before the mother's eyes, as with downcast looks she hurried away, locked herself in her room and wrung her hands. * * * she never addressed a kind word to him, treating him with studied indifference, with almost malignant severity. under such treatment the boy suffered, grew pale, thin, and nervous. then came a damp, warm autumn, the skies were every day veiled behind leaden clouds,--it drizzled continually without actually raining, and the leaves instead of falling rotted on the trees. a terrible epidemic broke out in the country around tornow, and raged like a pestilence, carrying off victim after victim, until at last it appeared in the market town itself. the count, fanatically faithful as ever to the duties of his position, would not leave tornow for fear of increasing the panic, but he entreated his wife to go away and take the boy with her, but this she obstinately refused to do, not even allowing oswald with his tutor to be sent to her relatives. one morning the count came to her saying, "ossi has the fever! the disease is of a malignant and contagious character; it is quite unnecessary that you should expose yourself to it, schmidt and i can take care of him." whereupon he left her. she was fearfully agitated; the hour of her liberation was perhaps about to strike; she determined not to lift a finger to save the child's life. she forced herself to keep away from his sick-room for several days; the boy rapidly grew worse; for his recovery the count had mass said in the chapel of the castle, although he himself was not present at it,--he would not leave the child's bedside; but of course the countess attended at the religious celebration. she was very generally beloved by her servants, but on that day she could see on their faces ill-concealed surprise, nay, scarce-repressed indignation, beneath their conventional expression of respect. after the elevation the chaplain delivered a short discourse in which he praised the sick boy's amiable qualities, and requested all to join him in imploring god's grace for the heir of the house. tears ran down the cheeks of all the old servants while the priest prayed, but the countess kneeled on her _prie-dieu_, her face pale, her eyes tearless, her lips scarcely moving. the day wore on; hour after hour passed into eternity, the early autumnal twilight descended from the gray clouds upon the earth, and gradually deepened to black night; throughout the castle reigned unbroken silence, and not even outside was heard the sound of a falling leaf. the countess's pulses throbbed with a feverish longing for her child, that nearly drove her mad. she wondered if he in turn did not feel a yearning for her presence?--if his grief at her absence from his sick-bed did not aggravate the disease?--how if it were killing him? she pictured him borne away upon the dark, swiftly-rushing stream of eternity so close beside her that she might have stretched forth her hand to save him,--and she dared not! oh, that she could have commanded fate, "take him, i will not keep him, but take me too!" minutes grew to hours; perhaps at that very instant he was breathing his last. she sprang up,--she would not nurse him back to life, no, but she must see him once more, once more clasp him to her heart before he died. she hurried to the door of the sick-room, listened, and heard the low monotonous moan that is wrung from a half-conscious sufferer. she entered; at the foot of the bed sat the old count, bent and weary. schmidt, oswald's old nurse, was applying a cold, wet towel to the boy's forehead. the countess took it from her, thrust her aside with jealous haste, and herself laid the wet cloth upon her son's head. strange! at the touch of her hand he opened his eyes, and even in his half-unconscious state, recognised her with a faint, wondering smile. from that hour she never left his bedside. the famous physician in whom she had great confidence, and for whom she telegraphed to vienna, frequently declared afterwards: "never have i seen a child nursed with such devotion by a mother!" she tended him like a sister of charity,--like a maid-servant. she gloried in his refusal to allow any one else to wait upon him, that he screamed with pain when another hand than hers touched him, that he turned from his medicine if she did not administer it. the crisis passed; the physician pronounced all danger over if no unforeseen relapse occurred. this he made known to the count and countess in the antechamber of the sick-room, whither they had withdrawn to hear his opinion. when the count feelingly thanked him for saving his child's life, doctor m .... denied that any credit was due to him, "my share," said he, "in this fortunate result is but trifling; the recovery of our little patient is owing solely to the wonderful nursing that he has been blessed with," and turning to the countess he added respectfully, "your excellency may say with pride that your child owes his life to you for the second time." the ground seemed to reel beneath her,--she could have shouted for joy, and yet never in her life had she been so wretched as at this blissful, terrible moment. without a word she returned to the sick-room, and sat down by the little white bed; she motioned to schmidt who had been watching the boy's sleep, to retire, she wanted to be alone with her child. he was sleeping soundly, his breath came and went regularly, and his brown head rested comfortably on the pillow. she could not look long enough at the dear little emaciated face, wearing now a smile in sleep. he was like herself, his every feature resembled hers, his straight, broad brow, the short, delicately chiselled nose, the finely curved mouth, firm chin, nay, even the gleam of gold in the dark hair about the temples, all were her own. even his hands lying half-closed on the coverlet resembled hers; they were longer and more muscular, but they were shaped like hers. how she admired him, how proud she was of him in her inmost soul! she had not been able to let him die,--he _owed his life to her for the second time!_ it was useless to combat a feeling that always gained the upper-hand; but how was she to adjust herself to her false position?--what was her duty? this question she asked herself in desperate earnest, honestly ready to atone for her guilt by any sacrifice. her stern, cold duty was perhaps to go to her husband, confess to him the terrible truth, and then, with her child, and with all the means that was her own, depart for some quarter of the world where amid strangers she could provide a tolerable existence for her boy. she shuddered!--her own disgrace was of no consequence; she suffered so fearfully beneath the weight of the falsehood of her life, that it would have been a relief to burst its bonds,--but her child!--why, in comparison with the torture to which her confession would subject him, it would be merciful to stab him to the heart. he was too old and too precocious not to appreciate fully the disgrace of his position; he was too proud and too sensitive to find any consolation or support under such fearful circumstances in the love of a dishonoured mother. she must continue to carry out the lie. who would thus be the sufferer?--her own conscience; hers must be the torture! a confession would ruin the existence of her husband, and her son, and would overwhelm two families with disgrace, while now ....! the only being who had any claim to the lodrin estates was a good-for-naught, who never could be to his people what oswald promised to be. and suddenly she seemed to see her duty clear before her, a noble sacrificial duty! she would so train oswald that he should fill the station that he occupied better than any other could possibly fill it,--his excellence should justify her deceit. she solemnly vowed, by her child's bedside, to watch over his heart and soul, to guard his fine qualities like a priceless treasure, to see that no breath of evil should ever taint them. then she bent over him and kissed his hands gently. he woke and smiled, whispering, "mamma, will you go on loving me when i am well?" * * * love him indeed! ah, how she petted and indulged him during his long convalescence, how willingly she complied with all his little whims, how gladly she submitted to the exactions of his affection, half selfish though they were at times, as those of an invalid on the road to recovery are so apt to be! how well she knew how to amuse, and occupy him! how many games of chess and of cards she played with him! how she read aloud for his entertainment, albeit unused to such exertion, cooper's leatherstocking tales, and dumas' _trois mousquetaires_! when he had fully recovered, her treatment of him was more serious. she kept the vow she had made to herself, she watched his every impulse, his every breath, spared no pains to train him to be,--what he must be to satisfy her conscience, her pride,--a blessing to all around him. she even did what was for her the hardest task of all, she repressed her tenderness for him, lest it should make him effeminate. she made it her duty, when the time came for him to resume his studies, to engage a new tutor for him, and, quite out of patience with the cringing, fawning candidates for the position that had hitherto made their appearance in tornow, she wrote to a foreign professor of her acquaintance asking him to aid her in procuring the person whom she needed. a month later there came to tornow a young fellow with the lightest possible hair standing up like a brush above a very intelligent face, not at all handsome, ruddy, clean-shaven, and with a very sympathetic expression. he carried himself erect, and his manner, while it was perfectly easy, was never obtrusive. he was much interested in his profession of tutor, although he fully recognised its difficulties, and it never occurred to him to regard it simply as a provision for impecunious scholars whose hopes were bounded by the prospect of a future pension. oswald ridiculed the prussians, until this particular prussian not only compelled his respect, but won his friendship. * * * the countess's social relations dwindled to a point; everything that interfered with her care for her child wearied her. she was often present while his lessons were going on, she rode with him daily, and he and his tutor always took their meals with the count and countess. * * * she adjusted her life by her boy in every respect. one word from ossi sufficed, where her mother's and her brother's entreaties had failed, to produce a change in her hard, impatient bearing towards her invalid husband. it was long before she perceived how her conduct in this respect wounded ossi's feelings; she sometimes wondered what depressed the boy. it made her anxious, and one day she asked him about it. taking his face tenderly between both her hands she said, "how sad your eyes are, ossi, does anything trouble you?" for a moment he hesitated, and then he spoke out bravely. "mother, dear, you are so very kind to every one else; be a little kind to papa!" she started, turned pale, and left the room without a word; he looked after her anxiously. had he alienated her affection again? * * * no! that which all the arguments and representations of her mother and brother had failed to accomplish a couple of words from boyish lips had achieved. from that hour she testified towards her invalid husband the unvarying respect, the careful regard of a dutiful daughter, and although his various, and increasing infirmities,--he lost his hearing, and very nearly his eyesight,--becoming at last a complete paralytic,--made her tendance upon him most distressing, she was never again betrayed into uttering an impatient word. hers was a hard task--especially at the beginning--a very hard task! but what of that? ossi was pleased with her, and that was reward enough! she had learned to read his eyes; for love of him she altered everything in herself that could displease him, although he himself could not have explained why; she purified and strengthened her character day by day, and really became the mother that he dreamed her. the old count died; georges lodrin had disappeared. an american newspaper announced his death, and as the announcement was not contradicted it was held to be true. georges was the last heir; at his death the property would have escheated to the government; thus the countess need no longer be tormented by the thought that she was depriving another of his rights. * * * days of cloudless delight ensued; ossi grew to manhood, left her protecting arms, and launched forth upon the broad, perilous stream of life, while she, gazing after him anxiously, was forced to stay upon the shore. the time was past when tenderly, delicately, and yet with a certain shyness of the son already a head taller than herself, she could ask to know all of his life, could extort from him his small confessions. she had to leave him to himself, with, at times, a secret tremor. only secret, however; she would not interfere with his freedom of action. praise of him greeted her on all sides; she was satisfied with her work. he was like her in every way, even in his faults; but those faults which had wrought her ruin,--pride, and passionate blood--became him well. there was no throne upon earth that she did not consider him worthy to fill, and which should not have been his if she could have given it to him; there was no conceivable torture that she would not have borne willingly if thereby she could have added to his happiness. his excellence was her justification; her maternal love was her religion. * * * she still sat in the same arm-chair where she had resolved to utter the falsehood, which, after all, her lips had refused to speak! her heart seemed to have burst in twain, and from it had fallen the whole treasury of fair memories which she had stored within it; her slain joys lay about her in disarray, shattered, dead. she tried to collect them, groping for them in memory; all at once her thoughts hurried to the future,--the confusion subsided,--she understood! she moaned, and stroked back the hair from her temples; her wandering glance fell upon a newspaper lying on her table. the date caught her eye,--the sixth of august,--she started, the morrow was his birthday! she remembered the little surprise she had prepared for him; she had selected from among her jewels something very rare and beautiful which he could give to his betrothed. rising from her chair, she said to herself aloud, "the marriage is impossible!" then followed the question, "what will he do, how will he live on?"--"live?" she repeated, and on the instant a wild dread assailed her. "for god's sake!" she groaned, "that must not be, i must prevent it." again her thoughts hurried confusedly through her mind. she would go to him, and on her knees before him entreat, "despise me, curse me, but be happy, live to bless those whose fate lies in your hands, and who could find no better master. the injustice of it i will answer for here, and before god's judgment-seat! or--if you cannot sustain the burden of these unlawful possessions, cast it off. let my name be blasted, i deserve nothing better. but you,--you live, take everything that is mine and that is yours of right, and found a new existence for yourself wherever it may be!" she hurried out into the corridor, wild, beside herself. before his door she paused, overcome by a horrible sense of shame,--she could never again look him in the face! what would have been the use? another might perhaps compromise philosophically with circumstances. but he,--detestation of the blood flowing in his veins, would kill him! she raised her arms, and then dropped them at her sides, like some wounded bird, that, dying in the dust, makes one last vain effort to stir its wings to bear it to its lost heaven. then she kneeled down and pressed her lips upon the threshold of his door before groping her staggering way back to her room. chapter xiii. the mood in which conte capriani took his place beside kilary in the victoria that was to carry him to the place of meeting, was a very strange one. never had he felt such pride of victory; his thoughts reverted to his first meeting with the beautiful countess lodrin at the beginning of his career, when with his keen scent for all that was lowest in human beings, he had divined her passionate nature, a nature held in check with despotic resolution after the great disappointment of her early life. with calculating cunning he had plotted and schemed to get her into his power. but when at last he thought he had quelled and broken her pride, she suddenly reared her head more haughtily than ever, and thrust him from her.--he had not believed such audacity possible! and now the woman whom he had thought to tread beneath his feet stood at so unattainable a height above him, that his treachery was of no avail as a weapon against her. how his heart had been consumed by futile rage! only the day before yesterday she had dared to send him word by zoë melkweyser that she did not remember him. "but it is my turn now," he thought, "this duel has forced an explanation between herself and oswald,--she has had to humble herself before her child!" a fiendish exultation thrilled him to his very finger-tips. "at last they must bow before me," he said to himself.--"mother and son, the two haughtiest of the whole haughty crowd!" it never occurred to him that this explanation which he had forced so relentlessly upon the mother and son could have results other than those which he contemplated. absolutely content, for the first time in his life, he leaned back among the cushions slowly puffing forth big clouds of smoke into the fresh morning air, as the carriage approached the old monastery of st. elizabeth. it was a large building blackened by time, standing quite isolated at about half a league from tornow upon fallow land. formerly a monastery, afterwards a hospital, and then a poor-house, it was now one of those melancholy ruins that only await the pickaxe of demolition. the walls were dirty, the windows black, with half the panes broken and patched up with paper.--two grape-vines trailed over the grass where once had been a garden, and a couple of knotty mulberry-trees grew close to the ruinous walls. leaning against one of these walls stood an ancient black, wooden crucifix; the nail that had held fast the right hand of the crucified had fallen out and the arm hung loose, lending to the rudely-carved image a strange reality. it looked as if the saviour in the death struggle had torn away his bleeding hand from the cross to bless mankind with it once more. beneath the figure of christ was a tablet with an inscription, the gilt letters of which, much faded by time, still glistened in the morning sunlight. the atmosphere was unusually clear, the skies cloudless. oswald, georges, and old doctor swoboda arrived before capriani; whilst georges and doctor swoboda walked about the old building discussing various parts of it to keep themselves cool, oswald leaned against the doorway of the old cloister, and gazed silently into the distance. not a trace was perceptible of the irritability which georges had observed on the previous day. his was the repose of one who sees the goal where the terrible burden with which destiny has laden him can be cast off.--his soul was filled with anguish, but was conscious of the remedy at hand.--release went hand in hand with duty. dear old memories arose upon his mind,--vaguely as if obscured by thick vapour. his mother's image hovered before him; he clasped his hands tightly, stood erect, threw back his head and looked upwards as desperate men always do before final exhaustion. his glance fell upon the christ; the tablet at his feet attracted his attention, he approached it. "what have you found there?" asked georges, with forced carelessness. "i am only trying to decipher the inscription," replied oswald. "the inscription?--'god--god--have....'" georges spelled out. "'god have mercy upon us all!'" oswald read, and at that moment the old iron-barred gate of the monastery garden creaked on its hinges,--kilary entered first and oswald returned his bow with friendly ease. but when the conte, following kilary closely, bowed with a sweet smile oswald scarcely touched his hat. the conte glanced keenly at him; for an instant his eyes encountered those of the young man and gazed into their depths, but found nothing there save immeasurable disgust. the conditions of the duel called for thirty paces with an advance on each side of ten paces. the seconds measured off thirty paces and at the distance of ten paces apart laid two canes down on the grass. the whole proceeding was to georges a disgusting farce; he seemed to be acting as in a dream, without any will of his own. it was impossible that his cousin oswald lodrin should condescend to fight with this adventurer. oswald and the conte took their places, the seconds gave the signal. on the instant oswald shot wide of the conte. a brief, dreadful pause ensued; the conte hesitated. with utter disdain in his eyes, his head held erect, oswald advanced; the conte had never seen him look so haughty. the sight of the handsome set face recalled to the adventurer the manifold humiliations that he had been obliged to endure all his lifelong at the arrogant hands of 'these people.' all his hatred for the entire caste blazed up within him,--all power of reflection gone he blindly discharged his pistol! oswald felt something like a hard cold blow on his breast,--a crimson cloud seemed to rise out of the earth before him, he staggered and fell. "good god!" exclaimed georges quite beside himself, as he raised the dying man in his arms and held him there while the old doctor bent over him. oswald opened his eyes. his mind was somewhat astray,--everything about him seemed wavering vaguely; then, in the midst of the terrible, chaotic confusion of every sense that precedes dissolution he made a mighty effort to grasp and hold a thought that glided indistinctly through his half-darkened mind. "georges," he gasped, "what day of the month is it?" "the seventh of august." "my birthday."--suddenly his mind grew clear once more, and there came over him the incredible celerity of thought, the wonderful illumination of vision of the dying, who in a moment of time grasp the memory of an entire life. as the earth slipped away from him he was able to judge human weaknesses in the light of eternity. "georges!" he began. "yes, dear old fellow!" said georges softly, in a choked voice. "tell my mother--and for god's sake do not forget--that for the happy twenty-six years that are past i thank her, and that i kiss her dear, dear hands in token of farewell!" he was silent, he breathed with difficulty,--his lips moved again, and georges put his ear down to them that he might understand him--"georges,--if i have ever done you wrong,--you or any one else in my life--without knowing it,--then...." "ah ossi, would to god that i could ever lay down my head as calmly and proudly as you can," whispered georges, clasping him closer in his arms. the dying man smiled--possessed by a great calm. he knew that what had been his secret was his own forever. he tried to raise himself a little, rivetting his eyes upon the crucifix;--the gilt letters gleamed in the morning light. he lifted his hand by an effort, to make the sign of the cross,--georges guided his hand. a bluish pallor appeared upon his features,--twice a tremor ran through his limbs, his hands fell clinched by his side--his lips moved for the last time. "poor ella!" he murmured scarcely audibly. * * * god have mercy upon us all! chapter xiv. the countess lodrin had passed the night without lying down. when her maid appeared to see if her mistress were not ill, she had been dismissed by a mute wave of the hand. at last, towards morning, sitting beside her writing-table, she had fallen into the leaden sleep that is wont to follow terrible mental agitation. the sun was high in the heavens when she awoke with stiffened limbs and a dull pain at her heart, but without any distinct consciousness of misfortune. she looked around her, and started, perceiving that some strange commotion was astir in the castle; she could hear footsteps overhead, and outside her door.--she hurried out, the corridor was filled with people--people who had no claim to be up here. and all the servants were hurrying hither and thither in the confusion of a household where some catastrophe has occurred, all weeping, trembling, not one showing unsympathetic curiosity, and amongst them was pistasch, vainly trying to quiet the loud howling of oswald's newfoundland. "what is the matter?" the countess shrieked,--"what has happened?" but no one had the courage to answer her. she ran to oswald's bedroom--all gazed after her in horror-stricken compassion; they might have restrained her, but who could dare to do so? at the door she met georges. "what is it?" she gasped, clutching his arm, "where is ossi?" "in there," he murmured hoarsely, "but ...!" "'but'--for god's sake tell me what has happened?" "a duel," said georges with an effort,--he would fain have detained her, would fain have found the conventional phrases with which men attempt to break bad news, he could not recall any, and he stammered. "a duel?" she asked sharply, "with whom?" "with capriani;--he...." before he could say another word she had opened the door and had entered oswald's room. they had lain him on his bed,--the noble outlines of his stalwart figure were distinctly visible beneath the white sheet;--his face was uncovered, and bathed in all the ideal charm of dead youth. the countess staggered, tried to hold herself erect, tripped over her dress, and fell; then dragged herself on her knees to the bed of her dead child. at its foot she lay, her face buried in her hands. when, two hours afterward, truyn who had been informed of the frightful catastrophe entered the room with georges lodrin, she was still kneeling in the same place, her head still in her hands. profoundly shocked truyn bent over her, and gently begged her to leave the room. she arose mechanically, and leaning upon his arm went to the door. there she paused, turned, and hurried back to the bed. they feared that force would be necessary to separate her from the dead body, when georges remembered the message entrusted to him by the dying man. in the tumult, the horror, in his own terrible grief he had forgotten it. "let me try to persuade her, wait for me here," said he to truyn, and going to the bedside where the countess was again kneeling he whispered: "aunt, i have a message for you from him; he died in my arms, and while dying he thought of you!" she shrank away from him. "to-day is his birthday," georges continued, "he remembered it in his last moments and begged me to tell you, and, for god's sake not to forget it, that he thanked you for the past happy twenty-six years, and that he kissed your dear, dear hands in token of farewell." the wretched woman, who had hitherto seemed carved out of marble, began to tremble violently; a hard hoarse sob burst from her lips. it was the first warm breath of spring breaking up the ice. she instantly rose and threw herself in an agony of tears upon the corpse, exclaiming: "my child, my fair, noble boy!" georges withdrew; the moment was too sacred to be intruded upon. shortly afterwards she tottered, bent and bowed, from the room. truyn, whom she had not seemed to perceive, offered her his arm, and she quietly allowed herself to be led to her own apartment. chapter xv. the death of the young man excited universal sympathy. he was mourned not only by his relatives and friends, but by all his dependants, the peasants on his estates, nay, even by strangers to whom he had only been pointed out as he passed by. and on the day when he was buried, with all the honours befitting the noble name which he had borne so worthily, there was in the whole country round no little child whose hands were not folded in prayer for him, no poor labouring woman who had ever met him in the road, and whose existence his kindly smile had helped to lighten, who did not wear a black apron or a black kerchief, in loving memory of him. no one, perhaps, could have told what he or she had expected of the young count, but all felt that with him some hope had died, some sunshine had been buried. fritz malzin, the only witness of the insult offered to the conte, died the night before the duel; nothing therefore was known save what the conte chose to tell; the versions of the reasons that had induced oswald's rash acceptance of the conte's challenge were many and widely differing, but not one of them bore the least relation to the truth. as oswald had foreseen, his relatives overwhelmed georges with reproaches for the part he had borne in a duel between his cousin and a parvenu. but the letter to truyn which oswald left behind, exculpated georges completely. people declared, to be sure, that georges ought to have restrained the folly of his hot-tempered cousin, but the unaffected grief evinced by the man, hitherto regarded as careless and indifferent, disarmed every one. his devotion to his dead cousin revealed itself in his every action, in the exquisite tenderness of his treatment of oswald's wretched mother, and his management of the estates thus suddenly fallen to him, absolutely in accordance as it was with all oswald's wishes, soon won him the warmest sympathy from all. of course the conte was denounced; oswald's associates in his own rank regarded the man as no better than a murderer. but he coldly defied public opinion, and held his head higher than ever; he seemed even to pride himself upon his deed, and several newspapers defended him. conclusion. when in may a white-edged, black cloud discharges a storm of hail upon the fresh, green wheat, the tender blades break and are buried out of sight beneath heavy sleet; when the storm is past, and the ice melted, and the sun once more beaming bright and warm in cloudless skies, the bruised blades think they cannot bear the light, and lying close upon the ground would fain die. then over the fields thus laid waste many a head is shaken, and many a sigh is breathed for the broken promise of the harvest. but some there are who, seeing farther and knowing better, shrug their shoulders, and say "a hailstorm in spring prostrates, but does not kill!" and they look forward hopefully to the future. gradually, and very slowly, the warm sunshine penetrates the crushed blades, awakening and strengthening within them the benumbed forces of youth. before the summer is fully abroad in the land, the wheat stands erect and tall, to the inexperienced eye all unharmed, but the husbandman can detect the callous ring where the blade was bent, and says: "the wheat has been shot in the knee." thus it is with youthful souls, crushed to the earth in the spring-time of life by some fierce tempest. slowly but surely the spirit, well-nigh wounded to death, recovers, and god grants to the hearts of those whom he loves a glorious resurrection. gabrielle recovered from the fearful blow that had befallen her,--very slowly, and painfully to be sure, but at last. at first indeed, her grief was so profound, she suffered so silently, so tearlessly, that they feared for her reason, and then, when all seemed darkest to her, she was suddenly possessed by an intense, inexplicable yearning to return to the pretty home in the avenue labédoyère in which the fairest hours of her shattered bliss had been spent. her desire was complied with; and for many a long winter night zinka sat beside her by the same little white bed where the girl had once whispered to her in the delirium of her happiness that it seemed as if her heart would break with joy. with tenderest sympathy the young stepmother talked of the departed unweariedly with the girl, allowing her tears free course, without ever cruelly attempting to restrain the expression of her grief. and when truyn, in despair over such endless grieving, unreasonably taxed his wife with exciting ella's emotion, and with hindering her from forgetting, zinka replied gently, "let me alone; i know what i am doing. there is nothing more terrible, more dreadful than the spectre of a grief that has been violently stifled; it lurks in wait for us, and persecutes us all the more persistently, the more resolutely we thrust it from us. the memory of our beloved dead must not be banished, it must be tenderly welcomed and cherished, until in time it loses all bitterness, and is ever with us, sad, but very dear." truyn listened incredulously, but a few weeks later he perceived with surprise, and with trembling delight that gabrielle's pale cheeks began to show a faint colour, and that her weary gait grew more elastic. then when he was alone with zinka he kissed her gratefully, saying "i see you understand better than i how to comfort." "and from whom did i learn the art?" she asked in reply, with a loving glance, "do you not see that i am only repaying old debts?" with the first snowdrops in february came a golden-haired little brother for gabrielle, who, by zinka's desire was christened "ossi." thus gabrielle learned to utter her dead lover's name without tears. she idolizes the little one, and sometimes smiles when she has him in her arms; he has given her a fresh interest in life. georges who came to paris the last of may, only to see the truyns, and to find out especially how gabrielle was, perceived this with pleasure, and said much that was encouraging to truyn, who is still anxious about his sorrowing child. a hailstorm in spring prostrates, but does not kill. * * * but when a storm of hail just before harvest beats down the ripened ears, the grain never recovers. bowed down to the earth, broken and blasted by the weight of the hailstones, the crop lies prostrate in the fields, only awaiting the hand that shall clear it away. * * * never again will the countess lodrin rally. had her health been less vigorous she might have died of agony, had her mind been less strong, she might have forgotten. but her health is perfect, and her mind clear as daylight. she occupies her modest suite of apartments at tornow, which georges has prayed her always to consider as her home. her rooms are but a shrine for relics and memorials of the dead. every object which oswald's hand ever touched is sacred for her. every benevolent scheme devised by oswald in his generous desire, 'to brighten the existence of as many people as possible,' she promotes. she heaps his former servants with benefits, his faithful newfoundland is her constant companion. she tried to employ her widow's jointure in buying back schneeburg for poor fritz's children, but her agent could effect nothing against capriani's obstinacy and millions. at least she succeeded in buying malzin's children of their mother. charlotte married again, another secretary of capriani's. the little malzins live at tornow under the care of an english governess, and thrive apace. the countess attends to every detail of their education and training, and sees them every day although only for a short time; there is no close tie between them. in spring when she hears their sweet voices resounding with merriment in the park, she winces, and grows paler than usual. she avoids them, but if she encounters them by chance she never fails to speak a kind word to them, or to bestow upon them a gentle caress. she is no longer capable of a fervent affection for any living being. her heart is a tomb, completely filled by a single, idolized, dead son, but for his dear sake she does all the good that she can to the living. thus, even after his departure, she seems striving for his approval. she devotes the greatest part of her income and of her time to the most self-sacrificing benevolence. there is no misery in all the country round which she does not search out, and try to alleviate, going from hut to hut, and never shrinking from even the most menial services to the sick. she is revered as a saint throughout the district. in her social intercourse with her peers, which grows less year by year, her son's name never passes her lips; if others mention it she turns the conversation. but when the country-people utter his name with blessings, and recall his constant kindliness and readiness to aid;--when the peasants and day-labourers kiss the hem of her dress, with tears, saying, "god give him his reward in heaven, we shall never have another such master!" she lifts her head and her eyes gleam with intense, sacred pride. those who meet her then walking erect and with beaming looks on her way back to the castle, think her wonderfully recovered, and never dream how utterly shattered her life is. but could they see her later, when, exhausted by the temporary exaltation, she takes refuge in her chamber and sinks into the arm-chair wherein she fell asleep on that horrible night, they would be horror-struck by the fearful misery of her expression. there she sits for hours, erect, her elbows close pressed, her hands folded in her lap. her whole life is but a protracted, lingering agony; with fixed gaze she seems listening for the rustling wings of the messenger who shall release her: the angel of death. transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/erlachcourt schuiala . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. popular works from the german, translated by mrs. a. l. wister. * * * * * the alpine fay. by e. werner. mo. extra cloth. $ . . the owl's nest. by e. marlitt. mo. extra cloth. $ . . picked up in the streets. by h. schobert. mo. extra cloth, $ . . saint michael. by e. werner. mo. extra cloth. $ . . violetta. by ursula zöge von manteuffel. mo. extra cloth. $ . . the lady with the rubies. by e. marlitt. mo. extra cloth. $ . . vain forebodings. by e. oswald. mo. extra cloth. $ . . a penniless girl. by w. heimburg. mo. extra cloth. $ . . quicksands. by adolph streckfuss. mo. extra cloth. $ . . banned and blessed. by e. werner. mo. extra cloth. $ . . a noble name; or, dönninghausen. by claire von glümer. mo. extra cloth. $ . . from hand to hand. by golo raimund. mo. extra cloth. $ . . severa. by e. hartner. mo. extra cloth. $ . . the eichhofs. by moritz von reichenbach. mo. extra cloth. $ . . a new race. by golo raimund. mo. extra cloth. $ . . castle hohenwald. by adolph streckfuss. mo. extra cloth. $ . . margarethe. by e. juncker. mo. extra cloth. $ . . too rich. by adolph streckfuss. mo. extra cloth. $ . . a family feud. by ludwig harder. mo. extra cloth. $ . . the green gate. by ernst wichert. mo. extra cloth. $ . . only a girl. by wilhelmine von hillern. mo. extra cloth. $ . . why did he not die? by ad. von volckhausen. mo. extra cloth. $ . . hulda; or, the deliverer. by f. lewald. mo. extra cloth. $ . . the bailiff's maid. by e. marlitt. mo. extra cloth. $ . . in the schillingscourt. by e. marlitt. mo. extra cloth. $ . . at the councillor's; or, a nameless history. by e. marlitt. mo. extra cloth. $ . . the second wife. by e. marlitt. mo. extra cloth. $ . . the old mam'selle's secret. by e. marlitt. mo. extra cloth. $ . . gold elsie. by e. marlitt. mo. extra cloth. $ . . countess gisela. by e. marlitt. mo. extra cloth. $ . . the little moorland princess. by e. marlitt. mo. extra cloth. $ . . * * * * * *** for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage paid, upon receipt of price by j. b. lippincott company, publishers, philadelphia erlach court translated from the german of ossip schubin by mrs. a. l. wister philadelphia j. b. lippincott company * * * * * copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company. * * * * * contents. chapter i.--expected guests. ii.--baron rohritz. iii.--the arrival. iv.--stella. v.--an experiment. vi.--a ruined life. vii.--a rainy evening. viii.--a love-affair. ix.--found. x.--freddy's birthday. xi.--crabbing. xii.--disaster. xiii.--idyllic. xiv.--a departure. xv.--scattered. xvi.--zalow. xvii.--winter. xviii.--sophie oblonsky. xix.--paris. xx.--thérèse de rohritz. xxi.--an austrian host. xxii.--french inferiority. xxiii.--prince zino capito. xxiv.--a music-lesson. xxv.--a new acquaintance? xxvi.--five-o'clock tea. xxvii.--a change at erlach court. xxviii.--a paris letter. xxix.--a storm and its consequences. xxx.--a sleepless night. xxxi.--glowing embers. xxxii.--thérèse the wise. xxxiii.--stella's failure. xxxiv.--rohritz dreams. xxxv.--a sprained ankle. xxxvi.--lost again. xxxvii.--the fanes' ball. xxxviii.--found at last. erlach court. chapter i. expected guests. erlach court,--a vine-wreathed castle, not very imposing, on the save,--a pleasant dining-room, with wide-open windows through which thousands of golden stars are seen twinkling in the dark blue of a july sky, while the air is laden with the fragrance of acacia- and linden-blossoms. beneath a hanging lamp, around a table whereon are finger-bowls and the remains of a luxurious dessert, are grouped six persons,--the master of the house, captain von leskjewitsch, his wife, and his seven-year-old son and heir, freddy, a fräulein von gurlichingen, whose acquaintance frau von leskjewitsch had made twenty years before and whom she had never since been able to shake off, and two gentlemen, baron rohritz and general von falk. the general is the same youthful veteran whom we have all met before in some viennese drawing-room or in some watering-place in bohemia,--accredited throughout austria from time immemorial as excellent company, dreaded as an incorrigible gossip, and notorious as a thorough idler. he often boasts that in thirty years he has never once dined at home; he might add, nor at his own expense. he is never positively invited anywhere, but since he has never been turned out of doors he is met everywhere. absolutely free from prejudice in his social proclivities, he is equally at home in aristocratic society and in the world of finance; in fact, he rather prefers the latter; the dinners there are better, he maintains. in spite of his seventy years, he is still as erect as a fir-tree,--dressed in the most youthful style,--occasionally, although with a half-ironical smile, alludes in conversation to 'us young men,' and dances at balls with the agility of a boy. baron rohritz, who is scarcely six-and-thirty, already ranks himself, on the contrary, for the sake of his personal ease, with the old men. tall and slender, with delicate, clearly-cut features, he is a remarkably distinguished figure, even in the circle to which he belongs. although his moustache is brown, his hair is already very gray, which women find extremely interesting, especially since there is said to be some connection between this premature change of colour and an unfortunate love-affair. the finest thing about his face is his deep-set blue eyes; but since he uses an eye-glass, is near-sighted, and often nearly closes his eyes, there is something haughty in his look, which produces a chilling effect. when he smiles his expression is very attractive, but he smiles only rarely, and shows to the best advantage in his treatment of dogs, horses, and children. fräulein von gurlichingen, commonly called stasy,--the diminutive of her baptismal name, anastasia, and a play upon her perpetual state of ecstatic excitement,--is an old maid, who was once accounted a great beauty, and in consequence is fond of wearing golden bands around her romantically frizzed curls. her languishing, light-blue eyes were once compared to forget-me-nots sprinkled with sugar, and her complexion is suggestive of swedish kid dusted with violet powder. she was young twenty years since, and has forgotten to stop being so. she once nearly married a prince of the blood, and has lately been jilted by an infantry-officer. she has come to erlach court to recover from this last blow, perhaps in hopes of eventually obtaining a recompense for the loss of the captain. little freddy is a very pretty, spoiled child, in a sailor suit, with bare legs very much scratched; and the master and mistress of the house are two genial people, who eight years previously, both having outlived the bloom of their early illusions, although she was only six-and-twenty and the captain thirty, had "patched together their tattered lives," which means that they had married each other, not so much in the hope of being happy themselves, as in that of making two other fellow-beings miserable. although, however, they had thus married for pique, and though each had brought to the union nothing save a remnant of unfortunate love for somebody else, although they quarrelled with each other continually, they got along together not much worse than two-thirds of the married people whose union has been the result of passionate attachment. all were waiting for the after-dinner coffee, which the mistress of the mansion, in dread of spots, never allowed to be served in the drawing-room, except on state occasions. its appearance was unpardonably delayed to-day, and the famous erlach court sociability was beginning to degenerate into yawning ennui. with the exception of baron rohritz, who had been occupied the entire time in gazing with half-closed eyes into the clouds of blue smoke from his cigar, all present had done their best to enliven the prevailing mood: the general had told anecdotes from the 'fliegende blätter,' freddy had succeeded in producing a particularly charming noise by running a wet forefinger around the rims of various wineglasses, fräulein stasy had suggested a poetic comparison between dry storms and the tearless anguish of a stricken heart, and the married pair had squabbled with special earnestness about the most diverse matters, first about the potato-rot, then about a problematical constitution for poland; and yet the conversation had failed to become fluent. for a few minutes an oppressive silence had prevailed; the husband and wife, usually equal to any emergency in this direction, had ceased even to quarrel. the ticking of the watches was almost audible, when the servant brought in on a salver the contents of the post-bag which had just arrived. "while the captain hastily opened a newspaper, that he might read aloud to the nervous stasy, with a harrowing attention to details, the latest cholera bulletins, frau von leskjewitsch leisurely opened two letters: the first came from a trieste tradesman and announced the arrival of a late invoice of the best disinfectants, the second apparently contained intelligence of some importance. after she had read it, frau von leskjewitsch laid it, with a pleased expression, upon the table. "children," she exclaimed,--it was a habit of hers thus to apostrophize people well on in years, for, except freddy, who was not yet eight, and the general, who dyed his hair, all present were more or less gray-headed,--"children, our circle is about to receive an addition; my sister-in-law has just written me that she accepts our invitation and will arrive here to-morrow or the day after." "bravo!" exclaimed the captain, who on hearing this news quite forgot to go on teasing stasy, and suppressed three entire cholera-telegrams. "i shall be delighted to see my little niece." freddy said, meditatively, "i should like to know what my aunt will bring me." the rest of the party received the joyful tidings without emotion, partly because the long-looked-for coffee at that moment made its appearance, and partly because of the other three stasy alone had any personal acquaintance with the baroness meineck--as the captain's sister was called--or her daughter. after the coffee had been cleared away, and whilst the master and mistress of the house were arguing outside in the corridor, most uselessly and most energetically, as to the train by which the expected guests would arrive, the general, who was playing his usual evening game of tric-trac with rohritz, sighed,-- "our comfort is all over." rohritz raised his eyebrows inquiringly: "do you mean that in honour of these fresh guests we shall be obliged to put on a dress-coat at dinner every day?" "not exactly that," said the general; "the ladies themselves are not too much given to elegance; but"--the general's face lengthened--"we shall be obliged to be cautious in our conversation." rohritz smiled significantly. "double sixes!" he exclaimed, throwing the dice on the green cloth and moving his men with cunning calculation on the backgammon-board. meanwhile, the garrulous general continued, without waiting to be questioned: "leskjewitsch is patient with his sister, and is excessively fond of his niece, but, between ourselves,"--he chuckled to himself,--"leskjewitsch is a fool!" if anything gave him more satisfaction than to live at the expense of others, it was to be witty, or rather malicious, at their expense. rohritz thought this bad form, and was silent. "i do not know the ladies personally," the general went on, rubbing his hands, "but for originality"--here he tapped his forehead with his forefinger--"neither mother nor daughter is far behind the captain. the mother is an old blue-stocking, and has been travelling all over the world for the last ten years, collecting materials for an historical work upon the medicines, or whatever you choose to call them----" "the medici, perhaps?" rohritz interpolated. "very likely; i only know that there was an apothecary in the family, and that there were pills in their scutcheon, and that the worthy baroness's work is to be eight volumes long," said the general. stasy, who had been leaning back in a luxurious arm-chair, moved to tears for the hundredth time over the last chapter of 'paul and virginia,' her favourite book,--the death of the heroine, she said, touched her especially because she could so easily fancy herself in virginia's place,--now laid her book aside, since her tears seemed to arouse no sympathy, and joined in the conversation: "you are talking of the meinecks?" "yes. are you personally acquainted with the ladies?" asked the general. "yes,--not very intimately, though. i always held myself a little aloof from them, but last summer we were at the same country resort,--i was with a sick friend at zalow,--and i saw something and heard a great deal of the meinecks." "and are all the strange things that are said of them true?" asked the general. "i really do not know what is said of them," replied stasy, "but it certainly would be difficult to exaggerate their peculiarities. the baroness, unfortunately too late in life, has arrived at the conclusion that the continuance of the human species is a crime. one of her manias consists in giving _à tort et à travers_, wherever she may chance to be, short lectures, gratis, upon the american shakers and their system. but, with all her zeal, she has hitherto succeeded in making but few proselytes. even her elder daughter, who was for some years a fanatical adherent of her mother's doctrines, lately married an artillery-officer. stella, the younger sister, whose acquaintance you are to make, dislikes having a brother-in-law in the artillery. the baroness's distaste was not for the quality of her son-in-law, but for marriage itself. she appeared at the wedding in deep mourning, and but for the remonstrances of her relatives the invitations to the ceremony would have been engraved upon black-edged paper, like notices of a funeral." "ah! and the second daughter,--hm--i mean the one expected here?" "she will not hear of marriage, and is studying for the stage." "indeed?" said baron rohritz. the general moved a little nearer him, and, with a mischievous twinkle of his green eyes, whispered, "between ourselves, i would not trust any girl under sixty--he-he-he!--in the matter of marriage. this stella is hardly an exception; she probably imagines she can make a very good match from the stage--he-he!" rohritz shrugged his shoulders. stasy continued: "i really am sorry for stella: under other circumstances she might have been very nice, but as it is she is dreadful. two years ago she had a craze for horsemanship: she used to tear about for hours every day upon an english blood-horse which she had bought for a mere song because it was blind of one eye. since the meineck finances did not, of course, warrant a groom, and the meineck arrogance could not accept the attendance of any one of the young men of the place,--and i know from the best authority that several kindly offered themselves as her escort,--she rode alone, and in a habit--good heavens!--patched up by herself out of an old blue cloth sofa-covering,--just fancy! one day the baroness was more than commonly in need of money, perhaps to publish a new volume of history or to repair a tumble-down chimney,--who knows?--at all events the horse was sold to a farmer in the neighbourhood. stella cried for a week over her loss. now the horse is quite blind, and draws an ash-cart; and when the little goose sees him she kisses his forehead." "ah! _besoin d'aimer!_" chuckled the general. "hm--hm!" "three times a week she goes to prague, of course without any chaperon,--and takes singing-lessons from a long-haired music-master who predicts for her a career like alboni's. heaven knows what will be the end of it. the meineck temperament is sure sooner or later to show itself in the child. her father's mode of life scandalized even his comrades, and her aunt----surely you know about eugenie von meineck, the captain's old flame----" she stopped short, for at this moment the captain himself entered the room, and, turning to rohritz, said, "i'm glad, old fellow, that your stay in erlach court is to be brightened up a little." "i assure you that no change is needed to make my visit to you most agreeable," rohritz rejoined, courteously. the captain bowed: "nevertheless you cannot deny that your pleasure may be increased, and you are still young enough to enjoy the society of a pretty and clever girl." rohritz bit his lip; he had a very decided, although quite excusable, dislike for what are called clever young women. stasy turned up her nose. "do you think the little meineck clever--_mais vraiment_ clever, _spirituelle_?" she asked. "she is full of bright, merry ideas, and what a pretty girl says is apt to sound well," the captain replied, dryly. "do you think her pretty?" stasy drawled; she never could make up her mind to call any girl pretty. "pretty? she is charming, bewitching!" the captain declared, in an angry crescendo. just then his wife appeared, much provoked at some particularly shocking misdeed on the part of the maid to whom had been intrusted the arrangement of the guest-chambers, and she asked, "what is the matter?" "a difference of opinion with regard to your niece stella, katrine dear," anastasia said, sweetly, leaning back with a languishing air among the cushions of her arm-chair and touching her fingertips together. "your husband thinks her so very beautiful." "oh, my husband always exaggerates," frau von leskjewitsch remarks. "i never said very beautiful; i did not even say beautiful: i simply said charming," the captain shouts. "she is pretty. there is something very attractive about her," his wife assents, "and my husband finds her especially charming because she looks like his old flame, eugenie meineck. for my part, this resemblance is the only thing about stella that i do not like. i am sorry that even in her features alone she should remind one of her aunt." "a rather indelicate allusion on your part," growls the captain, whose brown cheeks had flushed at his wife's words. as his wife always declared, he had never got out of roundabouts, which suited him but ill, for he was an unusually tall, broad-shouldered man, with very handsome, clear-cut features, and a face tanned and worn by war, wind and weather, but recognizable as far as it could be seen as that of a southern slav. "extremely indelicate," he repeats, with emphasis. "i think it ridiculous never to outlive disappointments," says frau von leskjewitsch, who ever since she was a girl of eighteen had assumed the air of a matron of vast worldly experience,--"extremely ridiculous," she adds, with comic mimicry of her husband's reproachful intonation. as she spoke she slightly threw back her head crowned with luxuriant hair gathered into a simple knot behind, half closed her eyes, and stuck one thumb in the buff leather belt that confined her dark-blue linen blouse at the waist. baron rohritz, an experienced connoisseur of the female sex, had stuck his eye-glass in his eye, and was gazing at her without a shadow of impertinent obtrusiveness, but with very evident interest. without being handsome, or taking the slightest pains to appear so, she nevertheless produced a most agreeable impression. according to the baron's computation, she was about thirty-four years old, and yet her tall slender figure had all the pliancy of early youth. her every motion was characterized by a certain energy and determination that possessed an attraction in spite of being foreign to the generally received opinion as to what constitutes feminine grace. the eyes, shadowed by long black lashes, that looked forth from her pale, oval face were full of intelligence and constantly varying expression, her features were fine but not regular, and her laugh was charming. "yes," she repeated, "i insist upon it, there is nothing more ridiculous than the inability to have done with one's disappointments. good heavens! i freely confess to myself, and to the world at large, that the worthy man with whom i was wretchedly in love for four years was one of the vainest, most insignificant, most egotistical and uninteresting geese that ever lived." "you were not in love with him," declared the captain, who did not seem to be quite free from a certain retrospective jealousy. "you were simply under the domination of an _idée fixe_." "as if the passion of love were ever anything save an _idée fixe_ of the heart!" retorted frau von leskjewitsch; "and an _idée fixe_ is a disease; while it lasts it is well to be patient with it, but when it is over one ought to thank god and get rid of the traces of it as quickly as possible. that you never did, jack: you were always like the belles of society, who cannot make up their minds to burn up their old ball-dresses and other trophies or simply to throw them away. they stuff their trunks full of such rubbish, until there is no room left for their honest every-day clothes. throw it away, and the sooner the better!" "what has once been dear to me is forever sacred in my eyes," said the captain, solemnly. "yes, and consequently you drag about with you through life such a heap of old, dusty, battered illusions that i really cannot see where you find the strength to hold fast to one healthy vital sensation. bah! painful as it is, one must bury one's dead in time!" "i prefer to embalm mine," the captain rejoined, with dignity. "let me congratulate you upon your collection of mummies," said his wife. "you have no capacity for veneration," the captain declared. "because i disapprove of whining _ad infinitum_ as homage to a vanished enthusiasm,--ridiculous!" said katrine. "don't quarrel, my doves!" stasy entreated, clasping her hands after a child-like fashion. "we have no idea of doing so," the mistress of the house replied, good-humouredly. "we never quarrel. our complaint is a chronic difference of opinion. what were we really talking about?" "about illusions," remarked baron rohritz. "oh, that was merely a side-issue,--only an after-piece," said frau von leskjewitsch, bethinking herself. "what was the starting-point of our discussion?--oh, yes: we were speaking of my little niece." "perhaps you can show us a photograph of her," said anastasia. "yes, yes." and frau von leskjewitsch began an eager search in a small gilt cottage which had once been a bonbonnière and now served as a receptacle for photographs. in vain. upon a closer examination several of the photographs were found to be missing. little freddy confessed with a repentant face that he had cut them up to make winders for twine. his mother laughed, kissed his sleepy, troubled eyes, and sent him to bed. thus baron rohritz was left to draw from fancy a possible likeness of stella meineck. chapter ii. baron rohritz. stasy had vented so much malice upon stella that rohritz had involuntarily begun to think well of her. after he had retired, in the watches of the night, and was trying in vain to be interested in a volume of tauchnitz, his thoughts were still busied with her. "poor thing," he reflected, "there must be something attractive about her, or les and his wife would not be so devoted to her. and, after all, what did that venomous old maid's accusations amount to?--that she has an antipathy for artillery-officers,"--rohritz as a former cavalry-man shrugged his shoulders indulgently at this weakness,--"and that she wants to go upon the stage. that, to be sure, is bad. i know nothing in the world more repulsive than girls of what are called the better classes who are studying for the stage." and rohritz recalled a certain officer's daughter whom he had once met at an evening entertainment, and who in proof of her distinguished talent had declaimed various 'selections.' he had been quite unable to detect her talent, and had spoken of her contemptuously as an hysterical tree-frog. the appellation had met with acceptance and had been frequently repeated. the remembrance of the officer's bony daughter lay heavy on his soul. "yes, if stella should remind me in the least of that hysterical tree-frog, i really could not stay here much longer," he thought, with a shudder. "and in any case i cannot but regret these last pleasant days. that old dandy and the faded beauty were bad enough, but they could be ignored; while a young girl--and a relative, too, of the family---- pshaw! at all events i can take my leave." with which he put out his candle and went to bed. what it was that was dear to him in the sleepy and very uninteresting life at erlach court it would be difficult to say. perhaps he prized it as chiming in so admirably with the precious ennui which he had brought home from america ten years previously, and which had since been his inseparable companion. it was such a finished, elegant ennui; it never yawned and looked about for amusement, never in fact felt the least desire for it, but looked down in self-satisfied superiority upon those childish mortals who were actually capable of being irritated or entertained upon this old exhausted globe. he was proud of this kind of moral ossification, which was gradually paralyzing all his really noble qualities. "'tis a pity!" said leskjewitsch, whose youth was still warm in his veins, and who declared that he had never been bored for half an hour in his life, except upon a pitch-dark night in winter at some lonely outpost when he had been delayed on the march; and although the honest captain was a demi-savage and "still in roundabouts," we cannot help repeating his words with reference to rohritz, "'tis a pity!" yes, a pity! who that saw edgar von rohritz--his mother had bestowed upon him his melodramatic name in a fit of enthusiasm for walter scott and donizetti,--who that saw him to-day could believe that in his youth, under a thin disguise of aristocratic nonchalance, he was far more sentimentally inclined than his former comrade leskjewitsch? but sentiment had fared ill with him. after having overcome, not without a hard struggle, the pain of a very bitter disappointment, his demands upon existence were of the most moderate description, and this partly to spare himself useless pain and partly from caution lest he should make himself ridiculous. he kept his heart closely shut; and if at times sentiment, now fallen into disgrace with him, softly appealed to it, entreating admission, he refused to listen. he was no longer at home for sentiment. about twenty years since he had begun his military career in the same regiment of dragoons with jack leskjewitsch, and when hardly five-and-twenty he had left the service and travelled round the world, perhaps because change of air is as beneficial for diseases of the heart as for other maladies. for years now he had made his home in grätz, whence he took frequent flights to vienna. he was but moderately addicted to society, so called. he never danced; at balls he played whist, and dryly criticised the figures and the toilettes of the dancers. he had the reputation of being a woman-hater, and accordingly all the young married women thought him excessively interesting. he was held to be one of the best matches in grätz, wherefore he was exposed to persecution by all mothers blest with marriageable daughters. wearied of this varied homage, he had gradually withdrawn from society, and had even relinquished his game of boston, when one day a report was circulated that he had suddenly lost almost all his property through the negligence of an agent. all that was left him--so it was said--was a mere pittance. since he never contradicted this report, it was thought to be confirmed. the mothers of marriageable daughters discovered that he had a disagreeable disposition, and that it would be very difficult to live with him. one week after this sad report had been in circulation, he observed with a peculiar smile that during this space of time he had received at least half a dozen fewer invitations to dinners and balls than usual. shortly afterwards meeting a friend in the street who offered him his sincere condolence, he replied, with a twirl of his moustache,-- "do not, trouble yourself about me: i assure you that it is sometimes very comfortable to be poor!" the news of his sadly-altered circumstances penetrated even to the secluded erlach court, and captain leskjewitsch, who learned it from a casual mention of it in a postscript to a letter from a comrade, was exceedingly agitated by it. he ran to his wife with the open letter in his hand, exclaiming, "ah çà, katrine, read that. rohritz has lost every penny! under such circumstances he must need entire change of scene for a time. we must invite him here immediately,--immediately, that is, if you have no objection." for a wonder, the quarrelsome couple were perfectly at one on this point. "i shall be delighted to see him," replied katrine. "invite him at once; that is, if you are not afraid of his making love to me." the captain's face took on an odd expression. "there is no danger of your allowing a stranger to make love to you," he muttered. "your disagreeable characteristic is that you will not allow even me to make love to you." katrine raised her eyebrows: "i have an aversion for _rechauffées_." the captain took instant advantage of his opportunity: "you certainly cannot expect to be the first woman who i--hm!--thought had fine eyes?" but katrine was very busy with her household accounts, and consequently she had no time at present to indulge in her favourite amusement, a lively discussion. "don't agitate yourself, my dear," she rejoined, "but go and write a beautiful letter to rohritz; and do it quickly, that it may go by to-day's post. shall i compose it for you?" "thanks, i think i am equal to that myself," the captain replied, with a laugh. "upon my word, a poor dragoon has to put up with a deal from so cultivated a woman." as he turned to go, katrine called after him: "i warn you beforehand that i have a weakness for rohritz. all the rest is your affair. i wash my hands of it." nothing so aroused katrine leskjewitsch's sarcasm as the problematical conscientiousness of those young wives who combine a decided love for flirtation with a determination to cast all the blame for it upon their husbands, posing in the eyes of the world as suffering angels at the side of black-hearted monsters. her ridicule of such women was sharp and plentiful. "a deuce of a woman!" the captain murmured as he betook himself to his library and--rare effort for a dragoon--indited a letter four pages long to his old comrade. his friend's epistle, strange to say, touched rohritz. it was so cordial, so frank, and so warmly sympathetic, such a contrast to the formal assurances of sympathy which he met with elsewhere, that he accepted the invitation extended to him, and made his appearance at erlach court a week afterwards. he had been here now for three weeks, and had been really content, especially during the early period of his visit, when he had been alone with his host and hostess. the arrival of the general and stasy had somewhat annoyed him, and the news of the approach of another detachment of guests consisting, moreover, of a mother and daughter positively irritated him. good heavens! another mother, another daughter! was there then no spot upon the face of the globe where one could be safe from mothers and daughters? chapter iii. the arrival. a telegram had finally announced the arrival of the meinecks by the . morning train at h----, the nearest railroad-station, tolerably distant from erlach court. it is almost noon; the captain and freddy have driven over to the station to meet the guests, and the rest of the family are on the terrace outside of the dining-room. the hostess, dressed as usual with puritanic simplicity in some kind of dark linen stuff, deliciously fresh and smelling of lavender, is leaning back in a garden-chair, diligently crochetting a red-and-white afghan for her little son's bed. the general, in a very youthful felt hat adorned with a feather, is chuckling in a corner over a novel of zola's. anastasia is fluttering gracefully hither and thither, fancying the while that she looks like a watteau. in pursuance of her lamentable custom of wearing her shabby old evening-gowns in the country in the daytime, she has donned a much-worn sky-blue silk with dilapidated tulle trimming, and is surprised that her faded splendour appears to fail to dazzle those present. "life is pleasant here, is it not?" asks katrine, looking up from her crochetting at rohritz, who faces her as he leans against the balustrade of the terrace. "i am trying my best to induce my husband to leave the service and retire to this place. he is still hesitating." "hm! do you not think that for a man of his temperament existence at erlach court would be a trifle monotonous?" is rohritz's reply. "he can occupy himself," katrine makes answer, shrugging her shoulders. "if i mistake not, you have rented the farm at erlach court?" "yes, thank heaven!" frau von leskjewitsch admits, with a smile. "farming is usually a very costly taste for dilettanti. but he has entire control over the forests and the vineyards; they would give him plenty to do; and then he is an enthusiastic horseman, and the roads are very fine." rohritz is silent, and thoughtfully knocks off the ashes from his cigar with the long nail of his little finger. he cannot help thinking that katrine leskjewitsch, exemplary as she may be as a mother, has her faults as a wife. jack leskjewitsch is not yet eight-and-thirty, and she is prescribing for him a life suited to a man of sixty. "it is certainly a pity to cut short his career," rohritz remarks, after a while, "especially since he passed so brilliant an examination for advanced rank last year." "yes, his talent is indubitable," katrine assents: "one would hardly think it of him. he devotes but little attention to study, as i can testify, and i certainly did not coach him, as did the wife of an unfortunate captain who passed the same examination." the corners of katrine's mouth twitched. "what do you think was the end of the united efforts of husband and wife? two weeks after barely and laboriously passing his examination the worthy man was a maniac. in fact, no fewer than seven of my husband's fellow-students in that course lost their reason. 'tis odd how much ambitious incapacity one encounters in this world! jack does not belong in that category, however. he adores the service, but he has not a particle of ambition." all this is uttered with a seemingly woful lack of interest. "'tis a pity that she does not sympathize more fully with les," rohritz thinks to himself; but all he says is, "and yet you would have him relinquish his career?" "a cavalry-man who looks forward to a career ought not to marry," katrine maintains. "probably you can recall the delights of a military, nomadic existence for a family, particularly in those holes in hungary. such hovels!--a stagnant swamp in front, a suabian regiment installed in the rooms, and no sooner have you got things into a civilized condition than you have to break up to the sound of boot and saddle. in one year i changed my abode three times. i could have borne it all so far as i was concerned, but there was the child. freddy became subject to attacks of fever, so i bundled him up and brought him here. he recovered immediately, and i wrote to my husband that he must choose between his family and the army." "that was to the point, at least," said rohritz. "yes. he was apparently offended, and did not answer my letter for a month. then he was seized with a longing for--for the child. he alighted in the midst of our solitude like a bomb at sevastopol. of course we were charmed to see him, and he was so delighted with erlach court that he was quite ready to turn his back on the service. i, however, do not approve of hasty decisions, and so i advised him to postpone his change of vocations----" "his resignation of a vocation," baron rohritz interpolated. "what a hair-splitting humour you are in today!" katrine rejoined, with a shrug, "to postpone for a while his resignation, if that pleases you. so he obtained leave of absence for a year. hm!--i am afraid he is beginning to be bored. i cannot understand it. you must admit that we are charmingly situated here." "indeed you are." "the estate is in good order," katrine went on, "and we have no neighbours." "a great advantage." "so it seems to me. one of the most disagreeable sides of an army life was always, in my opinion, the being forced into association with so many unpleasant people. most of my husband's comrades were very agreeable, unusually kindly, pleasant men, but to be forced to accept them all, and their wives into the bargain without liberty to show any preference,--it was simply odious. i am a fanatic for solitude; the usual human being i dislike; but you cannot throw everybody over, however you may desire to do so,"--with a glance over her shoulder towards stasy and the general. "i beg you will make no application to yourself of my remark." "much obliged." rohritz bowed. "i confess i began----" "no need of fine phrases," katrine interrupted him. "you know i like you. and in proof of it--you may have heard that we want to pass the winter here; it will be delightful! entirely lonely,--shut off from civilization by a wall of snow,--christmas in the country,--the children from three villages to provide with gifts,--the castle quite empty, except for our three selves and freddy! well, in proof of my genuine friendship i invite you to share with us this charming solitude. will you come? say you will." dropping her work in her lap, she offers him both her hands. "a curious creature! she treats me like an aged man, and moreover considers herself sufficiently elderly to dispense with caution in her intercourse with the other sex. an odd illusion for a woman still extremely pretty," rohritz thinks; and, occupied with these reflections, he does not immediately reply. "you decline?" she asks, merrily. "i shall not throw away such an invitation upon you a second time." "they are coming! they are coming!" stasy exclaims, clapping her hands childishly and tripping to and fro in much excitement. "i do not hear the carriage," katrine rejoins, looking at her watch. "besides, it is not time for them yet." "but i hear something in the avenue---- ah, please come, dear edgar," stasy entreats. rohritz does not stir. "baron rohritz!" in an imploring tone. "what can i do for you, fräulein stasy?" "your opera-glass--be quick!" and, while rohritz reluctantly rises to go for the desired optical aid, stasy lisps, "not at all over-polite; quite like a brother: just what i enjoy." "it is they," katrine exclaims. "the carriage is just turning into the avenue. let me have it for a moment,"--taking from his hand the glass which rohritz has just brought. "yes, now i see them quite distinctly." a few minutes later the rattle of approaching wheels is heard. the two ladies and the general hasten down to receive the guests. rohritz discreetly withdraws to his apartment, and from behind his half-drawn curtains watches the arrival. the carriage stops, the captain springs out to aid two ladies to alight. at first rohritz hears nothing but a hubbub of glad voices, sees nothing but a confused group, the general standing on one side with a polite grin on his face, and freddy giving vent to his joyous excitement by performing a war-dance around the party. when the situation at last becomes clear, he perceives a very handsome old lady in a close black travelling-hat, a pair of blue spectacles shielding her eyes from the dust, and wearing a dust-cloak which may once have been black, while beside her--he adjusts his eye-glass in his eye--assuredly stella does not remind him of the 'hysterical tree-frog' of frightful memory, but of some one else, for the life of him he cannot remember whom. he looks and looks, sees two serious dark eyes in a gentle childlike face beneath the broad brim of a kate-greenaway hat, a half-wayward, half-shy smile, charming dimples appearing by turns in the cheeks and at the corners of the mouth, a delicately-chiselled nose, a very short and rather haughty upper lip, beneath which gleam rows of pearly teeth, and for the rest, the figure of a sylph, rather tall, still a little too thin, and with a foot peeping from beneath her skirt that taglioni might covet. he looks and looks. no, stella certainly does not remind him of the 'hysterical tree-frog,' but as certainly she recalls to his mind something, some one--who is it? who can it be? an unpleasant surmise occurs to him, but before it can take actual shape in his brain the impetuous entrance of the captain has banished it. "come to the drawing-room, rohritz, and be presented to the ladies," he calls out. "by the way, what means this wretched idea of which stasy informs me? she says that you are going back to grätz immediately." "the fact is, my lawyer has summoned me," rohritz replies; "but--hm!--i fancy the matter can be settled by letter. at any rate, i will try to have it so disposed of." "bravo!" chapter iv. stella. freddy has been terribly disappointed; instead of the bonbonnière, the snap-pistol, or the storybook, among which three articles he has allowed his expectant imagination to rove, his aunt has brought him sanders's german dictionary. "i hope you will like it," stella remarks, with emphasis, depositing the voluminous gift upon the school-room table. "we had to pay for at least five pounds of extra weight of luggage in the monster's behalf, and moreover it has crushed flat my only new summer hat. 'tis a great pity." freddy, who, although hitherto rather puny and delicate in body, is mentally, thanks to clever qualities inherited from both his parents, far in advance of his age, and already thinks voss's translation of the odyssey entertaining, turns over the leaves of the three volumes of the dictionary without finding them attractive. "i put in a good word for the child," stella says, with a laugh, to the captain, who with his friend rohritz happens to be in freddy's school-room, "but mamma insists that it is of no consequence; if it does not please him now, it will be very useful to him in future. never mind, my darling," she adds, turning to her little cousin, who, with a sigh and not without much physical effort, is putting the colossal sanders on his bookshelves; "it certainly presents an imposing spectacle, and i have a foolish thing for your birthday, the very finest my limited means could afford." as she speaks she strokes the little fellow's brown curls affectionately. "stella, stella, where are you loitering?" a deep voice calls at this moment, and the girl replies,-- "in a moment, mamma, i am coming!--i have to write a letter to a berlin publisher," she says by way of explanation to the two men, as she leaves the room. * * * * * the evening has come. dinner is over. all are sitting in more or less comfortable garden-chairs on the terrace before the castle, beneath the spreading boughs of a linden, now laden with fragrant blossoms. the stars are not yet awake, but the moon has risen full, though giving but little light, and looking in its reddish lustre like a candle lighted by day; the heavens are of a pale, greenish blue, with opalescent gleams on the horizon. the sun has set, twilight has mingled lights and shadows, the colours of the flowers are dull and faded. around the castle reigns a sweet, peaceful silence, that most precious of all the luxuries of a residence in the country. the evening wind murmurs a dreamy duo with the ripple of the stream running at the foot of the garden, and now and then is heard the heavy foot-fall of a peasant returning from his work to the village. baroness meineck is holding forth to her hostess, who listens patiently, or at least silently, upon the subject of the cholera-bacilli and the latest discoveries of pasteur. to rohritz, who, will he nill he, has had to place his hands at the disposal of the arch stasy as a reel for her crewel, the baroness's voice partly recalls a sentinel and partly a tragic actress; she always talks in fine rounded periods, as if she suspected a stenographer concealed near. while the quondam beauty, with a thousand superfluous little arts, winds an endless length of red worsted upon a folded playing-card, he glances towards the spot where stella is telling stories to freddy, and involuntarily listens. since the baroness, perhaps because she has reached some rather delicate details in her medical treatise, sees fit to lower slightly her powerful voice, he can hear almost every word spoken by stella. if he is especially susceptible in any regard, it is in that of a beautiful mode of speech. what stella says he is quite indifferent to, but the delightful tone of her soft, clear, bird-like voice touches his soul with an indescribably soothing charm. "now that's enough. i do not know any more stories," he hears her say at last in reply to an entreaty from her little cousin for "just one more." "no more at all?" freddy asks, in dismay, and with all the earnestness of his age. "no more to-day," stella says, consolingly. "i shall know another to-morrow." she kisses him on the forehead. "you look tired, my darling! is it your bedtime?" "no," the captain answers for him, "but he could not sleep last night for delight in the coming of our guests, and he is paying for it now. shall i carry you up-stairs--hey, freddy?" but freddy considers it quite beneath his dignity to go to bed with the chickens, and prefers to clamber upon his father's knee. "you are growing too big a fellow for this," the captain says, rather reprovingly: nevertheless he puts his arm tenderly about the boy, saying to stella, by way of excuse, "we spoil him terribly: he was not very strong in the spring, and he still enjoys all the privileges of a convalescent,--hey, my boy?" by way of reply the little fellow nestles close to his father with some indistinct words expressive of great content, and while the captain's moustache is pressed upon the child's soft hair, stella takes a small scarlet wrap from her shoulders and folds it about his bare legs. "'tis good to sleep so, freddy, is it not? ah, where are the times gone when i could climb up on my father's knees and fall asleep on his shoulder?--they were the happiest hours of my life!" the girl says, with a sigh. "but, baron rohritz, pray hold your hands a little quieter," the wool-winding stasy calls out to her victim. "you twitch them all the time." "if you only knew how glad i am to see you all again, and to spend a few days in the country," stella begins afresh after a while. "why, do you not come directly from the country?" the captain asks, surprised. "from the country?--we come from zalow," stella replies: "the difference is heaven-wide. yes, when mamma thirty years ago bought the mill where we live now,--without the miller and his wife, 'tis true,--because it was so picturesque, it really was in the country, or at least in a village, where besides ourselves there were only a few peasants, and one other person, a misanthropic widow who lived at the very end of the hamlet in a one-story house concealed behind a screen of chestnut-trees. i have no objection to peasant huts, particularly when their thatched roofs are overgrown with green moss, and misanthropic widows are seldom in one's way. but ten years ago a railway was built directly through zalow, and villas shot up out of the ground in every direction like mushrooms. and such villas, and such proprietors! all _nouveaux riches_ and pushing tradesfolk from prague. a stocking-weaver built two villas close beside us,--one for his own family, and the other to rent; he christened the pair giroflé-girofla, and declares that the name alone is worth ten thousand guilders. he also maintains that the architecture of his villas is the purest classic: each has a greek peristyle and a square belvedere. it would be deliciously ridiculous if one were not forced to have the monsters directly before one's eyes all the time. the worst of it is that one really gets used to them! dear papa's former tailor has built himself a hunting-lodge in the style of francis the first directly on the road, behind a gilded iron fence and without a tree near it for fear of obscuring its splendour. like all retired tradesfolk, the tailor is sentimental. only lately he complained to me of the difficulty experienced by cultivated people in finding a fitting social circle." "do you know him personally, then?" the captain asks, with an air of annoyance. "oh, yes, we know every one to bow to," says stella. "in a little while we shall exchange calls: i am looking forward to that with great pleasure." "what do you think of such talk, baron?" stasy asks under her breath. baron rohritz makes no reply: perhaps such talk is to his taste. meanwhile, stella goes on in the same satirical tone: "as soon as some one of these æsthetic proprietors has come to a decision as to where the piano is to stand, we shall certainly be invited to admire the new furniture. then mamma will look up from her books and say, 'i have no time; but if you want to go, pray do as you please.' mamma never cares what i do or where i go." stella's soft voice trembles; she shakes her head, passes her hand over her eyes, and runs on: "even the walks are spoiled; one is never sure of not encountering a picnic-party. they are always singing by turns 'dear to my heart, thou forest fair,' and 'gaudeamus,' and when they leave it the 'forest fair' is always littered with cold victuals, greasy brown paper, and tin cans. it is horrible! i detest that railway. it snatched from us the prettiest part of our garden; there is scarcely room enough left for 'pussy wants a corner,' and now mamma has rented half of it and the ground-floor of the mill to a family from prague for a summer residence." "i do not understand lina," the captain says, with irritation. "you surely are not reduced to the necessity of renting part of your small house for lodgings." "mamma wanted just two hundred guilders to buy littré's dictionary,--the fine complete edition. moreover, i think you are under a mistake with regard to our resources. i detest the railway, but if it had not bought of us, two years ago, a piece of land on which to build a shop, i hardly know what we should be living upon now. ah, if poor papa could see how we live! he could not imagine a household without a butler or a lady's-maid. mamma dismissed the butler at first upon strictly moral grounds----" anastasia von gurlichingen casts down her eyes. "did you ever hear anything like that, baron rohritz," she asks, "from a young girl?" rohritz shrugs his shoulders impatiently, and stella goes on quite at her ease: "he was always making love to the cook, and the lady's-maid was jealous and complained of it. then the lady's-maid was dismissed, for pecuniary reasons; then the cook, for sanitary considerations: one fine day she nearly poisoned us all with verdigris, her copper kettles were so badly scoured. her place was never filled, for in the interim, that is, while we were looking for a new _cordon bleu_, mamma discovered that a cook was a very costly article and that we could get along without one. our last maid-of-all work was a dwarf not quite four feet tall, who had to mount on a stool to set the table. mamma engaged her because she thought that her ugliness would put a stop to love-making----" stella breaks the thread of her discourse to laugh gently; her laugh is like the ripple of a brook. "but real talent defies all obstacles. mamma's experiment made her richer by one sad experience: she knows now that not even a large hump can make its possessor impervious to cupid's arrows." the captain laughs. stasy's disapprobation has reached its climax; she twitches impatiently at the worsted she is winding from rohritz's hands. "what would papa say if he could see it all?" stella says, in a changed voice. "do you still grieve so for your poor father, mouse?" the captain asks, kindly, perceiving that the girl with difficulty restrains her tears at the mention of her dead father. "you would not ask that, uncle, if you knew what a life i lead," she replies, in a choked voice. "yes, it is amusing enough to tell of, but to live---- there is no use in thinking of it!" she bends slightly above her little cousin, whose head is resting quietly upon his father's shoulder. "he is sound asleep," she whispers, brushing away a fluttering night-moth from freddy's pretty face,--"poor little man!" "it is growing cool," katrine declares, glancing anxiously towards freddy in the midst of the baroness's interesting discourse upon the latest achievements of medical science, and then, rising, she leaves her sister-in-law to go to her little son, saying, "give me the boy, jack. i will carry him up-stairs." "what! drag up-stairs with this heavy boy? nonsense!" says the captain. whereupon freddy wakes, rubs his eyes, is a little cross at first, after the fashion of sleepy children, but finally says good-night to all and goes off, his little hand clasped in his mother's. "here is some one else asleep too!" says katrine, as she passes the general, who is sitting with his arms crossed and his head sunk on his breast. "can you tell me, jack, whether mummies ever have the rheumatism?" she asks. "indeed, you had better waken him. i will have the whist-table set out.--and you, sweetheart," she says to stella, "might unpack your music and sing us something." while stella amiably rises to go with her aunt, and the baroness makes ready to follow them, murmuring that she must unpack the music herself, or her manuscripts will be all disarranged, stasy turns to rohritz: "what do you say to it all? did you ever hear such talk from a well-born girl? such a conversation! some allowance, to be sure, must be made for her." but rohritz simply murmurs, "poor girl!" "yes, she is greatly to be pitied; her training has been deplorable!" sighs stasy, and then, lowering her voice a little, she adds, "the colonel----" "what meineck was he?" rohritz interrupts her, impatiently. "there are four or five in the army,--sons of a field-marshal, if i am not mistaken. was he in the dragoons or the uhlans?" "franz meineck, of the ---- hussars," says jack. "the one, then, who distinguished himself at solferino and got the theresa cross?" rohritz asks. "the same," replies the captain. "i do not know why i imagined that it must have been heinrich meineck. it was franz, then." he adds, with some hesitation, "i did not know him personally, but i have heard a great deal of him. he must have been a charming officer and a delightful comrade, besides being one of the bravest men in the army----" "he was particularly distinguished as a husband," stasy exclaims, with her usual frank malice. "we will not speak of that, fräulein stasy," says the captain. "my sister's marriage was certainly an insane, overwrought affair, and franz gave his wife abundant cause for leaving him; but of the two lives his was the ruined one." chapter v. an experiment. yes, of the two lives the colonel's was the ruined one; wherefore, in spite of all the evident and great fault on his side, the sympathies of every one were in his favour,--that is, of all his fellows who knew life and the world, and who were ready to give their regard and their sympathy to men as they are, instead of, like certain great philosophers, reserving their entire store of commiseration for those exquisitely correct creatures, men as they should be. when they made each other's acquaintance in lemberg at lina's father's, general leskjewitsch's, franz meineck was twenty-six and lina leskjewitsch thirty-two years old. nevertheless the world--the world that was familiar with these two people--wondered far more at her fancy for him than at his falling a prey to her fascinations. she had from her earliest years been an exceptionally interesting girl, and a position as such had always been accorded her without any effort on her part to obtain it, for in spite of all her whims and eccentricities no one could detect in her a spark of affectation or pretension. she was altogether too indifferent to what people said of her ever to pose for the applause of the crowd. her egotism, fed as it was by the homage of those around her, led her to yield to the prompting of every caprice, and since she was very beautiful, and could be excessively fascinating when she chose,--since, moreover, her father held a distinguished office under government,--she was dubbed original and a genius where other girls would have been condemned as eccentric and unmaidenly. always keenly alive to intellectual interests, she was, by the time she had reached her twenty-fifth year, a confirmed blue-stocking; she studied sanskrit, and was in correspondence with half the scientific men in europe. moreover, she was by no means 'sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,' but full of wit and spirit. she swam like a fish, venturing alone far out upon river or lake, and rode with the boldness of a trained equestrian, without even a groom as escort. she had always disdained to dance; at the only ball she had ever been induced to attend she had been merely an on-looker. she could not comprehend how there could be any pleasure in dancing, she remarked, with a contemptuous glance towards the whirling couples: it was either ridiculous, or childish, or else positively disgusting. her contempt for love-making was as pronounced as for dancing. the homage of the young exquisites of society bored her inexpressibly; it was absolutely odious to her. she often boasted that in her life she had had but three loves,--buonaparte, lord byron, and machiavelli. all her acquaintance, more especially the feminine portion of it, were astounded when a report was suddenly circulated that she was smitten with franz meineck, a simple, fair-haired hussar, with nothing to recommend him save his handsome face and his fine chivalric bearing. it was easy to see what attracted him in her,--her rich brunette beauty, and, in strange contrast with it, the cold, defiant bluntness of her air and manner, the nimbus of originality that surrounded her, the fact that towards all other men her indifference was well-nigh discourtesy, while to him she was amiability itself. but what she, she of all girls in the world, could find to attract her in him,--this was what puzzled the brains of all the wiseacres in lemberg. but that he pleased her no one could deny, least of all she herself. once, after a dinner at which meineck had been her neighbour, a very cultivated and interesting friend asked her how she could possibly find any entertainment in that superficial hussar. she replied, with a shrug, that she found it much more amusing to hear a superficial hussar talk than to see a distinguished philosopher masticate his food, which according to her experience was the only entertainment afforded by great scientific lights at a dinner. while, however, meineck's love for her was, from the very beginning, of an enthusiastic, passionate nature, the inclination she felt for him was at first very gentle in character. for her he was but a child; the idea that her relations with him could end in marriage would have seemed more mad and improbable to her than to any one else. her demeanour towards him was always friendly; she would rally him good-humouredly, and anon treat him with a kindliness that was almost maternal. there was nothing in her manner to suggest her being in love with him. towards the end of february, when some treacherously mild weather heralded, as all prophesied, a cold windy march, lina allowed her youthful adorer to be her escort in long rides on horseback. here he was in his element, and greatly her superior in spite of her amazonian skill. it was after one of these expeditions, when she reached home with eyes sparkling and cheeks slightly flushed, that she suddenly had an attack of terror. she knew that, accustomed as she had been for so long to absolute freedom, she must sooner or later find any fetters galling; she did not wish to marry. the next day, without informing any one save her nearest of kin of her intention, she left lemberg and retired to a small estate near prague, where after her independent fashion she was often wont to stay for months alone with an old gardener and her maid. it was a pretty, romantic spot, formerly a mill. a venerable weeping-willow stood beside it, its branches trailing above the antiquated mansard roof; a little brook rippled past it, gurgling and sobbing between banks of forget-me-nots and jonquils on its way to the larger stream. in this particular march, however, jonquils and forget-me-nots were still sleeping soundly beneath the snow, and the brook was silent. the february prophets were right: march was terribly cold. long icicles hung from the eaves of the mill, almost reaching its windows, and the weeping-willow was clad in a fairy-like robe of glistening snow. lina sat from morning until evening like a kind of feminine doctor faust among bookcases, retorts, and globes in a spacious, dreary room, trying to work and longing 'to recover herself.' then one day meineck made his appearance at the mill. she received him with a great show of gay indifference, sitting at her writing-table and playing with her pen by way of intimating that any prolongation of his visit was undesirable. he perceived this. embarrassed, confused by the sight of the scientific apparatus that surrounded him on all sides, he sat leaning forward, his sabre between his knees, in an arm-chair from which he had been obliged to remove a greek lexicon and two volumes of the 'revue,' and stammering all sorts of childish nonsense while he gazed at her with adoring eyes. she wore a perfectly plain gown of dark-green cloth fitting her like a riding-habit, and her hair, which curled naturally, was combed back behind her ears and cut short. he found this mode of dressing her hair charming, and his heart throbbed fast as he noted the magnificent fall of her shoulders. in his eyes she was incomparably beautiful; hers was the majestic loveliness of the unattainable. he often saw her thus afterwards in his dreams, and in his death-agony her image hovered before him again, noble, undefaced, as it was impressed upon his heart at this interview. later on he wondered how he found courage to speak, but he found it. he sued for her hand, he wooed her passionately with words that could not but move her. she refused him. he would not accept her refusal. she stood her ground bravely, frankly confessing to him that it cost her an effort to repulse him, but that she must do it to insure the peace of mind of both. apart from her dislike of resigning the freedom of her existence, she thought it unprincipled to give heed to the pleading of a poor exaggerated lad who was led away in a moment of romantic enthusiasm to offer his hand to a woman so much his elder. there were such full, warm, cordial tones in her deep voice! sight and hearing failed him. he knelt before her, kissed the hem of her garment, and promised at last to be content for the present if she would allow him to speak again at the end of six months. by that time it would be manifest that his love was not merely momentary romantic enthusiasm. she laid her beautiful slender hands upon his shoulders, and said, kindly, "dear lad, if after six months you are still so insane as to covet an elderly bride, we will discuss the matter again. and now adieu!" he pressed his lips upon her hand so passionately that she suddenly withdrew it, and the colour mounted to her cheeks; he had never seen them flush so before. his eyes fathomed the depths of her own: she turned her head away. "_au revoir!_" he said, and withdrew, bowing gravely and profoundly. there was something of triumph in the rhythm of his retreating footsteps; at least so it seemed to her as she listened to the sound as it died away in the distance. he walked as though his feet were shod with victory. indignation possessed her. her strong nature defended itself vigorously against the influence of this beguiling insidious force which had taken captive her heart and threatened to subdue her reason. in vain! the hand which his lips had pressed burned, and suddenly there glided through her veins, dreamily, lullingly, a something inexpressibly sweet, something she had never experienced before,--a delicious yet paralyzing sense of weariness. she started, and sat upright; then, gathering together the papers on her writing-table, she tried to work. in vain! the pen dropped from her fingers. she rose hastily and went to take a long walk. her feet sank deep in the melting snow; the air was warm, and the south wind rustled among the trees and shrubbery, whispering mysteriously along the crackling surface of the frozen brook. her weariness increased; she had to retrace her steps. she went to bed earlier than usual that evening, and tried to think of grave subjects; but sweet, long-forgotten melodies haunted her heart and brain: she could not think; and at last she fell asleep to the sound of that fairy-like music within her soul. tu the middle of the night she awoke. the moon shone through her window directly upon her bed. she listened. what sound was that? a merry uproar like the triumphal note of spring--the swift rushing of the brook--ascended to her windows. the ice was broken. and in slow, monotonous cadence the falling of the drops from the melting snow on the roof struck upon her ear. "ah," she sighed, "the spring has come!" * * * * * he constantly wrote her letters full of chivalric fire and enthusiastic devotion. she never answered them. then the war of broke out. one of her brothers informed her that meineck had had himself transferred from the show-regiment--one but little adapted to service in the field--to which he had hitherto belonged to another which had been ordered to the front. a short time afterwards she received from the young hussar the following note: "in spite of the horror with which the loss of life inseparable from every campaign inspires me, i rejoice in the war. i rejoice in the opportunity of proving to you at last that i am worth something in the world. grant me one favour: send me a line or two, or only a curl of your hair, or some little trinket that you have worn,--anything belonging to you that i can take with me into action. i kiss your dear hands, and am, as ever, with profound esteem and intense devotion, "your f. meineck." she clasped her hands before her face and sobbed bitterly. and she, who all her life long had jeered at such sentimentality, cut off one of her curls, enclosed it in a small golden locket, and sent it to him with the following words: "dear lad,-- "you burden me with a great responsibility. there was no need for you to plunge neck and heels into this campaign to prove to me that you were worth something. i send you herewith the trifle for which you ask: may it carry a blessing with it! god bring you safe home, is the earnest prayer of your faithful friend, "karoline leskjewitsch." june passed. the earth languished beneath the burning sun. pale, feverish, and sleepless, karoline leskjewitsch dragged through the endless summer days, scraping lint,--she felt unfit for any other occupation,--and reading with hot, dry eyes the lists of the dead and wounded. one day she found his name in the list of the dead. she was crushed, utterly annihilated. a few hours afterwards, however, she received a letter from her brother, stating that the report of meineck's death was a mistake; he was in venice, severely wounded. she could not tell how it was, but on the same evening, almost without luggage, without telling any one of her plans, she started off with her old maid, and two days later arrived in venice and was conducted by her brother to the room where the wounded man lay. pale, wasted, with dishevelled hair and sunken features, he lay back among the pillows. too weak to stir, he could only greet her with a blissful smile. she wore a black spanish hat with large nodding feathers. as she entered she took it off, and, going to his bedside, she said, "i did not come merely to see you, but as a sister of charity, and i shall stay with you until you are well again." he replied, in a voice so weak as to be scarce audible, "to make me well a single word will suffice: say it!" she hesitated for a moment, and then, stooping over him, she pressed her lips to his. who that saw them together ten years later could have believed it? no marriage was ever more romantic than theirs at first. his case was considered hopeless. the two physicians whom she questioned as to his condition declared his recovery impossible. resolutely setting aside all opposition, she was married to him immediately, that she might nurse him devotedly and be enabled to support him in the dark hour of the death-struggle. at the end of ten weeks the physicians acknowledged that they had been mistaken. not only was he out of danger, but he had well-nigh recovered his former strength and vigour. early in october the pair took their wedding-trip to bohemia. in matters of sentiment franz was a poet to his fingertips, and he scorned the idea of the usual journey with his bride from one hotel to another. they spent their honeymoon in the old mill at zalow. on many a fresh, dewy, autumnal morning the peasants saw the two tall figures strolling through the forest where the leaves were rapidly falling. she who had hitherto carried herself so erect now walked with bent head and with shoulders slightly bowed, as if scarcely able to bear the weight of her great happiness. they would wander unweariedly about the country for hours: they ransacked all the old peasant dwellings for antiquities, and they chose the spot for their graves in a picturesque, romantic churchyard. and when the light faded and they returned home, they would sit beside each other in the twilight in the spacious room where he had wooed her, and where now all the literary and scientific apparatus had given place to huge bouquets of autumn flowers filling the vases in every corner. the bouquets slowly changed colour, the cornflowers paled and the poppies grew black, in the darkening night; and something like profound melancholy would possess the lovers,--the sacred melancholy of happiness. with her hand in his, the wife would tell her husband of the mild march night in which the joyous sobbing of the brook had wakened her, calling to her that spring had come. "believe it or not, as you please," meineck was wont to say, often with a very bitter smile, in after-years, "i am really that fabulous individual, hitherto sought for in vain, the man who never, during the entire period of his honeymoon, w as bored for a single quarter of an hour." he took up his profession again; she would not hear of his resigning from the army for her sake. when he proposed it she clasped her arm tenderly about his neck and said, "inactivity would ill become you, and i want to be proud indeed of my husband. i have but one duty now in life, to make you happy," she gently added. he was fairly dizzy with bliss. was it possible, he sometimes asked himself, that an angel had actually descended from heaven to nestle in his heart and to conjure up for him a paradise on earth? her caresses gained in value from the fact that she was not so softly docile as other women, that now and then he had to overcome in her a certain acerbity and harshness. "a woman and a horse must both be possessed of amiable possibilities of obstinacy, or we take no pleasure in them," he declared. she bloomed afresh after her marriage. her features, which were rather marked, grew softer, and had the freshness of those of a girl of eighteen. her hair, which at his request she allowed to grow, curled in soft rings about her brow. every one noticed how very beautiful she had grown; and he too, they said, had gained much since his marriage. his moral and intellectual stand-point was loftier. she refused to have an interest which he did not share; she expended an immense amount of acuteness in discovering what would arrest his attention in whatever she was reading, and either repeated it to him or read it aloud. the idea of playing the love-sick girl at her age was odious to her,--ridiculous; she wished to be his friend, his trusty comrade; but withal she spoiled him by a thousand delicate attentions far more than the youngest wife would have done. she exhausted her ingenuity in rendering his life delightful. she was not fond of going much into society; therefore she made his home attractive to his comrades. the entire regiment adored her, from the colonel to the youngest ensign. the women alone hated her. it was intolerable, they thought, that a blue-stocking should presume to eclipse them with the other sex. what became of all this bliss? it vanished little by little, as the snow slowly subsides, filtering into the ground. * * * * * "i know myself," she had said to him when he wooed her; "i know myself: my paralyzing weakness will pass away, as will your intoxication." but his intoxication, after all, lasted longer than her weakness. after they had been married about five years, their second daughter, estella, was born. the mother's health was terribly undermined for a while. franz surrounded her with the most loving care, but she no longer took any pleasure in it. the fitful, unnatural glow kindled so late in her heart slowly died away; her illusions faded, her passion cooled. nothing was left of the young spring deity of her imagination who had roused her heart from its cold wintry sleep, save a good-humoured, ordinary man whose society offered her no attraction and whose tenderness wearied her. then came the campaign of ' . when he left her she contrived to shed a couple of tears, and during the fray in bohemia her conscience pricked her terribly, but when the truce was proclaimed she was quite indifferent as to the length of his absence; it might have been prolonged _ad infinitum_, for all she cared. when he came home at the end of half a year his conscience was laden with a first infidelity. she had written an essay upon don john of austria. from this moment the downward course was rapid. if he could but have had a comfortable attractive home, he might perhaps have clung to it; he might have felt that he had something to live for, something to prevent, as he afterwards expressed it, his 'going to the devil.' but he daily felt more and more of a stranger beneath his own roof, and his wife did nothing now to induce him to stay there; on the contrary, his presence bored her,--a fact which she did not always conceal. for a little while he restrained himself, and then---- all the brutal instincts of his nature asserted themselves, and he took no pains to subdue them. * * * * ** one joy, however, was his all through this dreadful time, his youngest daughter. he never took much pleasure in the elder of the two: she had inherited all her mother's caprice, without any of her talent. but little stella was indeed a darling. when she was between one and two years old, at a time when his comrades, although but rarely, still met at his house at gay little suppers, he would go up to the nursery, where the child lay in bed, and if she happened to be awake and laughing at his approach he would take her in his arms just as she was in her little white night-gown and cap and carry her down-stairs to display her. she would obediently give her hand to every guest, but was not to be induced to unclasp the other arm from her father's neck. he petted and caressed her while his friends praised his pretty little daughter. when she had grown larger, she was always the first to run to meet him on his return home from parade. often in winter when his cloak was covered with snow she would shrink away with a laugh, exclaiming, "oh, papa, how cold! i cannot touch you." "come here," he would say to her, and, opening his cloak, he would gather her up in his arms. "'tis warm enough here, mouse, is it not?" and as she clung to him he would close the cloak about her, and she would thrust her hands through the opening in front and peep out, supremely happy. she often remembered in after-years how delicious it had been to nestle against her father's broad chest, protected in the darkness, and look out into the world through a narrow crack. he it was who gave her her first alphabet-blocks, more as a toy than by way of instruction. she ran after him continually to show him the words she had spelled out with them, taking especial delight in long learned expressions of which she did not understand a syllable. one of the first words she put together upon his writing-table as she sat upon his knee was 'phosphorescence.' he laughed, and told the officers of it at the riding-school. poor fellow! he was secretly ashamed of his wretched home and his matrimonial failure, as well as of the miserable part he played in his household. as he could not speak of anything else, he talked of his child. * * * * * his wife's article upon don john of austria appeared meanwhile in 'the globe,' and, unfortunately, attracted considerable attention. one critic compared the author's brilliant style to that of macaulay. from that moment she lost the last remnant of interest in her house and family. the praise which her article received went to her head; she recalled how when a young girl she had been called a genius, and how it had been said that if she only chose to take the slightest pains she could excel george sand as an author, clara schumann as a pianiste, and rachel as an actress. yes, if she only chose! now she did choose. she tried her hand in every department of literature, devised plots for tragedies and romances, and wrote essays upon every imaginable social problem, without achieving any really finished or useful result. she herself was quite dissatisfied with her efforts, but she never ascribed their imperfection to any want of capacity, but always to the fact that the free flight of her fancy was cramped by her domestic cares. possessed by the demon of ambition, she turned aside from everything that could absorb her time or hinder her in the mad pursuit of her chimera. social enjoyment did not exist for her: she secluded herself entirely from, society. if her husband wished to see his comrades he could find them at the club. her household went to ruin. it was long before meineck ventured to remonstrate with his highly-gifted wife; but at last scarcely a day passed without crimination and recrimination between the pair. in spite of his faults and aberrations from the right path, he was exquisitely fastidious in his personal requirements and a martinet in his love of order; his wife's slovenly habits and the disorder of her household disgusted him. "good heavens! who," he sometimes asked, angrily, "could put up with such untidy rooms?--all the doors ajar, the drawers half open and their contents tossed in like hay; the servants dirty and ill trained, and the meals served in a way to destroy the finest appetite! even the children are neglected." there came at last to be terrible scenes, in which meineck would shout and swear and now and then shatter to pieces some chair or ottoman that stood in his way, while his wife sat motionless at her writing-table, now and then uttering some cold, cutting phrase, her pen suspended over her paper, longing for the moment when she should be left alone 'to work.' yet at intervals there were still moments when she would seize the helm of her neglected household, would set things straight, and would preside in tasteful attire at a well-ordered table. her inborn elegance upon such occasions could not but excite admiration, and for a few hours, sometimes for a couple of days, she would expend her talent upon what alone employed it worthily, in promoting the comfort of those about her. upon such occasions meineck would torment himself with self-reproach, would take upon himself the entire fault of her shortcomings, and would, so far as she would permit him, show her the most devoted attention. scarcely, however, did he begin to have faith in the sunshine when it vanished. moreover, these seasons of wondrous amiability on karoline's part grew rarer and briefer,--particularly when she could not but acknowledge that her literary career by no means developed so brilliantly as she had hoped from the success of her don john of austria. she sought the cause of this, as has been said, not in the insufficiency of her own talent, but in the cramping nature of her domestic circumstances. * * * * * one evening--stella was about eleven years--old meineck came home intoxicated. chance willed that both his wife and his daughters saw him in this condition. the next day at the mid-day meal he was rather uncomfortable in their presence, and consequently talked more and faster than usual, assuming that air of bravado which some men are sure to adopt when they are particularly embarrassed. his affected self-possession vanished very soon, however. his wife merely bestowed upon him a cold greeting, and then entered into an absorbing conversation with franziska, the elder daughter, upon some abstruse point of english law. she and the girl both avoided looking at him, and sat bolt upright, with virtuous indignation expressed in every feature. he turned from them to his loving little stella. she was sitting, pale and with downcast eyes, before an empty plate. poor little stella! she too had been affected by the scene of the evening before. what business was it of hers? was he the only man in the world who had ever been so overcome? was that chit to school him? for the first time in her life he spoke harshly to her: "what is the matter with you? why do you not eat? are you ill?" and, beckoning to the servant, he put something upon her plate. she took up her knife and fork obediently, but she could not swallow a morsel, and the big tears fell upon her plate. he saw them perfectly well, although he pretended not to look at her. when the others had retired and he sat alone at the comfortless board, his head leaning on his right hand, his left drumming a tattoo on the table, as he reflected upon his squandered life, suddenly a little arm stole around his neck and two tender childish lips were pressed to his temple. he started: it was stella! he took her on his knee and covered her head, her neck, even her little hands, with kisses, and his tears fell upon her brow. neither of them ever forgot that moment. * * * * * soon after this the husband and wife agreed so far as to find their life together intolerable, and they parted by mutual consent. of course the mother took the children; what could meineck have done with them? the legal divorce, with which she threatened him if he did not accede to a voluntary separation, would undoubtedly have assigned them to her. he was to be allowed to spend two weeks of every year beneath her roof to see the children. these arrangements concluded, she set out for florence to collect materials for a history of the medici,--which she never wrote. in the spring he went to her at meran. his position in her household was so painful, however, that he did not stay all the allowed time: he felt disgraced even in his little stella's eyes; she seemed estranged from him. he never came to be with them again. he often sent his daughters beautiful presents, and wrote them long, affectionate letters, but he made no further attempt to see them. years passed. meineck had risen to the rank of colonel; his wife meanwhile had tramped all over the map with her daughters, from madrid to constantinople, to collect historical material for all sorts of projected essays. she was now at her mill in zalow, partly because her finances were at a low ebb, and partly because she intended at last to begin her great work. this work upon which she had settled definitively was 'the part assigned to woman in the development of universal history.' franziska, who, oddly enough, could no longer agree with her mother, was lodging in prague with the widow of a government official who rented a few rooms to teachers and bachelors, and preparing herself in a bleak little apartment to pass her final examinations. poor stella, who had meanwhile shot up into a tall miss of eighteen, went to prague by railway three times a week in summer and winter, always alone, to take lessons, read everything she could lay hold of, from milton's 'paradise lost' to hauff's 'man in the moon,'--and tramped about the country escorted by a very savage white wolf-hound. it was in november, and the ground was covered with snow, when a letter arrived from the colonel in venice to his wife and daughters. he had been ordered to a southern climate on account of an affection of the lungs which had not yielded to a course of treatment at gleichenberg, and he had now been in venice for a month. if his daughters would consent, the letter went on to say, to come to cheer his loneliness for a while, he would do his best to make their stay in venice agreeable to them. franziska declared that she could not possibly interrupt her studies at this time; stella announced that she was ready to set off on the instant. her mother hesitated to allow her to travel alone, and looked about for a suitable escort for her, but stella declared that she needed none. had she not been to prague continually alone by the railway? and where was the difference in going to venice, except that it was farther off? moreover, there were carriages for ladies only. it never occurred to this valiant young person, trained to economy as she had been by her learned mother, that she could travel otherwise than second-class. her mother enjoined it upon her not to waste her time in venice, and instead of a luncheon stuffed a 'histoire de venise' into her travelling-bag. the girl bought her ticket, attended to her luggage herself, and then mounted cheerily into a much overheated railway-carriage and was borne away. chapter vi. a ruined life. how she rejoiced in the prospect of seeing him again, looking forward to the joy of nestling tenderly in his arms and telling him how she had longed for him during the many, many years, and how she had lain awake many a night telling herself stories of him,--that is, recalling every little incident in her memory with which he was connected! she did not recall him as she had last seen him, old before his time, with dark rings around his bloodshot eyes and deep wrinkles at the corners of his mouth, gray and worn; no, she saw him with fair curls and a merry, kindly look, sometimes in his dazzling hussar-uniform, but oftener in his blue undress-coat with breast-pockets. she could not possibly call him up in her memory without an accompaniment of the rattle of spurs and sabre. she saw his shapely, carefully-tended hands; she distinctly remembered the fragrance of turkish tobacco, mingled with the odour of jasmine, with which all his belongings were saturated. for her he was always the brilliant young officer who had muffled her in his cloak when she ran to meet him. how long the journey seemed to her at first! then she was suddenly assailed by a strange timidity: when the conductor took her ticket and announced that the next station was venice she began to tremble. the train stopped; the conductor opened the door. with her heart throbbing up in her throat, she looked out, but saw no one whom she knew. no, her father had evidently not come to meet her! could he have failed to receive her telegram? she noticed a gray-haired man in civilian's dress, with a crush-hat, and delicately chiselled features wasted by illness, and large hollow eyes, peering about as if he were looking for some one. a cold, paralyzing pang shot through her: his look met her own. while he had lived in her memory as a brilliant young officer, she had always been for him the undeveloped child of twelve, with tightly-stretched red stockings, and a short shapeless gown,--something that could be taken on his lap and caressed. but this daughter advancing towards him was a young lady, who could pass judgment upon, him, a judgment that could not be bribed, like that of a child, by caresses. he asked himself, with a shudder, how much she knew of his life, and whether she were capable of forgiving it, forgetting, in his dread, that a woman will forgive everything in the man whom she loves, be he husband, brother, or father, save cowardice and dishonour,--and as far as regarded the _point d'honneur_ the colonel's worst enemy could find nothing of which to accuse him. "papa!" "stella!" instead of clasping her in his arms, he kissed her hand. "how are they all at home?" he asked, embarrassed. "is your mother well? and franzi?" "oh, yes! they both gave me all sorts of kind messages for you. franziska, unfortunately, could not come with me, for she could not interrupt her studies at this time." what frightfully correct german she spoke! had they robbed him of his little stella? his annoyance increased. "where is your maid?" he asked. "maid? i have none. oh, we have not had a maid for a long time." "you came all the way alone?" the colonel exclaimed, in dismay,--"all alone?" "yes. you have no idea how independent and practical i am." the colonel frowned; he would rather have found his daughter spoiled and helpless; but he said nothing, only asked about her luggage to hand it over to the porter of the hotel britannia, and then offered her his arm to conduct her to the gondola which was waiting for them. arrived at the hotel, they got into the elevator to be taken to the third story, and they had as yet scarcely exchanged three words with each other. the pretty little _salon_ into which he conducted her looked out upon the grand canal and past the church of santa maria della salute upon the lido. the room was pleasantly warm, and in the centre a table was invitingly spread, the teakettle singing merrily, flanked by a flask of golden marsala and a bottle of bordeaux. a prismatic ray of sunshine fell across the neat creases of the snowy table-cloth. "oh, how delightful!" cried stella, and her eyes sparkled, while in her delicate and softly-rounded cheek appeared the dimple for which her father had hitherto looked in vain. "i had a little breakfast made ready for you, thinking that you might perhaps have had nothing very good to eat upon your journey," said he. "i have eaten nothing since i left home but biscuit, because i disliked going to the railway restaurants," she declared. and the colonel rejoined, "_tiens!_ not entirely a strong-minded female yet, i see," and as he spoke he helped her take off her long brown paletot. "if i am not mistaken," he said, examining the clumsy article of dress, "this is an old army-cloak." "indeed it is, papa," she replied, proudly, "one of your old cloaks: i had it altered by our tailor in zalow, because it reminds me of old times." and this was all she could bring herself to say of the myriad charming and loving phrases she had prepared. "it is a great success, my coat. do you not like it?" she asked. "candidly, no;" he made reply. "nevertheless i am greatly obliged to it for proving to me that, even in the clumsiest and ugliest garment ever devised by human hands to disfigure one of god's creatures, my daughter is still charming." she cast down her eyes with a little blush and was suddenly ashamed of her threadbare adaptation of which she had been so proud. kindly, but still with some hesitation, he put his hand upon her shoulder and said, "you will let me look a little more closely at my daughter." a warm wave of affection suddenly surged up in her heart. "do not look at me, papa; only love me," she exclaimed, and, throwing her arm around his neck, she nestled close to him. "you cannot imagine how rejoiced i was to come to you." and the poor wretch reverently bent his sad, weary head above his child's golden curls, and repentantly acknowledged to himself that he had not deserved so great mercy. * * * * * when daylight had faded and the lanterns at the base of the old palaces flared up, casting reddish reflections to break and glimmer upon the surface of the lagunes, the colonel lit the lamp and put paper and writing-materials upon the table before stella. "write a few lines to your mother, my darling, and thank her for sending you to me." then, while stella was writing, he sat opposite to her for a while in silence, his head thoughtfully leaning on his hand. at last he began: "stella, i have an impression that you live now in a very modest way at home. do you know the state of your mother's finances?" "low," said stella, laconically. "hm! i really do not know how much is necessary to maintain two daughters; perhaps i do not send her enough for you. she ought to have let me know. i do not wish that my children should be pinched, as--as----" "as they seem to be from the looks of my shabby wardrobe," stella said, with a laugh. "well, we are not quite so badly off, after all. if it be a question of buying books or curios, we can always scrape the money together; but if one wants a pair of new boots, the purse is empty." the colonel tugged discontentedly at his moustache. "i beg you to write to franzi and ask her if she needs money," he began afresh. "i am, to be sure, living now upon my capital, but your share is secured to you, and i shall not last long." at first his meaning escaped her; she gazed at him with wide eyes; then, as she comprehended at last, the pen fell from her fingers, and she burst into a flood of tears. "hush, hush, my darling; do not torment yourself beforehand. perhaps i describe my condition to you as worse than it really is," he said, leaning tenderly over her, and, putting his hand beneath her chin, he looked deep into her dark eyes. "if sunshine can make a man well i am all right." * * * * * no, it was too late,--too late! his physical strength could never be restored, his lungs nothing could heal; but with his child beside him his soul and heart gained health and strength. since those first fair years of his married life, he had never been so happy as now, although he seldom quite forgot that he stood on the brink of the grave. once, on a damp muggy november evening in a viennese suburb he had seen a drunkard staggering along the wall in a narrow street, quite unable to find his way. a policeman was just about to take him into custody, when a little girl, muffled in rags and with a pale wizened face, suddenly appeared beside him out of the darkness, seized him by his red, trembling, swollen hand, and called in a hoarse, anxious voice, without impatience or harshness, but not without authority, 'father, come home!' and the drunkard, who had paid no heed to the jeers of the passers-by, nor to the admonition of the policeman, hung his head, and without a word followed the weak, helpless little creature like a lamb. the colonel had stood and looked after them until the darkness swallowed them up. he recalled distinctly the girl's thin yellow braids, her long chin, the sordid red-and-black plaid shawl which she wore about her shoulders, and the worn old laced boots, far too big for her little feet and coming half-way up her naked little blue legs, and continually in her way as she walked. the little episode had made a painful impression upon him for a time, and then he had forgotten it. now it arose in his memory, but transfigured, and as, clasping his daughter's hand, he went on to his grave, he compared himself in his secret soul with the drunkard led home by the child. * * * * * he was very ill. unaccustomed to spare himself, and without any real pleasure in life, he had increased his malady by months of entire want of care and nursing, until his physicians had insisted that a summer should be spent at a sanitarium in gleichenberg. partially restored, he had immediately, in direct opposition to all advice, re-entered the service. the autumn man[oe]uvres had brought on an inflammation of the lungs. how very ill he was never entered his mind, in spite of his speech to stella. he thought he should live a couple of years longer, and his great dread was lest he should be pensioned off before the time because of his invalid condition. the pains that he took to maintain an upright military bearing aggravated all the evils of his case. there were a number of distinguished austrians in the hotel britannia, some few of them invalids, most of them gay and pleasure-loving and well pleased to spend a few weeks amid picturesque surroundings and in pleasant society. the colonel was beloved by all, and they eagerly welcomed his pretty daughter,--even the ladies, whom the colonel consulted as to the necessary reform in the girl's wardrobe. she sat with her father in the midst of them all at the upper end of the table, the lower end, where the other inmates of the hotel were crowded together, being the subject of much merry scorn and stigmatized as 'the menagerie.' compassion for the daughter of the dying man deepened the sympathy called forth by the young girl's grace and charm. old gentlemen rallied her upon her conquests, and the young men paid her devoted attention. she had a special friend in the handsome black-eyed prince zino capito, who had an unusual share of time to bestow upon her since the latest mistress of his affections, the famous princess oblonsky, had just departed for petersburg to take possession of the effects of her husband, suddenly deceased. he daily sent stella magnificent flowers with which to adorn the hotel apartments for her father. "invalids are so fond of flowers," he would say, with a smile that displayed his brilliant white teeth. and when the weather was fine and the colonel felt well enough, he would invite them to take a sail in his cutter upon the blue adriatic. the colonel often spoke of his wife, longing to see her. the last _liaison_--that which had been the cause of a definite separation between himself and his wife, had robbed him of his self-respect, had disgraced him in his children's eyes, and had snatched from him every vestige of peace of mind--had dissolved itself more than two years before. the recollection of it disgusted him, but, like all men who have no future, he gladly allowed his thoughts to stray into the distant past. the wife from whom he had parted, elderly, learned, with her slovenliness and irritability, he had forgotten; his memory preserved the bride, in her light dress, bending above his couch of pain; he saw her on his marriage-day in the flood of sunlight which streaming through the tall window of his sick-room invested with a glorious halo the golden cross upon the improvised altar. one sunny day, as he was sailing in the grand canal in a gondola with stella, he pointed to a beautiful old palazzo. "there is where i lay wounded in ' , when your mother came to nurse me. those windows there were mine." in the evening of the same day, while stella was writing to her mother and he lay half dozing on a lounge, he suddenly said, "stella, do you think your mother could make up her mind to come to venice with franzi for a few weeks? she need not be in the same house with us, if that would bore her, but---- tell her how much it would please me to see her; and," he added, with an embarrassed smile, "tell her i am really very ill: perhaps that may induce her to come." he awaited the reply to this letter with feverish eagerness. in a week there arrived a package of rather insignificant notices of a work of his wife's, just published at her own expense; two weeks later the answer to the letter appeared. "well, what does your mother say?" asked the colonel, as he observed stella deciphering the almost illegible document. "read it aloud to me," he insisted: "you know everything that goes on at home interests me. is she coming?" but stella, with tears in her eyes, and a burning blush, stammered, "a letter must have been lost. this one never even mentions our plan!" the colonel turned away and looked out of the window at the east india steamship. "'tis a pity!" he sighed, in an undertone, after a while. "i should have liked to ask her forgiveness." * * * * * although upon stella's arrival, when he felt better, he had spoken continually and with apparent satisfaction of his approaching death, from the time when he began to decline rapidly he avoided all reference to his condition. the doctor visited him daily, sometimes oftener, and would drink a glass of sherry with him while recounting his brilliant exploits in the way of restoration to health of patients whose condition was even worse than the colonel's. but after a while he grew less confident, and at last towards the end of april he proposed an operation for the relief of the lungs. the colonel eyed him fixedly, and sent stella out of the room. "how long a time do you give me?" he asked. "be frank. i am a soldier, and not afraid to die." "under the circumstances, a couple of months." "i understand. say nothing to my daughter, but let matters take their course. it is all right." that evening he sat writing for an hour, never stirring from his writing-table. suddenly he grew restless, and ended by tearing up what he had written. "stella, come here!" he called; and as she came to him, "don't cry, darling,--it distresses me so that i lose my wits; and i need them all. i wanted to write out my will; but it is useless. your little property is secure, and you must divide the rest: i cannot show you any partiality. it is terrible to think of dying here, but, if it must be, do not leave me in venice, in a strange country. bury me near you in zalow,--your mother knows the spot; she will bear with me in the churchyard." he took a little golden locket from his breast-pocket. "take care of that," he said: "it is the locket your mother sent me in the campaign of ' , and she must hang it around my neck before they lay me in the grave. beg her to do this. do you understand, stella?" she sat opposite him at the little round table, very pale, but perfectly upright and without a tear, just as he would have had her. "yes, papa." * * * * * the next day was her birthday. he gave her a golden bracelet to which was attached a crystal locket containing a four-leaved clover. "i cannot show you any partiality in my will," said he, "but wear that for my sake, darling. and if ever heaven sends you some great joy, say to yourself that your poor father prayed the dear god that it might fall to your share!" * * * * * one day the colonel received a letter bearing a paris post-mark which seemed to depress him greatly. all day after receiving it he was thoughtful and taciturn. in the evening he wrote a long letter, pausing from time to time to cough sadly. as he folded it, stella observed that he enclosed money in it. after apparently reflecting for a while, he drew from a case in his pocket a photograph of stella which had been taken in venice, gazed at it lovingly for a moment, seemed to hesitate, and finally enclosed it also in the envelope with the letter. looking up, he became aware of his daughter's curious gaze, and suddenly grew confused. he sealed his epistle with unnecessary care, and then all at once reached both hands across the table and clasped stella's between them, saying,-- "you are wondering to whom i am sending my darling's picture? to my youngest sister, your aunt eugenie. do you remember her? yes? you used to love her, did you not?" "very much, papa; but--i thought she was dead." the colonel turned away his head; after a moment he drew stella towards him, and said, softly, "she is not dead: i cannot tell you about her, do not ask me. but do not be hard to her, and if you should ever meet her, speak a kind word to her, for my sake." * * * * * he still went daily below-stairs in the lift to take his meals, but he now dined at a small table alone with stella, after the _table-d'hôte_ in the spacious, lonely dining-hall. his frequent attacks of coughing made him shun society. he dreaded annoying others. "i am no longer fit to mingle with my kind, stella," he would say. "my poor little butterfly, it is tiresome to have such a father, is it not?" she, apparently, did not find it so. she desired nothing beyond the privilege of taking care of him, although she could be little more than a weak, helpless child. by day she cheered him with her lively talk, and at night if he stirred she was beside his bed in an instant in her long dressing-gown, her little bare feet thrust into slippers, supporting him in her arms if he coughed. outside the moon shone full above the church of santa maria della salute. up from the garden was wafted the odour of roses and syringas, while above the swampy atmosphere of the lagunes, and mingling with the plash of waters at the base of the old palaces, floated sweet, sad melodies,--the songs of the evening minstrels of venice,-- "vorrei baciar i tuoi capelli neri," and "penso alla prima volta in cui volgesti lo sguardo soave in sino a me!" sometimes she would fall asleep sitting beside his bed, her head resting on his pillow. * * * * * she grew to look like a shadow, so pale and worn did she become. he did all that he could to prevent her from coming to him at night, even threatening to employ a nurse, but the threat was never fulfilled. in fact, he needed very little care but such as her affection insisted upon giving him; he was never confined to bed, only grew more and more inclined to rest on a lounge during the day. he was very thoughtful of others, and required but little service at their hands up to the very last, only seldom demanding any assistance in dressing. he grew nervous and restless, longed for change, yearned for his home with the fervent desire of a dying man. before his mental vision hovered the picture of the old mill, with its old-fashioned garden, the small sparse forest with feathery underbrush at the foot of the knotty oaks, and the gray waters of the stream that wound through the autumn mist between bald stony banks. he felt an insane desire to see it all once more. for a long time he endured this yearning in silence, not venturing to express it; his wife had repulsed all advances of his too decidedly. but, good heavens! he needed so little room, he would not trouble her much; and then, besides, he was an old man, ill unto death: his demands upon her personally were restricted to a kind word now and then, a sympathetic pressure of the hand! meanwhile, he grew worse and worse. other complications heightened the peril in which he stood from the original disease. he complained that he could no longer endure the food at the hotel. his physician, who, like all physicians at health-resorts, avoided as far as possible the annoyance of having his patients die on his hands, strongly advised a change of air. utterly dejected, his face turned away from her, the dying man begged stella to ask her mother if he might come home. but stella had already asked, and shortly afterwards an answer was received. the baroness wrote that now, as ever, she was prepared to do her duty,--to receive him, and take care of him. the mill was always open to him. how he rejoiced in the prospect of home! he tried to help in the packing, but he was too languid. from his lounge he looked on while stella managed it all, and now and then with a smile he would call her to him, only to stroke her hands and look into her dear, loving eyes. at last they set out. it was easter monday, in the latter half of april; the bells were all ringing solemnly, and dazzling sunshine lay upon the dark waters of the lagunes. all their acquaintance at the hotel surrounded the father and daughter as they stepped into their gondola. the little vessel was filled with flowers, farewell tokens to stella, and from the balconies of the hotel many a white kerchief waved adieu to the travellers. * * * * * at first they journeyed by short stages, sometimes taking a roundabout route for the sake of better lodgings at night, stopping at villach and at grätz. then the colonel grew anxiously eager to be at home; he could no longer restrain his impatience. from grätz he insisted upon making one journey of it, during which they had to change conveyances frequently. every one was kind, showing all manner of attention, to the sick man and his pretty, loving, tender daughter. with every hour he became more weak and miserable. the last change they made he could scarcely manage to descend from the railway-carriage: two porters were obliged to help him into the other coupé. it was one of those first-class half-coupés for three occupants. stella had not been able to procure for him, as hitherto, an entire carriage, and we all know how deceptive is the ease of those half-coupés. the girl propped her father up with rugs and cushions so that he found his position tolerable, and he fell asleep. the afternoon passed, and twilight came on. greenish-yellow tints coloured the horizon, and a small white crescent gleamed above the darkening earth. through the open window of the coupé came the warm, balmy air of the spring. sometimes there mingled with the acrid, searching odour of the undeveloped foliage the full, sweet fragrance of some blossoming fruit-tree. a scarcely perceptible breeze swept gently and caressingly over the meadows, and lightly rippled the surface of the large quiet pond past which the train rushed. here and there the level landscape was dotted by a village,--long barns and hay-ricks covered with blackened straw, grouped irregularly about some little church or castle among trees white with blossoms or pale green with opening leaf-buds. the colonel slept on. suddenly stella perceived that she had lost her bracelet,--the one with the four-leaved clover. she moved with a sudden start. the colonel awoke. "where are we?" he asked. "in an hour we shall be at home: it is only three stations off," she said, soothingly, with a beating heart. he bent his head, folded his hands, and prepared to wait patiently. but it was impossible: a deadly anguish assailed him. he looked round in despair like some trapped animal. "i am ill!" he cried. "i cannot tell what ails me. i never felt so before!" he coughed convulsively, but briefly, then tried to move the cushions so that his head might find a more comfortable resting-place. "take more room, papa; lay your head in my lap," stella entreated, tenderly. he did so. he laid his head on her knees, and, taking her hand in his, held it against his cheek. the feverish unrest which had hitherto throbbed throughout his frame subsided, giving place to a delicious desire to sleep. for the last time the vision rose upon his mind of the drunken father being led home by his little girl; then all grew indistinct. he dreamed; he thought he was staggering painfully through a bog, when some one took him by the hand and led him across a narrow bridge beneath which gleamed dark, slowly-flowing water. he looked down; it was stella who was leading him, but stella as a little three-year-old child, with her simple little white night-cap tied beneath her chin, her rosy little bare feet showing beneath the hem of her white night-gown. the bridge creaked beneath him; he started and awoke. "are we at home?" he asked, scarce audibly. "almost, papa." he pressed her hand to his lips. the twilight deepened; a dark transparent mist seemed to veil the sky; the heavens showed as if through thin mourning crape; the broad shining edges of the ponds and pools were dim; the crescent moon grew brighter. the train whizzed along faster than ever, swaying from side to side on the sleepers. suddenly stella felt her father start violently; then he heaved a brief sigh, like that which one gives when surprised by anything unexpectedly delightful, or when one is suddenly relieved of a heavy burden. then all was quiet,--quiet,--still as death! she bent over him and listened. in vain! she felt his hand grow cold and stiff in her own. a sudden anguish took possession of her. she was afraid in the darkness. meanwhile, the lamp in the coupé was lighted. its crude, yellow light fell upon the colonel's face. was he asleep, or---- she held her own breath to listen for his. her heart beat as though it would break; no longer able to control her distress, she called, "papa!" then louder, "papa! papa!" he did not answer. the night-moths fluttered in through the open window and circled about the lamp; the fragrance of the blossoming cherry-trees filled the air; a cracked church-bell in the distance hoarsely tolled the ave maria. in an undertone stella prayed 'our father;' but in the midst of it she burst into a convulsive fit of sobbing: she stroked and caressed the cold cheeks, the thin gray hair, of the dead. she knew that before many minutes were over he would be taken from her, and with him everything dear to her in life. onward rushed the train. the fiery sparks flew like rain past the windows; there was a shrill whistle, then a stop. the journey's end was reached. * * * * * her mother and sister had come to the station to meet them. when the conductor opened the door, stella sat motionless, her father's head resting upon her knees. it was dark. the stars gleamed in the blue-black heavens. mute and pale as the dead, the baroness walked with franziska and stella behind her husband's corpse the short distance between the station and the mill. some awkwardness on the part of the bearers released one arm of the dead man, and the hand fell and trailed on the earth. with a quick impetuous movement his wife took it in her own, pressed the cold, dead hand to her lips, and held it clasped in hers the rest of the way. they laid the body in the fresh, white bed, fragrant with lavender and orris, which had been prepared for the sick man in the corner room he had so loved, and in which the baroness had placed a bouquet of white hawthorn in honour of his arrival. two candles were burning at the head of the bed. stella, who had, as it were, turned to marble, moving and speaking like an automaton, suddenly grew restless. she seemed to have forgotten something, and then looked for and found the locket which the colonel had given her for her mother, and which she had ever since worn around her neck. very distinctly and monotonously she repeated the dying man's message and request as she handed the locket to her mother. "he begs you will hang this around his neck before they lay him in the grave; and once he said he should have liked once more to ask your forgiveness." the baroness took the little case from her child's hand. she grew paler than ever, and her eyes were those of one startled by an inward vision of a long-forgotten past. the hawthorn shed a delicious fragrance; outside, the breeze of spring sighed among the weeping-willows, the brook gurgled and sobbed. all in an instant the old, gray-haired woman's hands began to tremble violently. "leave me alone with him for a moment," she softly entreated; and stella slipped away. in the terrible week ensuing upon that wretched evening the baroness treated stella with an unvarying and altogether pathetic tenderness; in that week stella learned to comprehend what an irresistible charm this woman had been able to exercise,--learned to understand how longing for her, even after years of separation, had gnawed at the heart of the dying man. then, to be sure, everything ran its old course, with the sole exception that the widow never uttered in the presence of her children one unkind word with regard to their father, but often alluded before them to his fine qualities. chapter vii. a rainy evening. it has been raining all the afternoon,--it is raining still. the inmates of erlach court are house-bound. freddy, because of disobedience, and in consequence of his sneezing thrice during the afternoon, has been sent to bed early and sentenced to a dose of elder-flower tea. his elders, instead of spending the evening, as usual, in the open air, are assembled in the drawing-room. stasy has for the twentieth time finished 'paul and virginia,' and is now devoting herself to another kind of literature, zola's 'joie de vivre,'--of course only that she may testify to the horror with which such a book must inspire her. every few minutes she utters an indignant 'no!' in an undertone, or holds out the book to katrine, one hand over her blushing face, with "that is really too bad!" katrine, however, shows no inclination to participate in her horror; she waves the book aside, saying, "i do not care to read everything," and goes on crochetting at the afghan which is to be ready for freddy's approaching birthday. the baroness meineck, meanwhile, is playing chess, the only game which she does not despise, with the general; and the captain is idling. hitherto stella has been singing to her own accompaniment, for the entertainment of the company, the pretty italian songs she caught from the gondoliers on the canal. she is still sitting at the piano, but she has stopped singing. her slender hands touch the keys of the instrument, playing softly now and then a couple of bars from a chopin mazourka, as she looks up at rohritz, who, with both elbows on the top of the piano, leans towards her, talking. "how interested rohritz seems in his talk with stella! he is quite transformed," leskjewitsch remarks. "he must answer when he is addressed," stasy rejoins, sharply, looking up from her 'joie de vivre.' "if he does not like to talk to the girl he can go away," the captain observes. "she has not nailed him to the piano." "he-he! she nails him with her eyes. do you not see how she ogles him?" stasy replies, with a giggle. "i wonder what he is telling her." "he is talking of mexico, and of the phosphorescence of the tropical seas," the captain says, curtly. "indeed? nothing more sentimental and personal than that? since, then, it is not indiscreet, i think i will listen." and, clapping to her book, anastasia stretches her long thin neck to hear. it is very quiet in the large apartment; except for the monotonous drip of the rain outside, and the click made by setting down the pieces on the chess-board, there is nothing to interfere with those who wish to listen to the conversation at the piano. "knowing only the poor little sparks which you have seen twinkling through our northern ocean on warm september evenings, you can form no idea of the gleaming splendour of the tropical seas, fräulein meineck. the nights i spent on the deck of the europa on my mexican voyage i never can forget," says rohritz. stella, who has hitherto shown a genuine interest in all he has told her, suddenly assumes a whimsically wise air, and, striking a dissonant chord, asks, "how old were you then?" "i really do not understand----" he remarks, in some surprise. "oh, there is no necessity for your understanding,--only for replying," she rejoins, very calmly. "twenty-four." it is one of her peculiarities, the result of her desultory and imperfect training, that she often plunges into a discussion of topics which every well-trained girl should carefully avoid. "twenty-four," she repeats, thoughtfully; then, pursuing her inquiries, "and were you in love?" he laughs in some confusion. "you are putting me through an examination." "i allow you the same privilege," she declares, magnanimously. "your answer sounds evasive. apparently you were in love. i merely wanted to know, that i might judge how large a percentage of romance i must deduct from your description. all things considered, i can no longer accord any genuine faith to your account of the phosphorescence of the tropical seas; when people are in love they see everything as by a bengal light." this sententious remark of course induces rohritz to put the laughing inquiry, "do you speak from experience, baroness stella?" "certainly," she replies, with a convincing absence of embarrassment. "i have been through it all with my sister: she saw her artillery-officer by a bengal light, or she never would have left science in the lurch for his sake, for, heaven knows, he was just like all the rest, except that in addition--he played the piano. just fancy! an artillery-officer playing the piano!--wagner, of course! two dogs and a cat of ours went mad at the sight. but franzi assured me that her artillery-officer's touch reminded her of rubinstein. so you see how trustworthy your descriptions are." rohritz laughs good-humouredly, then says, "even if i admit that on board the europa i still had a little touch of the disease you mention, i must maintain that the delirious period had passed." "hm! one thing more," says stella, pursuing still more boldly the devious path upon which she has entered. "i must know this precisely. were you in love with a married woman? _un homme qui se respecte_ is never in love except with a married woman,--at least in all the novels." "stella!" stasy calls, horrified. even rohritz, who has hitherto listened very patiently to stella's nonsense, seems unpleasantly affected by this speech of hers. he looks penetratingly into the young girl's eyes, and becomes aware that he is gazing into depths of innocence. before he has time to say anything, stasy calls out, in a shocked tone,-- "stella, you are frivolous to a degree----" stella blushes crimson; her eyes fill with tears; she makes awkward little motions with her hands upon the keys, and plays a couple of bars from thalberg's Étude in cis-moll. "frivolous?--frivolous? but, anastasia, i was only jesting," she murmurs, and, turning to rohritz as if for protection, she adds, "it needed very little logic to guess that, for if you had been in love with a young girl there would have been no need for you to be unhappy and to go sailing about on tropical seas to distract your mind: you could simply have married her." "but suppose the young girl would not have him?" the captain asks, merrily. stella looks first at rohritz, then at her uncle, and murmurs, "that never occurred to me." a burst of laughter from the captain--laughter in which katrine joins heartily and stasy ironically--is the reply to this confession. "acknowledge the compliment, rohritz; come, acknowledge it," leskjewitsch exclaims in the midst of his laughter. but rohritz maintains unmoved his serious, kindly expression of countenance. "it is not given to even the greatest minds to contemplate all possible contingencies," he says, dryly. the baroness meineck, absorbed in her game, has heard little, meanwhile, of what has been going on about her; she now suddenly remembers that it is incumbent upon her to attend to her daughter's training. "i suppose you have been uttering some stupidity again, stella," she observes, coldly; "you are incorrigible!" "poor mamma, she really is to be pitied," stella sighs, her sense of humour asserting itself in spite of her; "she has no luck with her children. her clever daughter _commits_ stupidities, and her silly daughter _utters_ them. which is the worse?" chapter viii. a love-affair. it rains the entire ensuing night, and far into the forenoon of the next day. the hollows worn in the stone pavement of the terrace are filled with water, and form little brown ponds. the buff-coloured castle has become orange-coloured, and looks quite worn with weeping. the lawns reek with moisture, and the malmaison roses are pale and draggled. drowned butterflies float on the surface of the pools, and fantastic wreaths of mist curl about the foot of the mountains on the farther side of the save. no sun is to be seen amid the gray-brown rack of clouds. at last the rain falls more slowly; the chirp of a bird makes itself heard now and then; a white watery spot in the gray skies shows where the sun is hiding; slowly it draws aside the veil from its beaming face, and between the torn and flying masses of cloud the heavens laugh out once more, blue and brilliant. tempted forth by the delightful change in the weather, katrine, stasy, and stella venture out to take their daily bath in the neuring. in its normal condition the neuring is a clear, sparkling stream, flowing freely over its pebbly bed in constant angry attack upon diverse fragments of rock which look in magnificent disdain upon its impotent assaults. a bath in the current between the largest of these fragments of rock, where for the convenience of the bathers a stout pole has been fixed, is a great favourite among the delights of erlach court. one shore of the stream slopes, flower-strewn and verdant, nearly to the water's edge, and here stands a roughly-constructed bath-house, from which wooden steps lead down into the water. stella is sitting, in a very faded bathing-suit of black serge trimmed with white braid, on the lowest of these steps, gazing sadly into the stream. "i certainly did behave with unpardonable stupidity yesterday," she says, twisting her golden hair into a thick knot and fastening it up at the back of her head with a rather dilapidated tortoise-shell comb. "when do you mean?" asks stasy. "at lunch, or in the evening, or early this morning?" "yesterday evening, in the drawing-room," stella replies, somewhat impatiently. "that talk with rohritz was a little reprehensible," katrine says, with a laugh. "in your place, after having been guilty of such a breach of decorum, i could not make up my mind to look him in the face," stasy declares. she slips into the water before the others, and is now trying, holding by the pole between the rocks, to tread the waves. the water hisses and foams, as if resenting her trampling it down. "was it really so bad, aunt katrine?" stella asks, changing colour. katrine leans towards her, gives her a kindly pat on the shoulder, lifts her chin caressingly, and says,-- "well, your remarks were certainly not extraordinarily pertinent, but i hardly think that rohritz took them ill. 'tis hard to take things ill of such a pretty, stupid, golden butterfly as you." with which katrine cautiously sets her slender foot among the yellow irises and white water-lilies on the edge of the water. "it was terrible, then,--it must have been terrible if even you thought it so!" says stella, as the tears rush to her eyes, and drop into the stream at her feet. "don't be a child," katrine consoles her: "the matter was of no great consequence." "certainly not," stasy adds, rather out of breath from her exertions. "what he thinks can make no kind of difference to you, and he assuredly will not report elsewhere your very strange remarks. probably they interest him so little that he will soon forget all about them." "come and take your bath; you are wonderfully averse to the water to-day," katrine calls out to the girl, who still sits sadly upon the wooden step, lost in reflection. "indeed you need not take your stupidity so much to heart: it would have been nothing at all, if there had not been rather an odd story connected with rohritz's sudden voyage across the ocean." "ah!" exclaims stella, paddling through the water to her aunt, who, clinging to the pole, is now enjoying the current. "really, something romantic?" she asks, curiously. "there was nothing romantic in the affair save his way of taking it," katrine says, with a dry smile, "and therefore the remembrance of this piece of his past may be particularly distasteful to him." "ah, but it was a married woman, was it not? do tell me!" stella entreats, burning with curiosity. "no, solomon," katrine replies: "it was a young, unmarried woman, not so very young either, about twenty-six or twenty-seven, well born, a baroness von föhren, a livonian with russian blood in her veins, poor, ambitious, prudent, and just clever enough to entertain a man without frightening him. i saw her once, and but once, at the theatre; she was very beautiful, and i took an extraordinary dislike to her. i am always ready to applaud judic in _opéra-bouffe_, and on _grand prix_ day in the bois it interests me exceedingly to observe the _dames aux camellias_ through my opera-glass; but nothing in this world so disgusts me as demi-monde graces in a woman who ought to be a lady." "i think you are a little severe in your judgment of sonja. she was not irreproachable in her conduct," stasy, who has for years maintained a kind of friendship with the person under discussion, here interposes, "not irreproachable, but----" in all that touches her extremely strict ideas of propriety and fitness, katrine understands no jesting. "her conduct was not only 'not irreproachable,' it was revolting!" she exclaims. "if she interests you, stella, i can show you her photograph; at one time you could buy it everywhere. she was made to turn a young fellow's head. with regard to women men really have such wretched taste." "oho, katrine! that sounds as if you said it _par dépit_," stasy says, archly. "i do not in the least care how it sounds," katrine rejoins. "ah, tell me about baroness föhren," stella entreats. "there is not much to tell. he had a love-affair with her----" "a love-affair!" the words fall instantly from stella's lips, as one drops a burning coal from the hand. "yes," katrine goes on. "it happened in baden-baden, where the föhren was staying with a relative of hers. rohritz paid her attention, and something or other gave occasion for a scandalous report. in despair at having compromised the lady of his affections, rohritz instantly proposed to her, and informed his father of his determination to marry her. the old baron, a man of unstained honour, and imbued with a strong feeling of responsibility in maintaining the dignity of the rohritz family, was rather shocked by this hasty resolve, and, viewing the affair from a far less romantic and far more sensible point of view than that taken by his son, made inquiries into the reputation of the lady in question, and--i cannot exactly explain it to you, stella, but the result of his investigations was that he informed edgar that he need be troubled by no conscientious scruples on behalf of this adventuress, and that he positively refused his consent to the marriage." "and then?" asks stella. "i do not know precisely what happened," says katrine. "jack told me all about it lately with characteristic indignation, but i did not pay much attention. the affair dragged on for a while. edgar, who was then most romantically inclined, would not resign the föhren, corresponded with her,--how i should have liked to read those letters!--finally fought a duel with one of her slanderers, and was severely wounded. when he recovered at last after several dreary months of convalescence, he learned that the föhren was married to a wealthy russian." "how detestable!" exclaims stella. "good heavens! she had a practical mind," stasy interposes. "i, to be sure, would on occasion have married a tinker for love, but the young women of the present day are not ashamed to declare that their choice in marriage is influenced by a box at the theatre, brilliant equipages, and toilets from worth. old rohritz would have disinherited edgar, or at all events allowed him a very inadequate income, while prince oblonsky----" "prince oblonsky!" stella hastily exclaims. "did you say oblonsky?" "yes; that was her husband's name, boris oblonsky. now she is a widow, and still perfectly beautiful." "perfectly beautiful. i saw her in venice at the princess giovanelli's ball," says stella, "'with brilliant and far-gazing eyes.' so that was she!" and with a slight anxiety she wonders to herself, "a love-affair! what is the real meaning of a love-affair?" chapter ix. found. a sleepy afternoon quiet broods over erlach court. anastasia is sitting in the shade of an arbour, embroidering a strip of fine canvas with yellow sunflowers and red chrysanthemums. at a little distance the baroness meineck, who has volunteered to superintend freddy's education during her stay at erlach court, is giving the boy a lesson in mathematics, making such stupendous demands upon his seven-year-old capacity that, ambitious and intelligent though the young student be, he is beginning to grow confused with his ineffectual attempts to follow the lofty flight of his teacher's intellect. stella, with whom mental excitement is always combined with musical thirst, is all alone in the drawing-room, playing from the 'kreisleriana.' her fingers glide languidly over the keys. "a love-affair! what is the real meaning of a love-affair?" the question presents itself repeatedly to her mind, and her veins thrill with a mixture of curiosity, desire, and dread. lacking all intimacy with girls of her own age or older than herself, who might have enlightened her on such points, she has the vaguest ideas as to much that goes on in the world. a love-affair is for her something connected with rope ladders and peril to life, like the interviews of romeo and juliet, something that she cannot fancy to herself without moonlight and a balcony. her innocent curiosity flutters to and fro, spellbound, about the baden-baden episode in rohritz's youth, as a butterfly flutters above a dull pool the pitiful muddiness of which is disguised by brilliant sunshine, the blue reflection of the skies, and a net-work of pale water-lilies. she could not tear her thoughts from baden-baden, which she knew partly from tourganief's 'smoke,' partly in its present shorn condition from her own experience,--baden-baden, which when the föhren and rohritz were together there might have been described as a bit of paradise rented to the devil. "i wonder if she called him edgar when they were alone?" the girl asked herself. her heart beat fast. it was as if she had by chance read a page of some forbidden book negligently left lying open. not for the world would she have turned the leaf to read on, for, in common with every pure, young girl, when she approached the great mystery of love she was possessed by a sacred timidity almost amounting to awe. "i wonder if he was very unhappy?" she asks herself. "yes, he must have been;" katrine had told her that he grew gray with suffering. a great wave of sympathy and pity wells up in her innocent heart. "yes, she was very beautiful!" she says to herself. she perfectly remembers her at the giovanelli ball, leaning rather heavily on her partner's arm, her eyes half closed, her head inclined towards his shoulder, and again in a solitary little anteroom before a marble chimney-piece, below which a fire glowed and sparkled, lifting both hands to her head, an attitude that brought into strong relief the magnificent outline of her shoulders and bust. while thus busied with arranging her hair, she smiled over her shoulder at a young man who was leaning back in an arm-chair near, his legs crossed, holding his crush-hat in both hands, regarding her with languid looks of admiration. this was stella's friend, black-eyed prince zino capito. all venice was then talking of the prince's adoration of the beautiful livonian. "what is it about her that makes every man fall in love with her?" stella asks herself. and a sudden pang of something like envy assails her innocent heart. ah, she would like just one taste of the wondrous poison of which all the poets sing. "will any one ever be in love with me?" she asks herself. "ah, it must be delicious,--delicious as music and the fragrance of flowers in spring; and i should so like to be happy for once in my life, even were it for only a single hour. but----" her eyes fill with tears: what has she to do with happiness? it is not for her; of that she has been convinced from the moment when on that last melancholy journey with her father she found she had lost her little amulet. poor papa! he would gladly have bestowed happiness upon her from heaven, and instead he had taken her happiness down with him into the grave. poor, dear papa! the breath of the roses outside steals in through the closed blinds, sweet and oppressive. among the flowers below awakened to fresh beauty, the bees hum loudly, plunging into the honeysuckles, and gently as if with reverence touching the pale refined beauty of the malmaison roses, while above the acacias and lindens they are swarming. * * * * * rohritz has been occupied in writing his usual quarterly duty-letter to his married brother. as with all men of his stamp, a letter is for him a great undertaking, accomplished wearily from a strict sense of duty. seated at the writing-desk of carved rosewood bestowed upon him long since by an aunt and provided with many secret drawers and with all kinds of silver-gilt and ivory utensils of mysterious uselessness, he covers four pages of english writing-paper with his formal, regular handwriting, and then looks for his seal wherewith to seal his epistle. rummaging in the various drawers and receptacles of the desk, he comes across a small bracelet,--a delicate circlet to which is suspended a crystal locket containing a four-leaved clover. for a moment he cannot recall how he became possessed of the trifle. could it have been the gift of some sentimental female friend? in vain he taxes his memory: no, it certainly is no memento of the kind. he swings it to and fro upon his finger, letting the sunshine play upon it, and then first perceives a cipher graven on the crystal, a roman s, surmounting a star. involuntarily he murmurs below his breath, "stella!" and suddenly remembers where he found the bracelet,--on the red velvet seat of a first-class coupé, three years before, towards the end of april. he had advertised it in the viennese and grätz newspapers, doing his best to restore the _porte-bonheur_ to its owner, but in vain. "in fact----" in an instant he recalls what leskjewitsch had told him of stella's sad journey with her father. he smiles, leaves his letter unsealed, goes to the window, looks down, into the garden, sees stasy busy with her chrysanthemums, hears, proceeding from a garden-tent at a little distance, decorated with red tassels, the contralto tones of the baroness meineck and the depressed and weeping replies of her pupil. through the languid summer air glide the harsh, forced modulations of the 'kreisleriana.' "ah!" he wends his way to the drawing-room. there, in the romantic half-light that prevails, all the blinds and shades being closed to shut out the hot july sun, he sees a light figure seated at the piano. at his entrance she turns her golden head. "are you looking for any one?" she asks, in the midst of no. of the 'kreisleriana,' rather confused by his entrance, and trying furtively to brush away the tears that still show upon her cheeks. "yes; i was looking for you, baroness stella." "for me?" she asks, in surprise. "yes; i wanted to ask you something." "well?" she takes her hand from the keys and turns round towards him, without rising. "three years ago i found a bracelet in a railway-coupé. coming across it by chance to-day, i perceive that it is marked with your cipher. does it belong----" but stella does not allow him to finish; deadly pale, and trembling in every limb, she has sprung up and taken the bracelet from his hand. "oh, you cannot tell all you restore to me with this bracelet!" she exclaims, and in her inexpressible delight she holds out to him both her hands. are they so absorbed in each other as not to observe the apparition which presents itself for an instant at the drawing-room door, only to glide away immediately? meanwhile, in the garden a thrilling drama is being enacted. so thoroughly bewildered at last by the baroness's system of instruction that his brain refuses to respond to even the small demands which her growing contempt for his capacity permits her to make upon it, poor freddy feels so thoroughly ashamed of his inability that he lifts up his voice and weeps aloud. when his mother hastens to him to learn what has so distressed her son, he throws his arms around her waist and cries out, in a tone of heart-breaking despair, "mamma, mamma, what will become of me? i am so stupid,--so very stupid!" katrine finds this beyond a jest. "i must entreat you not to trouble yourself further with my boy's education, if this is the only result you achieve, lina," she says, provoked, whereupon the baroness replies, angrily,-- "i certainly shall not insist upon continuing my lessons, especially as never in my life have i found any one so obtuse of comprehension in the simplest matters as your son." "ah, you insinuate that my boy is a blockhead. let me assure you, however----" in what mutual amenities the conversation of the sisters-in-law would have culminated must remain a subject of conjecture; for at this moment stasy comes tripping along, saying, with an affected smile,-- "how wonderfully one can be mistaken as to character in others! yes, yes, still waters--still waters. ha! ha!" "what do you mean with your still waters?" katrine asks, contemptuously. "hush!" and stasy archly lays her finger on her lip with a significant glance towards the boy, who with his arms still about his mother's waist is drying his tears upon her sleeve. "run into the house, freddy, and bathe your eyes, and then we will take a walk," katrine says to her little son. "what is the matter?" she then asks, coldly, turning to stasy. "rohritz--aha!--we all thought him an extinct volcano. i, notoriously reserved as i am, permitted myself to tease him slightly now and then, thinking him entirely harmless. and now, now i find him in the yellow drawing-room, _tête-à-tête_ with stella, both her hands in his, gazing into her lifted eyes, deep in a flirtation,--a flirtation _à l'américaine_,--quite beyond what is permissible. really perilous!" "if you thought the situation perilous for stella, i really do not understand why you did not interrupt the _tête-à-tête_," says katrine, severely. "it was no affair of mine," stasy replies. "how was i to know that so sentimental an interview would not end in an offer of marriage? improbable, to be sure, for rohritz is too cautious for that,--even although he allows himself on a summer afternoon to be so far carried away as to kiss the hand of a pretty girl in a _tête-à-tête_ with her." her eyes sparkling with anger, the baroness hurries into the castle and up-stairs to the drawing-room. "stella, what are you about here? have you nothing to do? come with me!" in terror stella follows her mother as she strides on to their apartments. there the baroness closes the door behind her, and, seizing her daughter by the arm, says,-- "must i endure the disgrace of having my child conduct herself so shamelessly in a strange house that strangers inform me that she is flirting _à l'américaine_ with young men?" "i, mother! i----" exclaims stella, her eyes riveted upon her mother's angry face. "but i assure you---- mother, mother, how can you say such dreadful things to me?" and the girl bursts out sobbing. "it is stasy that has accused me. how can you attach any importance to what she says?" "no matter what stasy says. your conduct is extraordinary." "but, mother, mother----" "what have you to do with _tête-à-têtes_ with young men?" the baroness asks, with dramatic effect, the same baroness who sent her child to a singing-teacher three times a week without an escort. "it is improper,--very improper. what must rohritz think of you? you will come to be like your aunt eugenie!" chapter x. freddy's birthday. it is not to be denied that stella's behaviour is always unconventional and sometimes very thoughtless. on the whole, however, her little indiscretions do not detract from her great natural charm. the baroness, not having taken any pains with her education, never of herself notices these little indiscretions. but if a stranger alludes to them her maternal ambition is profoundly outraged, and the inevitable result is the bursting of a thunder-storm above stella's innocent head, a storm always sure to culminate in the fearful words, "you will come to be like your aunt eugenie!" the real meaning of these words stella never understands, since no one has ever told her what has become of her aunt eugenie, but she knows that their significance must be terrible. cowed and unhappy, she glides about after every such explosion as if guilty of some crime, until her bright animal spirits gain the upper hand and she begins afresh to talk and to be thoughtless. her mother's last indignant remonstrance puts an end to all the kindly freedom of her intercourse with rohritz. she avoids him so evidently, is so stiff and monosyllabic with him, that he at last questions the captain as to the cause of this change, and receives from his friend a distinct explanation. "it is indeed no great bliss to be my sister's daughter," the captain concludes. "beneath her mother's intermittent care stella seems to me like a noble, sensitive horse beneath a very bad rider. i hate to look on at such cruelty to animals, and i should be heartily glad to find a good husband for her before her mother entirely ruins her. he will have to be a good, noble-hearted fellow, clever and gentle at once, with a firm, light hand, and plenty of money, for the child has nothing,--more's the pity." * * * * * the time never flies faster than in summer: with no hurry, but with graceful celerity, the lovely july days glide past in their rich robes of dark green and sky-blue. the genii of summer play about us, fling roses at our feet, and strew the grass with diamonds. they offer us happiness, show it to us, whisper insinuatingly, "take it,--ah, take it." and some of us would gladly obey, but their hands are bound, and others, remember how they once, on just such enchanting summer days, stretched out their hands in eager longing for the roses, and at their touch the roses vanished, leaving only the thorns in their grasp, and they turn away with a mistrustful sigh. others, again, examine the offered joy hesitatingly, critically, refuse to decide, linger and wait, and before they are aware the beneficent genii have vanished; autumnal blasts have driven them away with the roses and the foliage. the sun shines no longer, the skies are gray, and a cold wind sings a shrill song of scorn in their ears. 'passing!--passing!' one week, two weeks have passed since the meinecks arrived at erlach court. each day rohritz has found stella more charming, each day he has paid her more attention, but his real intimacy with her has increased not one whit. to-day is freddy's birthday. stella has presented him with a gorgeous paint-box; he has received all sorts of gifts and toys from his parents and relatives, and he has, of course, been more than usually petted and caressed by his father and mother. his delight is extreme when he learns that a picnic has been arranged for the day in his honour. none of the older inmates of the castle take any special pleasure in picnics; least of all has katrine any liking for these complicated undertakings. but freddy adores them; and what would katrine not do to give her darling a delight? it is sunday. a gentle wind murmurs melodiously through the dewy grass, and sighs among the thick foliage of the lindens like a dreamy echo of the sweet monotonous tolling of bells that comes from the gleaming white churches and chapels on the mountain-slopes on the other side of the save. from the open windows of the dining-room can be seen across the low wall of the park the brown peasant-women, with pious, expressionless faces, and huge square white headkerchiefs knotted at the back of the neck, marching along the road to church. above, in the dark-blue sky myriads of fleecy clouds are flying, and swarms of airy blue and yellow butterflies are fluttering about the malmaison roses and over the beds of heliotrope and mignonette in front of the castle. there has been rain during the previous night, but not much, and the whole earth seems decked in fresh and festal array. the sun shines bright and golden, but the barometer is falling,--a depressing fact which baron rohritz announces to all present at the birthday-breakfast. freddy's face grows long, and katrine exclaims, hastily, "your barometer is intolerable!" she has no idea of sacrificing her child's enjoyment to the whims of an impertinent barometer. "yes, edgar, your barometer is a great bore," the captain remarks. whoever presumes to express an unpleasant or even inconvenient truth is sure to be regarded as a great bore. meanwhile, katrine has stepped out upon the terrace and convinced herself that the weather is superb. annihilating by a glance rohritz and his warning, she orders the servant who has just brought in a plate of hot almond-cakes to have the horses harnessed immediately. rohritz placidly twirls his moustache, and remarks, as he rises from table, that he will strap up his mackintosh. a few minutes afterwards the carriages, a light-built drag and a solid landau, are announced. to the drag are harnessed a couple of fiery young nags, while in default of the carriage-horses, which have been ailing for a few days, the landau is drawn by a pair of hacks, by no means spirited or prepossessing in appearance. the guests stand laughing and talking on the sweep before the castle. katrine's voice is heard giving orders; stella is busy helping the captain to pack away in the carriages the plentiful store of provisions. swathed in airy clouds of muslin, sweetly suffering, but resisting the united entreaties of all the rest that she will stay at home, anastasia leans against the vine-wreathed balustrade of the terrace, a vinaigrette held to her nose. before katrine has quite finished issuing her commands, the captain with stella mounts upon the front seat of the drag, the general taking his place beside freddy on the back seat. want of room obliges the captain to act as driver himself. he gathers up the reins, and his steeds start off gaily. the rest of the company settle themselves as best they can in the landau, the baroness and fräulein von gurlichingen on the back seat, rohritz with katrine opposite them. a few anxious moments ensue, in which every one asks the rest if they have not forgotten something. the servants bring the due quantity of rugs, plaids, umbrellas, and opera-glasses, and the coachman is bidden to drive off. the hacks sadly stretch out their long, skinny legs, and trot laboriously after the brisk drag. in reierstein, at the foot of a romantic ruin,--no picnic is conceivable without a ruin,--a _déjeûner à la fourchette_ is to be spread in the open air. dinner, which has been postponed from six to seven, is to be taken in erlachhof on the return of the party. katrine is right: the day is superb, a fact of which she frequently reminds the possessor of the odious barometer. "wait until evening before declaring the day fine," rohritz rejoins, sententiously. "the sun's rays sting like harvest-flies: that is a bad sign." "oh, you are always foreboding evil," katrine says, with irritation. rohritz bows, and silence ensues. katrine looks preoccupied, wondering whether the mayonnaise has not been forgotten at the last moment. stasy flourishes her vinaigrette languishingly, and the baroness, who has been hitherto absorbed in her own reflections, suddenly arouses sufficiently to utter in her deepest tones an astounding observation upon the imperfections of creation and the superfluity of human existence, whereupon rohritz agrees with her, seconding her views with great ability in a schopenhauer duet in which she maintains the principal part. she asserts that marriage, since it is a means for the continuance of the human species, should be avoided by all respectable people, while rohritz suggests the invention of a tremendous dynamite machine which shall shatter the entire globe, as a fitting problem for the wits of future engineers. meanwhile, the sunbeams gleam warm and golden upon the luxuriant july foliage, and tremble upon the clear ripples of the trout-stream plashing merrily along by the roadside. in the white cups of the wild vines that drape with tender grace the willows and elders on the banks of the little stream, prismatic drops of dew are shining. the tall grasses wave dreamily, and at their feet peep out pink, yellow, and blue wild flowers, while the air is filled with the melody of birds. our two pessimists, however, take no note whatever of these trifles. the road grows stony and steep; the hacks drag along more and more wearily and at last come to a stand-still. anastasia becomes greener and greener of hue, and sinks back half fainting. "ah, i feel as if i should die!" in hopes of lightening the carriage and of avoiding the sight of fräulein von gurlichingen's distress, rohritz proposes to alight and pursue on foot the shorter path to reierstein, with which he is familiar. chapter xi. crabbing. meanwhile, the captain's spirited steeds have long since reached the appointed spot. horses and carriage have been disposed of at the inn of a neighbouring village. it is an excellent hostelry, and would have been a very pleasant place in which to take lunch, but, since the delight of a picnic culminates, as is well known, in preparing hot, unappetizing viands at a smoky fire in the open air and in partaking of excellent cold dishes in the most uncomfortable position possible, the party immediately leave the village, and stella, freddy, and the two gentlemen, with the help of a peasant-lad hired for the purpose, drag out the provisions to the ruin, where the table is to be spread, in the shade of a romantic old oak. directly across the meadow flows the stream, now widened to a considerable breadth, which had rippled at intervals by the roadside. while leskjewitsch and the general, both resigned martyrs to picnic pleasure, set about collecting dry sticks for the fire, freddy, who has instantly divined crabs in the brook, having first obtained his father's permission, pulls off his shoes and stockings and wades about among the stones and reeds in the water. "you look, little one, as if you wanted to go crabbing too," says the captain to stella, noting the longing looks which the girl is casting after the boy. "indeed i should like to," she replies, nodding gravely; "but would it be proper, uncle?" "whom need you regard?--me, or that old fellow," indicating over his shoulder the general, "who is half blind?" stella laughs merrily. "i certainly should not mind him; but"--she colours a little--"suppose the rest were to come." "ah! you're thinking of rohritz," says the captain. "make your mind easy: if i know those steeds, it will take them one hour longer to drag the carriage up here, and by the time they arrive you can have caught thirty-six laybrook crabs. as soon as i hear the carriage coming i will warn you by whistling our national hymn. so away with you to the water, only take care not to cut your feet." a minute or two later, stella, without gloves, the sleeves of her gray linen blouse rolled up above her elbows over her shapely white arms, and gathering up her skirts with her left hand, while with the right she feels for her prey, is wading in the sun-warmed water beside freddy, moving with all the attractive awkwardness of a pretty young girl whose feet are cautiously seeking a resting-place among the sharp stones, and who, although extremely eager to capture a great many crabs, has a decided aversion to any spot that looks green and slimy. the treacherous luck of all novices at any game is well known. stella's success in her first essay at crabbing is marvellous. she goes on throwing more and more of the crawling, sprawling monsters into the basket which freddy holds ready. her hat prevented her from seeing clearly, so she has tossed it on the bank, and her hair, instead of being neatly knotted up, hangs in a mass of tangled gold at the back of her neck, nearly upon her shoulders, the sunbeams bringing out all sorts of glittering reflections in its coils. she is just waving a giant crustacean triumphantly on high, with, "look, freddy, did you ever see such a big one!" when the blood rushes to her cheeks, her brown eyes take on a tragic expression of dismay, and, utterly confused, she drops the crab and her skirts. "am i intruding?" asks the new arrival, rohritz, smiling as he notices her confusion. in her hurry to get out of the brook, she forgets to look where she is stepping, and suddenly an expression of pain appears in her face, and the water about her feet takes on a crimson tinge. "you have cut your foot," rohritz calls, seriously distressed, helping her to reach the shore, where she sits down on the stump of a tree. the captain and the general are both out of sight, and the blood runs faster and faster from a considerable cut in the girl's foot. "we must put a stop to that," says rohritz, with anxiety that is almost paternal, as he dips his handkerchief in the brook. but with a deep blush stella hides her foot beneath the hem of her dress, now, alas! soiled and muddy. "be reasonable," he insists, adopting a sterner tone: "there should be no trifling with such things. remember my gray hair: i might be your father." and he kneels down, takes her foot in his hands, and bandages the wound carefully and skilfully. in spite of his boasted gray hair, however, it must be confessed that he experiences odd sensations during this operation, the foot is so pretty, slender, but not bony, soft as a rose-leaf, and so small withal that it almost fits into the hollow of his hand. still more beautiful than her foot is her fair dishevelled head, so turned that he sees only a vague profile, just enough to show him how the blood has mounted to her temples, colouring cheek and neck crimson. "thanks!" she says, in a somewhat defiant tone, drawing the foot up beneath her dress after he has finished bandaging it. then, looking at him with a lofty, rather mistrustful air, she asks, "how old are you, really?" "thirty-seven," he replies, so accustomed to her strange questions that they no longer surprise him. "how could you say that you might be my father? you are at least five years too young!" she exclaims, angrily. "and why did you appear so suddenly?" "i repent my intrusion with all my heart," rohritz assures her. "the horses seemed so tired that i thought three people a sufficient burden for them, and so i alighted and came by the path across the fields." at this moment shrill and clear across the meadow from the forest bordering it come the notes of 'god save our emperor!' and immediately afterwards is heard the slow rumble of the approaching carriage. "there, you see!" says stella, still out of humour. "my uncle promised me to whistle that as soon as the carriage could be heard; but no one expected you on foot, and you came just twenty minutes too soon!" chapter xii. disaster. all that the baroness says when she hears of stella's mishap is, "i cannot lose sight of you for an instant that you are not in some mischief!" stella only sighs, "poor mamma!" while stasy, still livid as to complexion, finds herself strong enough to glance with great significance first at stella and then at rohritz. when she hears that it is rohritz that bandaged stella's foot she vibrates between fainting and a fit of laughter. she calls rohritz nothing but 'my dear surgeon,' accompanying the exquisite jest with a sly glance from time to time. his enjoyment of this brilliant wit may be imagined. the general grins; the baroness looks angry; the captain and katrine are the only ones who observe nothing of rohritz's annoyance or anastasia's jest; they are entirely absorbed in reproaching each other for the absence of the corkscrew, which has been forgotten. yet, in spite of the double mischance thus attending the beginning of the _déjeûner sur l'herbe_, all turns out pleasantly enough. the general remembers that his pocket-knife is provided with a corkscrew; the married pair recover their serenity; the crabs, in spite of many obstacles, are half cooked at the fire, and--for freddy's sake--pronounced excellent; the cold capon and the _pâte de foie gras_ leave nothing to be desired; the mayonnaise has not been forgotten, and the champagne is capital. hilarity is so fully restored that when the carriages, ordered at five o'clock, make their appearance, the company is singing in unison 'prince eugene, that noble soldier,' to an exhilarating accompaniment played by the general with the back of a knife on a plate. baron rohritz, who is not familiar with 'prince eugene,' and who consequently listens in silence to that inspiring song, glances critically at a small point of purple cloud creeping up from behind the mountains. "my barometer----" he begins; but katrine interrupts him irritably: "ah, do spare us with your barometer!" a foreign element suddenly mingles with the merry talk. a loud blast of wind howls through the mighty branches of the old oak, tearing away a handful of leaves to toss them as in scorn in the dismayed faces of the party; a tall champagne-bottle falls over, and breaks two glasses. "it is late; we have far to go, and the hacks are scarcely trustworthy," the captain remarks. "i think we had better begin to pack up." preparations to return are made hurriedly. the general begs for a place in the landau, as his backbone is sorely in need of some support, and freddy also, who is apt to catch cold, is taken into the carriage from the open conveyance. no one expresses any anxiety with regard to stella; she slips into her brown water-proof and is helped up upon the box of the drag, where the captain takes his place beside her, while rohritz gets into the seat behind them. they set off. once more the sun breaks forth from among the rapidly-darkening masses of clouds, but the air is heavy and in the distance there is a faint mutter of thunder. wonderful to relate, the hired steeds follow the sorrels with the most praiseworthy rapidity, due perhaps to the fact that the coachman makes the whip whistle uninterruptedly about their long ears. katrine, who is sitting with her back to the horses, sees nothing of this, but rejoices to find the pace of the hacks so much improved. suddenly stasy in a panic exclaims, "katrine!" "what is the matter?" "the driver--oh, look----" frau von leskjewitsch turns, and sees the fat driver from the village swaying to and fro on his seat like a pendulum. the carriage bumps against a stone, the ladies scream, freddy, who had fallen asleep between the baroness and anastasia, wakens and asks in a piteous voice what is the matter; the general springs up, tries to take the reins from the driver, and roars as loud as his old lungs will permit, "leskjewitsch!" the captain does not hear. "papa!" "jack!" "captain!" echo loud and shrill, until the captain, told by rohritz to turn and look, gives the reins to his old comrade, jumps down from the drag, and runs to the assistance of his family. an angry scene ensues between him and the driver, who tries to withhold from him the reins,--is first violent, then maudlin, stammering in his peasant-patois asseverations of his entire sobriety, until the captain actually drags him down from the box and with a volley of abuse flings him into a ditch. katrine is attacked by a cramp in the jaw from excitement. the baroness ponders upon the etymological derivation of a word in the patois of the country which she has fished out of the captain's torrent of invective, and repeats it to herself in an undertone. the general folds his hands over his stomach with resignation, and sighs, "dinner is ordered for seven o'clock." freddy's blue eyes sparkle merrily in the general confusion, and stasy, since there is positively no audience for her affectation, conducts herself in a perfectly sensible manner. in the midst of the excitement, one of the hacks deliberately lies down, and thus diverts the captain's attention from the driver. "by jove, our case is bad,--worse than might be supposed. these screws can scarcely stir," he exclaims: "that drunken scoundrel has beaten them half to death. how we are to get home god knows: these brutes cannot possibly drag this four-seated noah's ark. we had better change horses. ho! rohritz?" "what is the matter?" "unharness those horses!" in a short time the exchange is effected. the sorrels in their gay trappings are harnessed to the heavy landau, the long-legged hacks to the drag. it is beginning to rain, and to grow dark. freddy is nearly smothered in plaids by his anxious mamma. the captain mounts on the box of the four-seated vehicle, and calls to rohritz,-- "drive to wolfsegg, the village across the ferry. we will await you with fresh horses, at the inn there. adieu." and the captain gives his steeds the rein, and trots gaily past the drag. "_tiens!_ stella is left _tête-à-tête_ with rohritz," stasy whispers. "and what of that?" katrine says, rather crossly. "he will not kill her." "no, no; but people might talk." "pshaw! because of an hour's drive!" "wait and see how punctual they are," stasy giggles maliciously. "anastasia, you are outrageous!" katrine declares. "wait and see," anastasia repeats; "wait and see." chapter xiii. idyllic. "are you well protected, fräulein stella?" rohritz asks his young companion, after a long silence. "oh, yes," says stella, contentedly wrapping herself in her shabby, thin, twenty-franc water-proof and pulling the hood over her fair head, "i am quite warm. it was a good thing that you gave us warning, or i should certainly have left my water-proof at home." "you see an 'old bore,' as les called my barometer, can be of use under certain circumstances." "indeed it can," stella nods assent; "but it would have been a pity to give up the picnic at the bidding of your weather-prophet, for, on the whole, it was a great success." "are you serious?" rohritz asks, surprised. "why should you doubt it?" "why, you have had less cause than any of us to enjoy the day. you have cut your foot, have spoiled a very pretty gown, and are in danger, if it goes on pouring thus, of being wet to the skin in spite of your water-proof." "that is of no consequence," she declares from out the brown hood, her fair dripping face laughing up at him through the rain and the gathering darkness. "where is the harm in getting a little wet? it is quite delightful." he is silent. she is to be envied for her gay, happy temperament, and she looks wonderfully pretty in spite of her grotesque wrap. not the faintest breath of wind diverts from the perpendicular the downfall of rain. the road leads between two steep wooded heights, whence are wafted woodland odours both sweet and acrid. intense peace--an unspeakably beneficent repose--reigns around; in grave harmonious accord blend the rushing of the brook, the falling of the rain, and the low whisper and murmur of the dripping leaves, informing the silence with a sense of enjoyment. "how beautiful! how wonderfully beautiful!" stella exclaims; her soft voice has a strange power to touch the heart, and in its gayest tones there always trembles something like suppressed tears. "yes, it is beautiful," rohritz admits, "but"--with a glance of mistrust at the wretched hacks--"when we shall reach wolfsegg heaven alone knows!" is he so very anxious to reach wolfsegg? to be frank, no! he feels unreasonably comfortable in this rain-drenched solitude, beside this pretty fair-haired child; he cannot help rejoicing in this _tête-à-tête_. since the day when stella thanked him with perhaps exaggerated warmth for returning her locket, she has never seemed so much at her ease with him as now. the desire assails him to probe her pure innocent nature without her knowledge,--to learn something of her short past, of her true self. meanwhile, he repeats, "but it is beautiful,--wonderfully beautiful!" the wretched horses drag along more and more laboriously. rohritz has much ado to prevent their drooping their gray noses to the ground to crop the dripping grass that clothes each side of the road in emerald luxuriance. "delightful task, the driving of these lame hacks!" he exclaims. "i can imagine only one pleasure equal to it,--waltzing with a lame partner. this last i know, of course, only from hearsay." "did you never dance?" asks stella. "no, never since i left the academy. have you been to many balls?" "never but to one, in venice, at the princess giovanelli's," stella replies. "after the first waltz i became so ill that i would not run the risk of fainting and making myself and my partner ridiculous. my enjoyment then consisted in sitting for half an hour between two old ladies on a sofa, and eating an ice to restore me. at twelve o'clock punctually i hurried back, moreover, to the britannia, for i knew that my poor sick father would sit up to be regaled with an account of my conquests. he was firmly convinced that i should make conquests. poor papa! you must not laugh at his delusion! the next day the other girls in the hotel pitied me for not having had any partner for the cotillon; they displayed their bouquets to me, as the indians after a battle show the scalps they have taken. they told me of their adorers, and of the _passions funestes_ which they had inspired, and asked me what i had achieved in that direction. and i could only cast down my eyes, and reply, 'nothing.' and to think that to-day, after all these years, i must give the same answer to the same question,--'nothing!'" "you have never danced, then!" rohritz says, thoughtfully. strange, how this fact attracts him. stella seems to him like a fruit not quite ripened by the sun, but gleaming among cool, overshadowing foliage in absolute, untouched freshness. such dewy-fresh fruit is wonderfully inviting; he feels almost like stretching out his hand for it. but no, it would be folly,--ridiculous; he is an old man, she a child; it is impossible. and yet---- both are so absorbed in their thoughts that they do not observe how very dark it has grown, how threatening is the aspect of the skies. leaving the ravine, the road now leads along the bank of the save. the pools on each side grow deeper, the mud splashes from the wheels on stella's knees: she does not notice it. "your last remark was a little bold," rohritz now says, bending towards her. "bold?" stella repeats, in dismay: 'bold,' for her, means pert, aggressive,--in short, something terrible. "yes," he continues, smiling at her agitation; "you asserted something that seems to me incredible,--that you never have inspired any one with a----" he hesitates. a brilliant flash quivers in the sky; by its light they see the save foaming along in its narrow bed, swollen to overflowing by the recent torrents of rain. then all is dark as night; a loud peal of thunder shakes the air, and the blast of the storm comes hissing as if with repressed fury from the mountains. the horses tremble, one of them stumbles and falls, the traces break, and down goes the carriage. "now we are done for!" rohritz exclaims, as he jumps down to investigate the extent of the damage. further progress is out of the question. he succeeds by a violent effort in dragging to his feet the exhausted horse, then unharnesses both animals and ties them as well as he can to a picket-fence, the accident having occurred close to an isolated cottage with an adjacent garden. rohritz knocks at its doors and windows in vain; no one appears. in the deep recess of one of the doors is a step affording a tolerable seat. he spreads a plaid over it, and then, going to stella, he says, "allow me to lift you down; i must drag the carriage aside from the road. there! you are not quite sheltered yet from the rain; move a little farther into the corner,--so." "oh, i don't in the least mind getting wet," stella assures him; "but what shall we do? we cannot sit here all night long in hopes that some chance passers-by may fish us out of the wet." "if you could walk, there would be no difficulty. the inn this side of the ferry is only a quarter of a mile off, and we could easily hire a couple of horses there. can you stand on your foot?" "it gives me a great deal of pain to stand, and, since uncle jack has my other shoe in his pocket, how am i to walk?" "that is indeed unfortunate." "you had better go for help to the inn of which you speak," stella proposes. "then i should have to leave you here alone," says rohritz, shaking his head. "i am not afraid," she declares, with the hardihood of utter inexperience. "but i am afraid for you; i cannot endure the thought of leaving you here alone on sunday, when all the men about are intoxicated. one of the roughest of them might chance to pass by." "in all probability no one will pass," says stella. "go as quickly as you can, that we may get away from here." "in fact, she is right," edgar says to himself. he turns to go, then returns once more, and, taking his mackintosh from his shoulders, wraps it about her. he is gone. how slowly time passes when one is waiting in the dark! with monotonous force, in a kind of grand rhythmical cadence the rain pours down to the accompaniment of the swirling save. no other sound is to be heard. stella looks round at the horses, which she can dimly discern. one is lying, all four legs stretched out, in the mud, in the position in which artists are wont to portray horses killed on a battle-field; the other is nibbling with apparent relish at some greenery that has grown across the garden fence. from time to time a flash of lightning illumines the darkness. stella takes out her watch to note the time by one of these momentary illuminations. it must have stopped,--no, it is actually only a quarter of an hour since edgar's departure. hark! the rolling of wheels mingles with the rush of the save and the plash of the rain. the sound of a human voice falls upon the girl's ear. she listens, delighted. is it rohritz? no, that is not his voice: there are several voices, suspiciously rough, peasants rolling past in a small basket-wagon, trolling some monotonous slav melody. by a red flash of lightning the rude company is revealed, the driver mercilessly plying his whip upon the back of a very small horse, that is galloping through the mire with distended nostrils and fluttering mane. stella's heart beats, her boasted courage shrivels up to nothing. a few more minutes pass, and now she hears steps. is he coming? no; the steps approach from the opposite direction, stumbling, dragging steps,--those of a drunkard. a nameless, unreasoning dread takes possession of her. ah! she hears the quick firm rhythm of an elastic tread. "baron rohritz!" she screams, as loud as she can. "baron rohritz!" the step quickens into a run, and a moment later rohritz is beside her. "for god's sake, what is the matter?" he says, much distressed. "oh, nothing, nothing,--only a drunken man. my courage oozed away pitifully. heaven knows whether, if you had not appeared, i might not have plunged into the save from sheer cowardice. but all is well now. is a vehicle coming?" "unfortunately, there was none to be had. i could only get a peasant-lad to take care of the horses. if there was the slightest dependence to be placed upon these confounded brutes i could put you on the least broken-down of them and lead him slowly to the inn. but, unfortunately, i am convinced that the beast could not carry you: he would fall with you in the first pool in the road. with all the desire in the world to help you, i cannot. you must try to walk as far as the inn. i have brought you one of the ferryman's wife's shoes." and while stella is putting the huge patent-leather shoe on her bandaged foot, rohritz directs the peasant-lad to fish his plaid and rugs out of the mud and to lead the horses slowly to the inn. as he walks away with stella they hear the boy's loud drawling 'hey!' 'get up,' with which he seeks to inspirit the miserable brutes. leaning on the arm of her escort, stella does her best to proceed without yielding to the pain which every minute increases, but her movements grow slower and more laboured, and finally a low moan escapes her lips. "let me rest just one moment," she entreats, piteously, ashamed of a helplessness of which a normally constituted woman would have made capital. "do not walk any farther," he rejoins, and, bending over her, he says, with decision, "i pray you put your right arm around my neck, clasp it well: treat me absolutely as a _porte-faix_." "but, baron----" "do not oppose me, i entreat: at present _i_ am in command." his tone is very kind, but also very authoritative. she obeys, half mechanically. he carries her firmly and securely, without stumbling, without betraying the slightest fatigue. at first her sensations are distressing; then slowly, gradually, a pleasant sense of being shielded and cared for overcomes her: her thoughts stray far, far into the past,--back to the time when her father hid her against his breast beneath his cavalry cloak, and she looked out between its folds from the warm darkness upon the world outside. the minutes fly. "we are here!" rohritz says, very hoarsely. she looks up. a reddish light is streaming out into the darkness from the windows of a low, clumsy building. he puts her down on the threshold of the inn. "thanks!" she murmurs, without looking at him. he is silent. the inn parlour is empty. a bright fire is burning in the huge tiled stove; the fragrance of cedar-berries slowly scorching on its ledge neutralizes in part the odour of old cheese, beer, and cheap tobacco plainly to be perceived in spite of the open window. in a broad cabinet with glazed doors are to be seen among various monstrosities of glass and porcelain two battered sugar ships with paper pennons, and a bridal wreath with crumpled white muslin blossoms and arsenic-green leaves. the portraits of their majesties, very youthful in appearance, dating from their coronation, hang on each side of this piece of furniture. among the various tables covered with black oil-cloth there is one of rustic neatness provided with a red-flowered cover, and set with greenish glasses, blue-rimmed plates, and iron knives and forks with wooden handles. the hostess, a colossal dame, who looks like a meal-sack with a string tied around its middle, makes her appearance, to receive the unfortunates and to place her entire wardrobe at stella's disposal. "can we not go on, then?" stella asks, in dismay. "unfortunately, no. i have sent to the nearest village for some sort of conveyance, and my messenger cannot possibly return in less than an hour. and i must prepare you for another unfortunate circumstance: we shall be forced to go by a very long and roundabout road; the gröblach bridge is carried away, and the save is whirling along in its current the pillars and ruins, making the ferry impracticable for the present." "oh, good heavens!" sighs stella, who has meanwhile taken off her dripping water-proof and wrapped about her shoulders a thick red shawl loaned her by the hostess. "well, at least we are under shelter." thereupon the hostess brings in a grass-green waiter on which are placed a dish of ham and eggs and a can of beer. "i ordered a little supper, but i cannot vouch for the excellence of the viands," rohritz says, in french, to stella. "i should be glad if you would consent to eat something warm. it is the best preventive against cold." stella shows no disposition to criticise what is thus set before her. "how pleasant!" she exclaims, gaily, taking her seat at the table. "i am terribly hungry, and i had not ventured to hope for anything to eat before midnight." it is a pleasure to him to sit opposite to her, looking at her pretty, cheerful face,--a pleasure to laugh at her gay sallies. would it not be charming to sit opposite to her thus daily at his own table,--to lavish care and tenderness upon the poor child who had been so neglected and thrust out into the world,--to spoil and pet her to his heart's content? "grasp your chance,--grasp it!" the heart in his bosom cries out: "her lot is hard, she is grateful for a little sympathy, will she not smile on you in spite of your gray hair?" but reason admonishes: "forbear! she is only a child. to be sure, if, as she has avowed, her heart be really untouched, why then----" whilst he, absorbed in such careful musings, grows more and more taciturn, she chatters away gaily upon every conceivable topic, devouring with an appetite to be envied the frugal refection he has provided. "it is delightful, our improvised supper," she declares, "almost as charming as the little suppers at the britannia which papa used to have ready for me when i came home from parties in venice, as terribly hungry as one always is on returning from a venetian soirée, where one is delightfully entertained but gets nothing to eat." "it seems, then, that the giovanelli ball was not your only glimpse of venetian society?" rohritz remarks, with a glance that is well-nigh indiscreetly searching. "before papa grew so much worse i very often went out: papa insisted upon it. the countess l---- chaperoned me. and at lady stair's evenings in especial i enjoyed myself almost as much as i was bored at the giovanelli ball. i cannot, 'tis true, dance; but talk,"--she laughs somewhat shyly, as if in ridicule of her talkativeness,--"i _can_ talk." "that there is nothing to eat at a venetian soirée i know from experience," rohritz says, rather ill-humouredly, "but how one can find any enjoyment there i am absolutely unable to understand. venetian society is terrible: the men especially are intolerable." "i did not find it so," stella declares, shaking her head with her usual grave simplicity in asserting her opinion; "not at all." "but you must confess that italians are usually low-toned; that----" "but i did not meet italians exclusively; i met austrians, english, russians; although in fact"--she pauses reflectively, then says, with conviction--"the nicest of all, my very particular friend, was an italian, prince zino capito." "he calls himself an austrian," rohritz interposes. "he was born in rome," stella rejoins. "i see you know all about him," rohritz observes. "we saw a great deal of each other," stella chatters on easily. "we were in the same hotel, papa and i, and the prince. his place at table was next to mine, and in fine weather he used to take us to sail in his cutter. he often came in the evenings to play bézique with papa. he was very kind to papa." "evidently," rohritz observes. "you seem to dislike him!" stella says, in some surprise. "not at all. we always got along very well together," rohritz coldly assures her. "i know him intimately; my oldest brother married his sister thérèse." "ah! is she as handsome as he?" stella asks, innocently. "very graceful and distinguished in appearance; she does not resemble him at all." and with a growing sharpness in his tone rohritz adds,-- "do you think him so very handsome?" the hostess interrupts them by bringing in a dish of inviting strawberries. stella thanks her kindly for her excellent supper, the woman says something to rohritz in the peasant patois, which stella does not understand, and he fastens his eye-glass in his eye, a sign with him of a momentary access of ill humour. after the woman has withdrawn he remarks, with an odd twinkle of his eyes, "how many years too young did you say i was, baroness stella, to be your father? four or five, was it not? _eh bien_, our hostess thinks differently: she has just congratulated me upon my charming daughter." but stella has no time to make reply: her eyes are riveted in horror upon the clock against the wall. "is it really half-past ten?" she exclaims. "no, thank heaven; the clock has stopped. what o'clock is it, baron rohritz?" "a quarter after eleven," he says, startled himself, and rather uncomfortable. "i do not understand why the messenger is not here with the conveyance." "good heavens!" stella cries, in utter dismay. "what will mamma say?" "be reasonable. your mother cannot blame you in this case; she must be informed that it was impossible to cross the ferry," he says, anxious himself about the matter, however. "certainly; but while she does not know of our break-down she will think we have had plenty of time to reach wolfsegg by the longest way round. you certainly acted for the best, but it would have been better, much better, if uncle jack had stayed with me. he knows all about the country, and he has a decided way of making these lazy peasants do as he pleases." "i do not believe that with all his knowledge of the country, and his decision of character, he could have succeeded in procuring you a conveyance," rohritz says, with growing irritation. "if the ferry is useless, perhaps we might cross in a skiff," stella says, almost in tears. "i will see what is to be done," he rejoins. "at all events it shall not be my fault if your mother's anxiety is not fully appeased in the course of the next half-hour." with this he leaves the room. shortly afterwards the hostess makes her appearance. "where has the herr papa gone?" she asks. "he has gone out to see if we cannot cross the save in a boat." "he cannot do it to-night," the woman asserts. "he would surely not think of----" without finishing her sentence she puts down the plate of cheese she has just brought, and hurries away. stella is perplexed. what does he mean to do? what is the hostess so foolishly afraid of? she limps to the open window, and sees rohritz on the bank of the stream, talking in the slavonic dialect, which she does not understand, with a rough-looking man. the rain has ceased, the clouds are rent and flying, and from among them the moon shines with a bluish lustre, strewing silver gleams upon the quiet road with its net-work of pools and ruts, upon the wildly-rushing save with its foaming billows, upon the black roof of the hut which serves as a shelter for the ferrymen, and upon a rocking skiff which is fastened to the shore. a sudden dread seizes upon stella, a dread stronger by far than her childish fear of her mother's harsh words. the hostess enters. "not a bit will the gentleman heed,--stiff-necked he is, the water boiling, and not a man will risk the rowing him: he be's to sail alone to wolfsegg, and ne'er a one can hinder him." stella sees rohritz get into the skiff, sees the fisherman take hold of the chain that fastens it to the shore. not even conscious of the pain in her wounded foot, she rushes out, and across the muddy road to the bank, where the fisherman has already unfastened the chain and is preparing to push the boat out of the swamp into the rushing current. "good heavens! are you mad?" she calls aloud to rohritz. "what are you about?" rohritz turns hastily; their eyes meet in the moonlight. "after what you said to me there is nothing for me to do save to shield your reputation at all hazards.--push off!" he orders the fisherman. "no," she calls: "it never occurred to me to consider my reputation. i was only a coward, and afraid of mamma." the fisherman hesitates. rohritz takes the oars. "push off!" he orders, angrily. "do so, if you choose," stella cries, "but you will take me with you!" whereupon she jumps into the boat, and, striking her poor wounded foot against a seat, utterly breaks down with the pain. "i was a coward; yes, yes, i was afraid of mamma; but i would rather have her refuse to speak to me than have you drowned," she sobs. her streaming eyes are riveted in great distress upon his face, and her soft, trembling hands try to clasp his arm. about the skiff the waves plash, "grasp it, grasp it; your happiness lies at your feet!" his whole frame is thrilled. he stoops and lifts her up. "but, stella, my poor foolish angel----" he begins. at this moment there is a rattle of wheels, and then the captain's voice: "rohritz! rohritz!" "all's right now!" says rohritz, drawing a deep breath. as it now appears, the captain has come by the long roundabout road, with a borrowed vehicle, to the relief of the unfortunates. the general, who, whatever disagreeable qualities he may possess, is a 'gentleman coachman' of renown, has declared himself quite ready to conduct the landau with its spirited span of horses to erlach court. "what have you been about? what has happened to you?" the captain repeats, and he shakes his head, claps his hands, and laughs by turns, as with mutual interruptions and explanations the tale of disaster is unfolded to him. then stella is packed inside the little vehicle, rohritz takes his place beside her, and the captain is squeezed up on the front seat. before fifteen minutes are over stella is sound asleep. rohritz wraps his plaid about her shoulders without her knowledge. "she is tired out," he whispers. "i only hope her foot is not going to give her trouble. were you very anxious?" "my wife was almost beside herself. my sister took the matter, on the contrary, very quietly, until finally stasy put some ridiculous ideas of impropriety into her head, and then she talked nonsense, alternately scolding you and the child, marching up and down the common room at the wolfsegg inn like a bear in a cage, until i could bear it no longer, but left the entire party on the general's shoulders to be driven home, and set out in search of you. how did stella behave herself? did she give you any trouble?" "no; she was very quiet." "she is a dear girl, is she not? poor child! she really has had too much to bear. of course i would not confess it to stasy, but it is a fact that if any other man had been in your place i should have been excessively annoyed." "my gray hair has been of immense advantage to your niece," rohritz assured him. "the hostess at the ferry persisted in taking me for her father." "nonsense!" "nonsense which at least showed me at the right moment precisely where i stood," rohritz murmured. "and, between ourselves,--never allude to it again,--it was necessary." * * * * * the captain, who naturally enough sees nothing in his friend's words but an allusion to his altered circumstances, sighs, and thinks, "what a pity!" chapter xiv. a departure. when the three wanderers arrive, at erlach court a little after midnight, they find the rest in the dining-room, still sitting around the remains of a very much over-cooked dinner. stasy, in a pink peignoir, hails rohritz upon his entrance with, "i have won my bet,--six pair of jouvin's gloves from katrine. i wagered you would be late--ha! ha!" "a fact easy to foresee, in view of the condition of the horses and the roads," rohritz rejoins, frowning. the affair, so far as it concerns stella, who approaches her mother with fear and trembling, turns out fairly well. as the baroness's natural feeling of maternal anxiety for her daughter's safety has only been temporarily disturbed by stasy's insinuations, she forgets to scold stella, in her joy at seeing her safe and sound. that she may not give way to an outburst of anger upon further consideration, and that an end may be put to stasy's jests, the captain instantly plunges into a detailed account of all the mishaps that have befallen stella and her escort. katrine meanwhile searches for a telegram that has arrived for rohritz, finally discovering it under an old-fashioned decanter on the sideboard. "what is the matter?" she asks, kindly, seeing him change colour upon reading it. "moritz, an apoplectic stroke, come immediately. ernestine." he reads aloud. "'tis from my eldest sister. poor tina!" he murmurs. "i must leave to-morrow by the seven-o'clock train from gradenik. can you let me have a pair of horses, les?" the captain sends instantly to have everything in readiness. shortly afterwards rohritz takes leave of the ladies; he does not, of course, venture to expect that after the fatigues of the day they will rise before six in the morning for his sake. stella's hand he retains a few seconds longer than he ought, and he notices that it trembles in his own. so summary is his mode of preparation that his belongings are all packed in little more than half an hour, and he then disposes himself to spend the rest of the night in refreshing slumber. but sleep is denied him: a strange unrest possesses him. happiness knocks at the door of his heart and entreats, 'ah, let me in, let me in!' but reason stands sentinel there and refuses to admit her. he tossed to and fro for hours, unable to compose himself. towards morning he had a strange dream. he seemed to be walking in a lovely summer night: the moon shone bright through the branches of an old linden, and lay in arabesque patterns of light on the dark ground beneath. suddenly he perceived a small dark object lying at his feet, and when he stooped to see what it was he found it was a little bird that had fallen out of the nest and now looked up at him sadly and helplessly from large dark eyes. he picked it up and warmed it against his breast. it nestled delightedly into his hand. he pressed his lips to the warm little head; an electric thrill shot through his veins. "stella, my poor, dear, foolish child!" he murmured. rat-tat-tat--rat-tat-tat! he started and awoke. the servant was knocking at his door to arouse him. "the herr baron's hot shaving-water." when, half an hour later, he appears, dressed with his usual fastidious care, in the dining-room, he finds both the master and the mistress of the house already there to do the honours of what he calls, with courteous exaggeration, 'the last meal of the condemned.' shortly afterwards stasy appears. the general, through a servant, makes a back-ache a plea for not rising at so early an hour. the carriage is announced; rohritz kisses katrine's hand and thanks her for some delightful weeks. she and the captain accompany him to the carriage, while stasy contents herself with kissing her hand to him from the terrace. at the last moment rohritz discovers that he has no matches, and a servant is sent into the house to get him some. "it is settled between us, now," katrine begins, "that whenever you are fairly tired out with mankind in general----" "i shall come to erlach court to learn to prize it in particular; most certainly, madame," rohritz replies, his glance roving restlessly among the upper windows of the castle. "_au revoir_ at christmas!" the morning is cool; the cloudless skies are pale blue, the turf silver gray with dew; the carriage makes deep ruts in the moist gravel of the sweep; the blossoms have fallen from the linden and are lying by thousands shrivelled and faded at its feet, while the rustle of the dripping dew among its mighty branches can be distinctly heard. the servant brings the matches. rohritz still lingers. "do not forget, madame, to bid the baroness meineck----" he begins, when the sound of a limping foot-fall strikes his ear. he turns hastily: it is stella,--stella in a white morning gown, her hair loosely twisted up, very pale, very charming, her eyes gazing large and grave from out her mobile countenance. "have you, too, made your appearance at last, you lazy little person? 'tis very good of you, highly praiseworthy," the captain says, with a laugh to annul the effect of stella's innocent eagerness. a burst of laughter comes from the terrace. "i hope you are duly gratified, baron," a discordant voice calls out. "when our little girl gets up at six o'clock it must be for a very grand occasion!" blushing painfully, stella with difficulty restrains her tears; she says not a word, but stands there absolutely paralyzed with embarrassment. "i thank you from my heart for your kindness," rohritz says, hastily approaching her. "i should have regretted infinitely not seeing you to say good-bye." "you had a great deal of trouble with me yesterday, and were very patient," she manages to stammer. "except uncle jack, no one has been so kind to me as you, since papa died, and i wanted to thank you for it." he takes her soft, warm little hand in his and carries it to his lips. "god guard you!" he murmurs. "hurry, or you will be too late!" the captain calls to him. he is going to accompany him to the station, and he fairly drags him away to the carriage. the driver cracks his whip, the horses start off, rohritz waves his hat for a last farewell, and the carriage vanishes behind the iron gates of the park. "poor stella! poor stella!" stasy screams from the terrace, fairly convulsed with laughter. "delightful fellow, rohritz: he knows what he's about!" but stella covers her burning face with her hands. "i will go into a convent," she says; "there at least i shall be able to conduct myself properly." meanwhile, rohritz and the captain roll on towards the station. they are both silent. "he is desperately in love with her," thinks the captain. "is he really too poor to marry, i wonder?" yes, it is true rohritz is desperately in love with her; she hovers before his eyes in all her loveliness like a vision. he would fain stretch out his arms to her, but he is perpetually tormented by the persistent question, "whom does she resemble?" suddenly he knows. the knowledge almost paralyzes him! beside the pure, fresh vision of stella he sees leaning over a black-haired, vagabond-looking man at the roulette-table at baden-baden the hectic ruin of a woman who has been magnificently beautiful, a woman with painted cheeks and with deep lines about her eyes and mouth,--otherwise the very image of stella. twelve years since he had seen her thus, and upon asking who she was had been told that she was the mistress of the spanish violinist corrèze, and that she was little by little sacrificing her entire fortune to gratify the artist's love of gaming. his informant added that she was a woman of birth and position, and that she had left her husband and child in obedience to the promptings of passion. he did not know her husband's name: she called herself then madame corrèze. why do all stasy's malicious remarks about stella's unpleasant connections, and about the meineck temperament, crowd into his mind? there is no denying that stella is lacking in a certain kind of reserve. while he is waiting with the captain beneath the vine-wreathed shed of the station for the train which has just been signalled, these hateful thoughts refuse to be banished. he suddenly asks his friend, who stands smoking; in silence beside him,-- "what is the story about your sister's sister-in-law to which fräulein von gurlichingen so often alludes? was she the same eugenie meineck to whom you were once devoted?" "yes," the captain makes reply, half closing his eyes, "and she was a charming, enchanting creature; stella reminds me of her. no one has a good word for her now, but there was a time when it was impossible to pet and praise her enough." "what became of her?" "she fell into bad--or rather into incapable--hands. she married an elderly man who did not know how to manage her. good heavens! the best horse stumbles under a bad rider, and----" "well, and----?" "she had not been married long when she ran off with a spanish musician, a coarse fellow, who beat her, and ran through her property. he was quite famous. his name was--was----" the captain snaps his fingers impatiently. "corrèze?" rohritz interposes. "yes, that is it,--corrèze!" at this moment the train arrives. "all kind messages to the ladies at erlach court, and many thanks for your hospitality, jack!" rohritz says, jumping into the coupé. "i hope we shall see you soon again, old fellow; but--hm!--have you no message for my foolish little stella?" asks the captain. "i hope with all my heart that she may soon fall into good hands!" rohritz says, with emphasis, in a hard vibrant voice. and the train whizzes away. "the deuce!" thinks the captain; "there's but a slim chance for the poor girl. good heavens! if i loved stella and my circumstances did not allow of my marrying, i'd take up some profession. but rohritz is too fine a gentleman for that." meanwhile, rohritz leans back discontentedly in the corner of an empty coupé. "a charming, bewitching creature,--stella resembles her," he murmurs to himself. "she married an elderly man from pique, and so on." he lights a cigar and puffs forth thick clouds of smoke. "she might not have married me from pique, but from loneliness, from gratitude for a little sympathy. and if zino had come across her later on---- i was on the point of losing my head. thank god it is over!" he sat still for a while, his head propped upon his hand, and then found that his cigar had gone out. with an impatient gesture he tossed it out of the window. "i could not have believed i should have had such an attack at my years," he muttered. he set his teeth, and his face took on a resolute expression. "it must he," he said to himself. outside the wind sighed among the trees and in the tall meadow-grass. it sounded to him like the sobbing of his rejected happiness. chapter xv. scattered. summer has gone. the birds are silent; brown leaves cover the green grass, falling thicker and thicker from the weary trees; long, white gossamers float in the damp, oppressive air: the autumn is weaving a shroud for the dying year. scared by the whistling blasts and the floods of rain, the swallows have assembled in dark flocks; they are seen in long rows on the telegraph-wires in eager twittering discussion of their approaching flight, and then, the next morning, early, before the lingering autumn sun has opened its drowsy eyes, the heavens are black with their flying squadrons. but the final death-struggle is not yet over, the warmth in all vegetation is not yet chilled; bright flowers still bloom at the feet of the fast-thinning trees, and, shaking the falling leaves from their cups, laugh up at the blue skies. the little company which at the beginning of this simple story we found assembled at erlach court is now dispersed to all quarters of the world: the general is 'grazing,' as jack leskjewitsch expresses it, with somebody in southern hungary; stasy is fluttering, with sweet smiles and covert malice, from friend to friend, seeming at present on the lookout for a fixed engagement for the winter; rohritz is off on his wonted autumnal hunting-expedition, and more than usually bored by it; and the leskjewitsches are still at erlach court, where freddy is in perpetual conflict with his new tutor, a spare, lank philosopher lately imported for him from bohemia, and katrine quaffs full draughts of her beloved solitude, without experiencing the great degree of rapture she had anticipated from it; there is a cloud upon her brow, and her annoyance is principally due to the fact that the captain begins to show unmistakable signs of a lapse from his former manly energy of character; he scarcely holds himself as erect as was his wont, and the only occupation which he pursues with any notable degree of self-sacrifice and devotion is the breaking of a pair of very young and very fiery horses. this praiseworthy pursuit, however, absorbs only a few hours at most of each day, and he kills the rest of the time as best he can, irritating by his idleness his wife, who is always occupied with most interesting matters. in addition he reads silly novels, and greatly admires the 'maître de forges.' "how can any man admire the 'maitre de forges'?" katrine asks, indignantly. the baroness and stella have been back in their mill-cottage at zalow for many weeks, and stella is, as usual, left entirely to herself. in addition to the daily scribbling over of various sheets of foolscap, the baroness, instead of bestowing any attention upon her daughter, is mainly occupied with superintending the carrying out of all the governmental prophylactic measures which are to secure to zalow entire immunity from the cholera. she has come off victorious in many a battle with the culpably negligent village authority, and, to the immense edification of the inmates of the various villas, already somewhat accustomed to the vagaries of the baroness meineck, she now goes from one manure-heap to another of the place, at the head of a battalion of barefooted village children provided with watering-pots filled with a disinfectant, the due apportionment of which she thus oversees herself. it was long an undecided question whether this winter, like the last, should be spent in zalow. finally the baroness decided that it was absolutely necessary for herself as well as for stella that the cold season of the year should be passed in paris, for herself that she might have access to much information needed for the completion of her 'work,' for stella that a final polish might be given to her singing and that she might be definitively prepared for the stage. every one who has ever had anything to do with lina meineck knows that if she once takes any scheme into her head it is sure to be carried out: therefore, having made up her mind to go to paris, she will go, although no one among all her relatives has an idea of where the requisite funds are to come from. it does not occur to any one that she could lay hands upon the small fortune belonging to stella, who has lately been declared of age. chapter xvi. zalow. it is a mild autumn afternoon; stella, just returned from a visit to her sister, who has lately been blessed by the arrival of a little daughter, has taken a seat with some trifling piece of work in her mother's study to tell her about the pretty child and franzi's household, but at her first word her mother calls out to her from her writing-table,-- "not now,--not now, i beg; do not disturb me." and the girl, silenced and mortified, bends over the tiny shirt which she has begun to crochet for her little niece, and keeps all that she had hoped to tell to herself. the autumn sun shines in at the window, and its crimson light gleams upon a large tin box standing on the floor in a corner, the box in which the deceased colonel had kept all the letters he ever received from his wife. tied up with ribbon, and methodically arranged according to their dates, they are packed away here just as they were sent to his wife from his old quarters at enns. she has never looked at them, has not even taken the trouble to destroy them, but has simply pushed them aside as useless rubbish. stella had rummaged among them, with indescribable sensations in deciphering these yellow documents with their faint odour of lavender and decay, for here were letters full of ardour and passion, letters in which lina meineck wrote to her husband, for instance, when he was away during the schleswig campaign,-- "the weather is fine to-day, and every one is praising the lovely spring; but it is always winter for me in your absence; with you away my thermometer always stands at ten degrees below zero!" with a shudder stella put back these relics of a dead love in their little coffin. it was as if she had heard a corpse speak. since then she has often wished to burn the letters, out of affectionate reverence for the dead who held them sacred, but she has never summoned up sufficient courage to ask her mother's permission. the little shirt is finished; with a sigh stella folds it together, and is just wondering what she shall do next to occupy the rest of the afternoon, when the baroness says,-- "have you nothing to do, stella?" "no, mamma." "well, then, you can run over to schwarz's and buy me a couple of quires of paper; my supply is exhausted, and i will, meanwhile, have tea brought up." donning her hat and gloves, stella sets forth. herr schwarz is the only shopkeeper in the village, and his shop contains a more heterogeneous collection of articles than the biggest shop in paris. he often boasts that he has everything for sale, from poison for rats, and dynamite bombs, to paper collars and scented soap. his shop is at the other end of the village from the mill, and to reach it stella must pass the most ornate of the villas. most of the summer residents have left zalow; only a few special enthusiasts for country air have been induced by the exceptionally fine autumn weather to prolong their stay. in the garden of the tailor who built himself a hunting-lodge in the style of francis the first a group of people are disputing around a croquet-hoop in the centre of a very small lawn, and in the giroflé villa some one is practising schumann's 'Études symphoniques' with frantic ardour. stella smiles; the last sound that fell upon her ears before she went to erlach court with her mother was the 'Études symphoniques,' the first that greeted her upon her return in the middle of august was the 'Études symphoniques.' she knows precisely who is so persistently given over to these rhapsodies,--an odd creature, a woman named fuhrwesen, who has been a teacher of the piano for some years in russia, and who, now over forty, still hopes for a career as an artist. stella's little commission is soon attended to. as she hands her mother the paper on her return, their only servant, a barefooted girl from the village, with a red-and-black checked kerchief tied about her head, brings the tea into the room. "a letter has come for you," the baroness says to her daughter,--"a letter from grätz. i do not know the hand. who can be writing to you from grätz? where did i put it?" and while her mother is rummaging among her papers for the letter, stella repeats, with a throbbing heart, "from grätz. who can be writing to me from grätz?" and she covertly kisses the four-leaved clover on her bracelet which is to bring her good fortune, and proceeds instantly to build a charming castle in the air. her uncle has told her of edgar's loss of property and his consequent inability to think of marriage at present. perhaps uncle jack told her this to comfort her. that edgar loves her she has, with the unerring instinct of total inexperience of the world, read, not once, but hundreds of times, in his eyes, and consequently she has spent many a long autumn evening in wondering whether he is looking for a position--some lucrative employment--to enable him to marry. he is not lacking in attainments; he could work if he would. "and he will for my sake," the heart of this foolish, fantastic young person exults in thinking. from day to day she has been hoping that he would send her--perhaps through jack or katrine--some message, hitherto in vain. but now at last he has written himself; for from whom else could this letter from grätz be? she knew no human being there save himself. "here is the letter," her mother says, at last. stella opens it hastily, and starts. "whom is it from?" asks the baroness. she uses the hour for afternoon tea to rest from her literary labours; with her feet upon the round of a chair in front of her, a volume of buckle in her lap, a pile of books beside her, a number of the 'revue des deux mondes' in her left hand, and her teacup in her right, she partakes alternately of the refreshing beverage and of an article upon henry the eighth. "whom is the letter from?" she asks, absently, laying her cup aside to take up a volume of froude. "from stasy," stella replies. "ah! what does she want?" "she asks me to send her from rumberger's, in prague, three hundred napkins or so, upon approbation, that she may oblige some friend of hers whom i do not know, and for whom i do not care." "positively insolent!" remarks the baroness. "and does she say nothing else?" "nothing of any consequence," says stella, reading on and suddenly changing colour. "ah!" the baroness marks the revue with her pencil. when she looks up again, stella has left the room. without wasting another thought upon her, the student goes on with her reading. stella, meanwhile, is lying on the bed in her little room, into which the moon shines marking the floor with the outlines of the window-panes. her face is buried among the pillows, and she is crying as if her heart would break. 'nothing of any consequence'! true enough, of no consequence for the baroness, that second sheet of stasy's, but for stella of great, of immense consequence. "guess whom i encountered lately at steinbach?" writes the gurlichingen. "edgar rohritz. of course we talked of our dear erlach court, and consequently of you. he spoke very kindly of you, only regretting that in consequence of your odd education, or of a certain exaggeration of temperament, you lacked reserve, _tenue_, a defect which might be unfortunate for you in life. of course i defended you. they say everywhere that he is betrothed to emmy strahlenheim. "have you heard the news,--the very latest? rohritz _is_ a sly fellow indeed. all that loss of property of which we heard so much was only a fraud. the report originated in some trifling depreciation of certain bank-stock. he did not contradict the report, allowing himself to be thought impoverished that he might escape the persecutions of the mothers and daughters of grätz. max steinbach let out the secret a while ago. is it not the best joke in the world? i am glad no one can accuse me of ever making the slightest advances to him." chapter xvii. winter. the death-struggle of the year is over,--past are the treacherous gleams of sunlight among falling leaves and smiling flowers,--past, past! cold and grave like a hired executioner, mute and secret like a midnight assassin, the first hard frost has fallen upon the earth in the previous night and completed its great work of destruction. it is all souls'; the meinecks leave for paris in the evening, and in the morning stella goes to mass in the little church on the mountain-side at the foot of which is the churchyard,--the churchyard in which the colonel lies buried. the flames of the thick wax candles on the altar, the flames of the candles thick and thin lighted everywhere in memory of the dead, flicker dull and red in the gray daylight. in one of the carved seats beside the altar sits the priest's sister, her prayer-book bound in red velvet, and a large yellow rose in her new winter hat. she nods kindly to stella when she enters, and gathers her skirts aside to make room for her. in the body of the long narrow church are cowering on the benches all kinds of dilapidated figures, men and women, almost all old, frail, and crippled,--those able to work have no time to pray. it is very cold; their breath comes as vapour from their lips; the outlines of their blue wrinkled faces show vaguely behind clouds of yellowish-gray smoke; the odour of damp stone and damp clothes mingles with the smell of incense and wax; the sputter of the candles, the dripping of the wax, the rattle of beads, mingle with the monotonous chant of the priest at the altar. when mass is over, and she has taken leave of the priest's kindly sister, stella goes out into the churchyard,--a miserable place, with neglected graves, scarcely elevated in mounds above the ground, with iron crosses upon which rust has eaten away the inscriptions, or wooden ones which the wind has blown down to lie rotting on the ground. the colonel's grave is beneath a weeping-willow at the extreme end of the churchyard, whence one can look directly down upon the broad shining stream. tended like a garden-bed by stella, cherished as the very apple of her eye, it yet looks dreary enough to-day: the leaves are hanging black and withered from the stalks of the chrysanthemums which stella planted with her own hands only a few weeks ago, their pretty flowers, which but yesterday stood forth red and yellow against the blue of the sky, now colourless and faded beyond recognition. a wreath of fresh flowers lies among the chrysanthemums, but these too are beginning to fade. stella kneels down on the gray rimy grass beside the grave and kisses fervently the hard frozen ground. "adieu, papa," she murmurs, and then adds, "but why say adieu to you? you are always with me everywhere i go; you are beside me, a loving guardian angel seeking for happiness for me. do not grieve too much that you cannot find it: open your arms and take me to you; i am all ready." * * * * * then the mill is closed; the keys are left with the pastor, and the meinecks go to prague, which on the same evening they leave by the train for the west. as far as furth they are alone, but when they change coupés after the examination of their luggage they are unable, in spite of bribing the officials, to exclude strangers. at the last moment, just as the train is about to start, a lady with two handbags, a travelling-case, a shawl-strap, and a bandbox steps into their compartment and hopes she does not disturb them. much vexed, stella scans the lady, who wears a water-proof adorned with as many tassels as bedeck the trappings of an andalusian mule, and with a red pompon in her hat, fastened in its place with a bird's claw four inches long. stella instantly recognizes her as fräulein bertha fuhrwesen, the same pianist who has been spending her holidays upon the 'Études symphoniques;' she recognizes stella at the same moment, and, although until now she never has exchanged four words with her, hails her as an old acquaintance and enters into conversation; that is, without waiting for replies from the young girl she imparts to her the story of her entire life. in the course of her experience as teacher of the piano in russia, of which mention has already been made, she has learned much of the rude nature of russian social life and the amiability of young russian princes; at present she is on her way to paris, whence she is to make a tour with an impresario through south america and australia, by the way of uruguay and tasmania. apart from the artistic laurels she expects to win, she anticipates furthering greatly the advance of civilization among the savage aborigines by her musical efforts. she asks stella several times why she is so silent, and when the girl excuses herself on the plea of a headache she says she had better eat something, and produces from her travelling-case, embroidered with red and white roses, and from between a flannel dressing-sacque and various toilet articles, a bulky brown package containing the remains of a cold capon. stella thanks her, and declines the tempting delicacy, saying that she will try to sleep. fräulein fuhrwsen of course attributes stella's reserve to the notorious arrogance of the meinecks, who will have nothing to say to a poor pianist, and, mortally offended, she likewise takes refuge in silence. stella dozes. the conductor opens the door to tell the ladies that the next station is nuremberg, whereupon the artiste takes a comb and a tangled braid of false hair out of her travelling-case and begins to dress her hair. the train puffs and whizzes through the grayish light of the late autumn morning and stops with a shrill whistle at nuremberg. stella and her mother through the pillars of the railway-station catch a glimpse, among the picturesque gables and roofs of the old town, of ugly new houses pretentious in style, looking as if built of pasteboard; they partake of a miserable breakfast, buy a package of gingerbread and a volume of tauchnitz, get into another train, and are whirled away, on--on--through yellow and brown harvest-fields, through small bristling forests of pines and barren meadows, past villages, churchyards, and little towns that look positively dead. late in the afternoon the rhine comes in sight: gray, shrouded in mist, not at all like itself, without sunshine, without merriment, without englishmen, almost without steamers, it grumbles and groans as if vexed by some evil, melancholy dream, while a thousand sad sighs tremble through the red-and-yellow vineyards on its shores,--the shores where folly grows. away--on--on! more dead towns, with dreamy old names that fall upon the ear like echoes of ancient legends. everything is drowsy; gray shadows cover the earth; the night falls; green and red lanterns gleam through the darkness. cologne! cologne, where one can sup, and dress, and at all events see the cathedral in the dark. chapter xviii. sophie oblonsky. stella and her mother have finished their supper. the baroness, who has exhausted her entire stock of literary food provided for the journey, is at the book-stall, looking for more reading-matter; she examines the counterfeit presentments on exhibition there of the great german heroes, the emperor wilhelm, bismarck, and von moltke, among which distinguished personages chance has slipped in the portrait of mademoiselle zampa. suddenly, under a pile of books that seem to have been pushed out of the way, she discovers a green pamphlet which she instantly recognizes as a child of her own, an essay entitled 'is woman to be independent?' of course she buys the book, and, betaking herself to the small 'ladies' parlour' adjoining the spacious waiting-room, takes a seat opposite stella, and, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, is soon absorbed in the study of her work. meanwhile, stella has vainly tried to become interested in the english novel purchased at nuremberg; she leaves the lovers, after their twenty-second reconciliation, beneath a blossoming hawthorn, and, closing the book with a slight yawn, sits up and looks about her. at the other end of the room, as far as possible from stella, sits the pianist, writing a letter: from time to time she looks up to bestow upon stella a hostile glance. on the other side of the same table two ladies are engaged in partaking of the best supper that the restaurant of the railway-hotel can afford,--a supper with _foie gras_, mayonnaise of lobster, and a bottle of champagne. one of them, with the figure and face of a juno, her costly furs falling gracefully from her full shoulders, is so perfumed that even the atmosphere about stella reeks with _peau d'espagne_. eyebrows, lips--her entire face is painted; and yet she does not look in the least like a travelling prima donna. "can that be the princess oblonsky?" stella says to herself, with a start. "no doubt of it: it is." and there beside the princess, on stella's side of the table, but with her back to her,--who is that? jack leskjewitsch always used to declare that stasy's shoulders were shaped like a champagne-bottle. stella wonders whether anywhere in the world can be found a pair of more sloping shoulders than those which that fur-trimmed circular fails to conceal. both ladies devote their entire attention for a time to their supper; at last the princess pushes away her plate with a certain impatience, and with an odd smile says, "where did you first know him?" "whom?" asks the other. it is stasy, of course; there may be another woman in the world with those same sloping shoulders, but there can be none with such a thin, affected voice. "why, him, my chevalier _sans peur et sans reproche_," says the princess. "edgar? oh, i spent a long time in the same house with him last summer," stasy declares. "he is still one of the most interesting men i have ever met. such a profile! such eyes! and so attractive in manner!" the ladies speak french, the princess with perfect fluency but a rather hard accent, stasy somewhat stumblingly. "strange!" the oblonsky murmurs. "what is strange?" asks stasy. "why, that you have seen him," the princess replies; "that he is yet alive; in fact, that he ever did live, and that we loved each other. i was wont for so many years to regard that episode at baden-baden as a dream that at last i forgot that the dream had any connection with reality." the words fall from the beautiful woman's lips slowly, softly, with veiled richness and intense melancholy. after a pause she goes on: "i seem to have read there in baden-baden a romance which enthralled my entire being! it was on a lovely summer day, and the roses were in bloom all about me, while delicious music in the distance fell dreamily and softly on my ear, and the fragrance of roses and the charm of melody mingled with the poem i was reading. suddenly, and before i had read to the end, the romance slipped from my hands, and since then i have sought it in vain! but it still seems to me more charming than all the romances in the world; and i cannot cease from searching for it, that i may read the last chapter." then, suddenly changing her tone, she shrugs her shoulders and says, "who can tell what disappointment awaits me?--how edgar may have changed? how does he seem? is he gay, contented with his lot?" "no, sonja, that he is not," stasy assures her, sentimentally. "to be sure, he is too proud to parade his grief; in society he bears himself coldly, indifferently; but there is an inexpressible melancholy in his look. oh, he has not forgotten!" stella's eyes flash angrily. "she lies!" the heart in her breast cries out; "she lies!" meanwhile, the friends clasp each other's hands sympathetically. "he never knew how i suffered," the princess sighs. "does he suppose that i accepted oblonsky's hand with any thought of self? no,--a thousand times no! i determined to free edgar from the martyrdom he was enduring from his family because of me. i took upon myself the burden of a joyless, loveless marriage, i had myself nailed to the cross, for his sake!" "she lies!" stella's heart cries out again; "she lies!" but stasy sighs, "i always understood you, sonja." after a pause she adds, "you know, i suppose, that he grew gray immediately after that sad affair,--after your marriage,--almost in a single night?" "gray!" murmurs the princess; "gray! and he had such beautiful dark-brown hair. he must have heard much evil of me; perhaps he believed it: it pleases men to think evil of the women who have caused them suffering. well, you know how innocent were all the little flirtations with which i tried in vain to fill the dreary vacuum of my existence, from the artists whom i patronized, to zino capito, with whom i trifled. if only some one could explain it all to him!--or if"--the princess's eyes gleam with conscious power,--"if i could only meet him myself, then----" "then what?" says stasy, threatening her friend archly with her forefinger; "then you would turn his head again, only to leave him to drag out a still drearier existence than before." "you are mistaken," the princess whispers. "there is many a strain of music that beginning in a minor key changes to major only to close softly and sweetly in minor tones. anastasia, my first marriage was a tomb in which i was buried alive----" "and would you be buried alive for the second time?" stasy asks. "no; i long for a resurrection." a cold shiver of dread thrills stella from head to foot. the baroness looks up from her pamphlet and exclaims, "i really must read you this, stella. i do not understand how this brochure did not attract more notice. to be sure, when one lives so entirely withdrawn from all intercourse with the literary world, and has no connection at all with the journals, one may expect----" stasy turns around. "my dear baroness!" she exclaims, with effusion. "and you too, stella! what a delightful surprise! i must introduce you: baroness meineck and her daughter,--princess oblonsky." with the extreme graciousness which all great ladies whose social position is partly compromised testify towards their thoroughly respectable sisters, the princess rises and offers her hand to both stella and her mother. the baroness smiles absently; stella does not smile, and barely touches with her finger-tips the hand extended to her. meanwhile, stasy has recognized in fräulein fuhrwesen an old acquaintance from zalow. "good-day, fräulein bertha!"--"fräulein bertha fuhrwesen, a very fine pianist,"--to the princess; then to the meinecks, "you are already acquainted with her." and while the princess talks with much condescension to the pianist of her adoration for music, stasy whispers to stella, "don't be so stiff towards sonja: you might almost be supposed to be jealous of her." "ridiculous!" stella says angrily through her set teeth, and blushing to the roots of her hair. stasy taps her on the cheek with her forefinger, with a pitying glance that takes in her entire person, from her delicate--almost too delicate--pale face to her shabby travelling-dress, the identical brown army-cloak which she had worn on the journey to venice three years before, and rejoins,-- "ridiculous indeed--most ridiculous--to dream of rivalling sonja. wherever she appears, we ordinary women are nowhere." "verviers--paris--brussels!" the porter shouts into the room. all rise, and pick up plaids and travelling-bags; the porters hurry in; a lanky footman and a sleepy-looking maid wait upon the princess oblonsky, who nods graciously as they all crowd out upon the railway-platform. the meinecks enter a coupé where an american whose trousers are too short, and his wife whose hat is too large, have already taken their seats. the pianist looks in at the door, but as soon as she perceives stella starts back with horror in her face. "i seem to have made an enemy of that woman," stella thinks, negligently. what does it matter to her? poor stella! could she but look into the future! the train starts; while the baroness, neglectful of the simplest precautions with regard to her eyes, continues to peruse her masterpiece by the yellow light of the coupé lamp, the american goes to sleep, hat and all, upon her companion's shoulder, and stella sits bolt upright in the cool draught of night air by the window, repeating to herself alternately, "i long for a resurrection!" and "wherever sonja appears, we ordinary women are nowhere!" she, then, is the enchantress who has ruined the happiness of his life,--she the---- she is indeed beautiful; but how hollow,--how false! everything about her--soul, heart, and all--is painted, like her face. could he possibly be her dupe a second time? suddenly the girl feels the blood rush to her cheeks. "what affair is it of mine? what do i care?" she asks herself, angrily. "he too is false, vain, and heartless; he too can act a part." chapter xix. paris. stella has scarcely closed her eyes, when the train reaches paris, about six o'clock. the morning is cold and damp, the usual darkness of the time of day disagreeably enhanced by the white gloom of an autumn fog,--a gloom which the street-lamps are powerless to counteract, and in which they show like lustreless red specks. through this depressing white gloom, stella and her mother are driven in a rattling little omnibus, with a couple of other travellers, through a paris as silent as the grave, to the hôtel bedford, rue pasquier. an englishwoman at nice once recommended it to the baroness as that wonder of wonders, a first-class hotel with second-class prices, and it is under english patronage. english lords and ladies now and then occupy the first story, and consequently the garret-rooms are continually inhabited by impoverished but highly distinguished scions of english "county families." in the reading-room, between 'burke's peerage' and lodge's 'vicissitudes of families' is placed an album containing the photographs of two peeresses. the _clientèle_ is as aristocratic as it is economical: each despises all the rest, and one and all dispute the weekly bills. stella and her mother are by no means enchanted with this hotel, and they sally forth as soon as they are somewhat rested, in search of furnished lodgings. but the funds are scanty: their expenses ought to be paid out of a hundred and fifty francs a month! the first day passes, and our austrians have as yet found nothing suitable. the cheapest lodgings are confined and dark, and smell, as the ladies express it, of english people; that is, of a mixture of camphor, patchouli, and old nut-shells. the bedrooms in these cheap lodgings consist of a sort of windowless closets, entirely dependent for ventilation upon a door into the drawing-room which can be left open at night. meanwhile, the living at the bedford is dear. the baroness arrives at the conclusion that private quarters at three hundred francs a month would be more economical, and finally decides to spend this sum upon her winter residence. for three hundred francs very much better lodgings are to be had; the bedrooms have windows, but there are still all kinds of discomforts to be endured, the worst of which consists perhaps in the fact that none of the proprietors of these rooms, which are mostly intended for bachelors, is willing to undertake to provide food for the two ladies. at last in the rue de lêze an _appartement_ is found which answers their really moderate requirements; but just at the last moment the baroness discovers that the concierge is a very suspicious-looking individual, and remembers that the previous year a horrible murder was committed in the rue de lêze; wherefore negotiations are at once broken off. a pretty _appartement_ in the rue de l'arcade pleases stella particularly, perhaps because the drawing-room is furnished with buhl cabinets. the baroness is just about to close with the concierge, who does the honours of the place,--there is merely a question of five francs to be settled,--when with a suspicious sniff she remarks, "'tis strange how strongly the atmosphere of this room is impregnated with musk!" whereupon the concierge explains that the rooms have lately been occupied by mexican gentlemen, who shared the reprehensible southern habit of indulging too freely in perfumes; and when the baroness glances doubtfully at a dressing-table which scarcely presents a masculine appearance, and which boasts a sky-blue pincushion stuck full of different kinds of pins, he hastens to add, without waiting to be questioned, that the mexican gentlemen had chiefly occupied themselves in collecting and arranging butterflies. "mexican men would seem to have long fair hair, mamma," stella here interposes, having just pulled a golden hair at least a yard long out of the crochetted antimacassar of a low chair. the face of the baroness, who always suspects french immorality everywhere, turns to marble; tossing her head, she grasps stella by the hand and hurries out with her, passing the astounded concierge without so much as deigning to bid him good-bye. she refuses to take a lodging in the rue pasquier, because it seems to her 'too reasonable;' she is convinced that some one must have died of cholera in a certain big bed with red curtains, else the rent never would have been so low. at last, after a four days' pilgrimage, the ladies find what answers their requirements in a little hotel called 'at the three negroes,' kept by a kindly, light-hearted irishwoman. at the baroness's first words, "we are looking for lodgings for two quiet, respectable ladies," she instantly rejoins, "my house will suit you exactly; the quietest house in all paris. i never receive any--hm!--a certain kind of ladies, and never more than one deputy; two always quarrel." whereupon the irishwoman and the austrian lady come to terms immediately, and the meinecks move into the second story of 'the three negroes' that very day, the irishwoman being quite ready also to provide them with food. the price for a salon and two bedrooms--with very large windows, 'tis true, as stella observes is three hundred and twenty francs a month. * * * * * after the lodgings are thus fortunately secured the baroness sets about finding a singing-teacher for stella. always decided and to the point, she goes directly to the man in authority at the grand opera to inquire for a 'first-class professor.' oddly enough, it appears that this authority has no time to attend to matters so important. dismissed with but slight encouragement, the baroness tries her fortune at the office of one of the smaller operas; but since she presents herself here with her daughter without introduction of any kind, the official seated behind a dusty writing-table has no time to devote to her, all that he has being absorbed in a quarrel with two ladies who have just applied to him for the ninth time,--"yes," he exclaims, with a despairing flourish of his hands, "for the ninth time this month, for free tickets!" whilst the baroness and stella linger hesitatingly on the threshold, a slender, sallow young man with sharply-cut features, and with a picturesque astrachan collar and a very long surtout, enters the place by an opposite door. he scans stella's face and figure keenly, and, approaching her, asks what she desires. the baroness informs him of their business, whereupon ensues an exchange of civilities and mutual introductions. the gentleman in the fur collar is none other than the famous impresario morinski, now on the lookout for a new patti. with a pleasant glance towards stella, he asks who has been the young lady's teacher hitherto. of whom has she not taken lessons! the list of her teachers embraces carelli at naples, lamperti at milan, garcia in london, and tosti in rome. here morinski shakes his black curly head, says, "too many cooks spoil the broth," and asks, "why did you not stay longer with one teacher?" the baroness takes it upon herself to reply, and explains at considerable length how her historical schemes and researches have hitherto rendered a wandering life for herself and her daughter imperatively necessary. morinski, who seems to take more interest in stella's fine eyes than in her mother's historical studies, interrupts the elder lady with some rudeness, and, turning to stella, asks, "do you intend to go upon the stage?" "yes," stella meekly replies. "only upon condition of her capacity to become a star of the first magnitude should i consent to my daughter's going upon the stage," the baroness declares, in her magnificent manner. "it is a little difficult to prognosticate with certainty in such a case," herr morinski observes, with an odd smile. "hm! hm! you may sometimes see a brilliant meteor flash across the skies, larger apparently than any of the stars; you fix your eyes upon it, but hardly have you begun to admire so exquisite a natural phenomenon when it has vanished. another time you scarcely perceive a small red spark lying on the pavement, but before you are aware of it, it has set fire to half the town. just so it is with our artistic _débuts_." at the close of this tirade, which herr morinski has enunciated in very harsh french with a strong jewish accent, he turns again to stella and asks, "will you sing me something? it would interest me very much to hear you." stella's heart beats fast. how many other singers have had to engage in an interminable correspondence and to entreat for infinite patronage before gaining admission to the famous morinski and inducing him to listen to them, while he has asked her to sing, unsolicited, after scarcely ten minutes' conversation! she gratefully accedes to his proposal. "i should greatly prefer your making the trial on the stage itself, rather than in the foyer," says morinski. "i could decide far better as to the strength of your voice. have the kindness to follow me." and, leading the way, he precedes them through an endless labyrinth of ill-lighted corridors to the stage, which, illuminated at this hour by only a couple of foot-lights, shows gray and colourless against the pitch-dark auditorium. the boards of the stage are marked with various lines in chalk, cabalistic signs of mysterious significance to stella; in front of the prompter's box stands a prima donna with her bonnet-strings untied and her fur cloak hanging loosely about her shoulders, singing in an undertone a duet with a tenor in a tall silk hat who is kneeling at her feet; at the piano, just below, sits the leader of the orchestra, a little italian, with long, straight, white hair, and dark eyebrows that protrude for at least an inch over his fierce black eyes, pounding away at the accompaniment, evidently more to accentuate the rhythm than with any desire to accompany harmoniously the duet of the pair. "the rehearsal will be over immediately," morinski assures the two ladies. in fact, the duo between the prima donna and the tenor shortly comes to an end. a short discussion ensues, during which the prima donna alternately scolds the leader, whom she accuses of paying no attention to the _ritardandos_, and the tenor for his "lamentable want of all passion." morinski throws himself metaphorically between the disputants and kisses the prima donna's hand. without paying him much attention, she scans stella from head to foot, says, with an ironical depression of the corners of her mouth, "ah! a new star, morinski!" and withdraws, with an intensely theatrical stride, her loose fur dolman trailing behind her. "hm! a new star, morinski!" the leader repeats also ironically, stuffing an immense pinch of snuff the while into his nose. "let us hope so," morinski replies, with reproving courtesy. "is the signorina to sing us something? it is twelve o'clock, morinski; i am hungry. if it must be, let us be quick. what shall i accompany for you, mademoiselle?" "_ah fors' è lui che l'anima!_" stella says, in a shy whisper, "from----" "i know, i know,--from traviata," the leader replies. "you sing it in the original key?" "yes." almost before stella has time to take breath, the little man has struck the chords of the prelude. in the midst of the aria he takes his hands from the keys, and shakes his head disapprovingly, so that his long hair flutters about his ears. "_eh bien?_" morinski calls, with some irritation. "i have heard enough," the other declares, decidedly. "haven't you, morinski? it is a perfectly impossible way to sing,--a perfectly impossible way!" "do not be discouraged, fräulein," says morinski, reassuringly. "your voice is superb, full, soft,--one of the finest that i have heard for a long time." "i do not say no, morinski," the leader interposes, with the croak of a raven, "but she is absolutely lacking in rhythm, routine, and aplomb." "she needs a good teacher," says morinski. "the teacher has nothing to do with it!" shouts the leader, and with an annihilating stare at stella he sums up his judgment of her in the words, "_c'est une femme du monde_. you will never make a singer of her!" then, with the energy that characterizes his every movement, he sets about trying to repair the injury he has just done to his silk hat by brushing it the wrong way. poor stella's eyes fill with tears. morinski takes both her hands: "do not be discouraged, i beg of you, my dear mademoiselle, i entreat;" and with an ardent glance at her delicate face he assures her, "believe me, you have great qualifications for success on the stage." "trust to my experience,--the experience of forty years; you never will succeed on the stage!" shouts the italian. "never mind what he says," morinski whispers. "i will do all i can for you. i shall take great pleasure in superintending your lessons personally." but the leader has sharp ears: "_pas de bêtises_, morinski!" he has put on his hat, and is searching with characteristic eagerness in all his pockets. "there is my card," he says, at last, drawing it forth and handing it to the baroness. "if you want your daughter taught to sing, take her to della seggiola, rue lamartine, no ----, the singing-teacher of the faubourg saint-germain and the faubourg saint-honoré, precisely what you want. refer to me if you like; he will make his charges reasonable for you. _dio mio_, how hungry i am! _allons_, morinski!" this is the exact history of stella meineck's trial of her voice at the lyric opera in paris. the baroness has just enough sense and prudence left not to allow stella to take lessons of morinski. following the advice of the energetic italian, she takes her daughter to signor della seggiola. chapter xx. thÉrÈse de rohritz. winter--such winter as paris is familiar with--has set in, to make itself at home. the gardeners have stripped the squares and public gardens of their last flowers; the trees and the grass and the bare sod are powdered with snow. when one says 'as white' or 'as pure' as snow, one must never think of paris snow, for it is brown, black, gray,--everything except white; and, as if ashamed of its characterless existence, it creeps as soon as possible into the earth. full six weeks have passed since the meinecks took up their abode in 'the three negroes.' in order to increase their means, the baroness has generously determined to write newspaper articles, although she has a supreme contempt for all journalistic effort, and she has also completed two shorter essays, for which the berlin 'tribune' paid her twenty-five marks. with a view to making her descriptions of the world's capital vividly real, she pursues her study of paris with all the thoroughness that characterizes her study of history. she has visited the morgue, as well as valentino's, note-book in hand, but escorted by an old carpenter, who once mended a trunk for her and won her heart by his sensible way of talking politics. she paid him five francs for his companionship, and maintains that he was far less tiresome at valentino's than a fine gentleman. she has devised a most interesting visit shortly to be paid to the parisian sewers. meanwhile, in order to make herself perfectly familiar with the life of the streets, she spends three hours daily, two in the forenoon and one in the afternoon, upon the top of various omnibuses. and stella,--how does she pass her time? four times a week she takes a singing-lesson,--two private lessons, and two in della seggiola's 'class,' besides which she practises daily for about two hours at home. she is at liberty to spend the rest of her time in any mode of self-culture that pleases her. she can go, if she is so inclined, to the rue richelieu with her mother, or visit the louvre alone, can attend to little matters at home, or read learned works and write extracts from them in the book bound in antique leather which her mother gave her upon her birthday. what wealth of various and interesting occupations and pleasures for a girl of twenty-one! it is quite inconceivable, but nevertheless it is true, that in spite of them she feels lonely and unhappy,--grows daily more nervous and restless, and, without being able to define exactly the cause of her sadness, more melancholy. her energetic mother, to whom such a vague discontent is absolutely inconceivable, reproaches her with a want of earnestness in her studies and induces a physician to prescribe iron for her. what is there that iron is not expected to cure? to-day stella is again alone at home; her mother has gone out after lunch to take her bird's-eye view of paris from the top of an omnibus. she has graciously offered to take stella with her, but stella thanks her and declines; she detests riding in omnibuses, on the top she grows dizzy, and inside she becomes ill. "well, i suppose the only thing that would really please you would be to drive in a barouche-and-pair in the bois," her mother remarks. "unfortunately, that i cannot afford." with which she hurries away. stella's throat aches; she often has a throat-ache,--the specific throat-ache of a poor child of mortality who has learned to sing with seven different professors, and whose voice has been treated at different times as a soprano, a mezzo-soprano, and a deep contralto. she has been obliged to stop practising in consequence, to-day, and has taken up a volume of gibbon, but is too _distraite_ to comprehend what she reads. it really is strange how slight an interest she takes in the decline of the roman empire. "and if i should not succeed upon the stage, if my voice should not turn out well," she constantly asks herself, "what then? what then?" why, for a moment--oh, how her cheeks hum as she recalls her delusion!--she absolutely allowed herself to imagine that---- how bitterly she has learned to sneer at her fantastic dreams! "has edmund rohritz's wife not yet been to see you?" leskjewitsch had asked her mother in a letter shortly before. "you do not know her, but i begged edgar awhile ago to send her to you,--she would be so advantageous an acquaintance for stella." "she would indeed," the poor child thinks; "but not even his old friend's request has induced him to do me a kindness." her sad, weary glance wanders absently over the various lithographs that adorn the walls, portraits of famous singers, tamberlik, rubini, mario, all with the signature of those celebrities. apparently the hotel must formerly have enjoyed an extensive artistic patronage. she takes up gibbon once more, and does her best to become absorbed in the destinies of the tribunes of the people. in vain. "good heavens!" she exclaims, irritably, "who could read a serious book in all this noise? and 'the negroes' was recommended to us as a quiet hotel!" the deputy from the south of france is pacing the room above her to and fro, now repeating in a murmur and anon declaiming with grotesque pathos to the empty air the speech which he is learning by heart. in the room next to him an amateur performer is piping 'the last rose of summer' on a very hoarse flute,--an english bagman, who is suffering from an inflammation of the eyes, wherefore we must not grudge him his musical distractions. he is piping 'the last rose' for the eighteenth time; stella has counted. "'tis beyond endurance!" the girl exclaims, closing her gibbon. "ah, heavens, how dreary life is!" she groans. "i wish i were dead!" just then there comes a ring at the door. stella opens it. a tall, smooth-shaven lackey stands in the corridor and hands her a card: "_la baronne edmond de rohritz, née princesse capito_." "madame la baronne wishes to know if the frau baroness is receiving?" the man asks, vanishing when stella assents. "he probably takes me for a waiting-maid," stella thinks, childishly, not without some petty annoyance that she was forced to open the door herself for the servant, and she hurries into the salon, to put away a piece of mending which is by no means ornamental. scarcely has she done so when a light foot-fall comes tripping up the stairs. there is another ring, and again stella opens the door. a lady enters, slender, very pale, with delicately-cut features, and large, black, rather restless eyes, which she slightly closes as she looks at stella, and then pleasantly holds out her hand: "mademoiselle meineck, _n'est-ce pas?_" not for one moment is she in doubt whether this tall girl in a plain stuff dress be a soubrette or not. "my brother-in-law rohritz wrote me some time ago telling me to call upon your mother and yourself and to ask if i could be of any service to you. i have promised myself the pleasure of doing so every day since; my very critical brother's letter inspired me with eager curiosity; but one never has time for anything in paris,--nothing pleasant, that is. well, here i am at last. is your mother at home?" "my mother has gone out, but will shortly return; she would greatly regret missing you, madame. if you could be content with my society for a while----" stella rejoins. "i should be delighted to have a little talk with you," the lady assures her; "but do you suppose i have time to stay? what an idea in paris! i had to fairly steal a quarter of an hour of time already appropriated to come to see you. we must postpone our talk. i trust i shall see a great deal of you; i am always at leisure in the evening,--that is, when i do not have to go to bed from sheer fatigue! and how have you passed the time since you came to paris?" madame de rohritz has installed herself in an arm-chair by the fireplace, has put up her veil and thrown back her furs from her shoulders. a delicate fragrance exhales from her robes; all parisian women use perfumes, but how refined, how exquisite, is this fragrance compared with the overpowering odour of _peau, d'espagne_ which surrounds the princess oblonsky! thérèse rohritz does not possess her brother's beauty, but everything about her is graceful and attractive,--her veiled glance,--a glance which can be half impertinent sometimes, but which rests upon stella with evident liking,--her beaming and yet slightly weary smile,--yes, even her hurried articulation and her high-pitched but soft and melodious voice. "how have you passed the time since you came to paris?" she asks again. "we live very quietly," stella stammers. "mamma is studying that she may finish her book, and of course has no time to go out with me." "yes, yes, i know; my brother-in-law told me," madame de rohritz replies. "and you----" "i? i take singing-lessons four times a week." "my brother-in-law wrote me that you intend to go upon the stage." madame de rohritz laughs. "if i were a frenchwoman i should be horrified at the idea, but i am half an austrian. i know those whims: a cousin of mine, a russian, natalie lipinski----" "natalie lipinski! ah!" stella exclaims; "my fellow-student. we take lessons together twice a week in signor della seggiola's class." "indeed! well, she is thinking of going upon the stage,--and with a fortune of ten million roubles. in austria and russia such ideas will take possession of the brains of the best-born and best-bred girls; _cela ne tire pas à consequence!_ i never oppose natalie, but i mean to have her married before she knows what she is about. and what shall i do with you, my fair one with the golden locks? do you know i like you exceedingly? _le coup de foudre en plein_,--love at first sight." the clock on the chimney-piece--a clock apparently dating from the days when 'l'africaine' was the rage, for the face is adorned with a manchineel-tree in miniature and a barbaric maiden in a head-dress of feathers dying beneath it--strikes three. the lady starts up, takes out her watch, and compares it with the clock. "positively three o'clock, and my poor little boy is waiting for me in the carriage! i was to take him to his solfeggio class at three. adieu, adieu; my compliments to your mother, and _au revoir, n'est-ce pas?_" she turns once again in the door-way, and, taking both stella's hands, says, "you will come to dine with us once this week with your mother quite _en famille_ the first time, that we may learn to know one another. i will excuse a formal call: you can pay that later: it is silly to lose time with formalities when one is _simpatica_. adieu, adieu. what beautiful eyes you have! _je me sauve!_" the lively young madame kisses stella's forehead, and then goes--or rather flies--away. stella's heart beats fast and loud. "after all, he sent her: he has not quite forgotten me." chapter xxi. an austrian host. "hm! indeed! now i can no longer be shabby at my ease." these were the words with which the baroness on her return home greeted stella's joyous announcement of madame de rohritz's visit. "i took such pleasure in living in a place where nobody knew me." however problematical in some respects the creative power of the baroness may be, she is certainly thoroughly saturated with what the english call 'the sublime egotism of genius.' when on the morning after her visit a note redolent of violets arrives from madame de rohritz, inviting in the kindest manner the two ladies to dinner at half-past seven the next evening but one, the baroness makes a wry face, and remarks that really madame de rohritz might have waited until her call had been returned,--that such a degree of eagerness on the part of a woman of the world betokens a degree of exaggeration,--but, despite her grumbling, permits herself to accede to the entreaty in her daughter's eyes, and to accept the invitation. "upon condition that you attend to my dress," she says; to which stella of course makes no objection. the evening wardrobe of the baroness consists of a black velvet gown which is now precisely seventeen years old, and which underwent renovation at the time of her eldest daughter's marriage. the number of stella's evening dresses is limited to two very charming gowns which the colonel had made for her in venice, regardless of expense, by the best dress-maker there, but which are at present slightly old-fashioned. but, neglectful as the baroness is about her personal appearance, she has an air of great distinction when she makes up her mind to be presentable, and covers her short gray hair, usually flying loose about her ears, with a black lace cap; while stella is always charming. she would be lovely in the brown robe of a monk; in her pale-blue cachemire, with a bunch of yellow roses on her left shoulder, directly below her ear, she is bewitching. her heart throbs not a little as she drives with her mother in a draughty, rattling fiacre across paris to the avenue villiers. she is not at all tired of life to-day, but, entirely forgetting how quickly her air-built castles fall to ruin, she is eagerly engaged again in similar architecture. madame de rohritz occupies a rather small hôtel with a court-yard and garden. the entire household conveys the impression of distinguished comfort without ostentation. in the vestibule--a gem of a vestibule, with two ancient japanese monsters on either side of the door of entrance, with flanders tapestries embroidered in gold on the walls, and oriental rugs under-foot--a servant relieves the ladies of their wraps. stella immediately perceives by the way in which her mother arranges her hair before the mirror that, whether it be the monsters at the door, or the arazzi on the wall, something has had a beneficial effect upon her mood,--that to-night, as is sometimes the case, her ambition is roused to prove that a learned woman under certain circumstances can be more amiable and amusing than any woman with nothing in her head save 'dress and the men.' in the salon, whither they are conducted by the maître-d'hôtel, a familiar spirit who is half a head shorter but half a head more dignified than the footman, they find only the master of the house. not introduced, and quite unacquainted, he nevertheless advances with both hands extended, saying,-- "it rejoices me exceedingly to welcome two of my compatriots!" "it rejoices us also," the baroness amiably assures him. baron rohritz scans her with discreetly-veiled curiosity. "why did my brother write that i should find the baroness rather extraordinary at first? she is a charming, distinguished old lady." aloud he says, "my wife made promises loud and earnest to be here in time to present me to the ladies; but it seems she was mistaken." "perhaps we were too punctual," the baroness replies, smiling. "not at all," the baron declares; "but my poor wife is proverbially unpunctual. no one has ever been able to convince her that there are but sixty minutes in an hour, and consequently she always tries to do in an afternoon that for which an entire week would hardly suffice. pray warm yourselves meanwhile, ladies: here, these are the most comfortable places,--not too near the blaze. i have had an austrian fire made for you, and have actually nearly succeeded in warming the entire salon. we austrians require a higher degree of heat than these crazy frenchmen; they always maintain they are never cold; they are quite satisfied if they can see a little picturesque blaze in the chimney, and they sit down close to it and thrust their hands and feet and heads into it, thereby giving themselves chilblains, neuralgia, rheumatism, and heaven knows what else; but they are never cold." although the fire is large enough, baron rohritz throws on another log, so eager is he to bear his testimony to the affectation and self-conceit of the parisians. "how wonderfully cosey and comfortable you have contrived to make your home here! as i entered i seemed to be breathing the air of austria. since we came to paris i have not felt so comfortable as at present," says the baroness. if baron rohritz knew that since her arrival in paris her time has been spent either on the top of an omnibus or in rather comfortless furnished lodgings, the worth of this compliment might be less: in happy ignorance, however, he feels extremely flattered, and, with a bow, rejoins,-- "i am very glad our nest pleases you. the chief credit for its arrangement belongs to my wife. you cannot imagine how she runs herself out of breath to pick up pretty things. but it is like austria here, is it not?" "entirely," the baroness assures him. "my wife is incomprehensible to me," the master of the house remarks, after the above interchange of civilities, glancing uneasily at the clock on the chimney-piece. "it is now just half an hour since i helped her half dead out of a fiacre, with i cannot tell how many packages. i trust she is not----" the portière rustles apart. extremely slender, bringing with her the odour of violets, and shrouded in a mass of black crêpe de chine and black lace, dying with fatigue and sparkling with vivacity, the baroness rohritz enters, fastening the clasp of a bracelet as she does so. "good-evening. i beg a thousand pardons! i am excessively glad to make your acquaintance, baroness meineck. can you forgive my ill-breeding in keeping you waiting on this the first evening that you have given me the pleasure of seeing you here? it is terrible!" "ah, don't mention it," the baroness replies, and, although the younger lady speaks german in her honour, answering in french: she is very proud of her french. "_mais si, mais si_, i am most unfortunate, but innocent,--quite innocent. it is positively impossible to be in time in paris. well, and how do you do?" turning to stella and lightly passing her hand over the girl's cheek. "you are always twitting me with my enthusiasm, edmund: did i exaggerate this time?" "no, not in the least," her husband affirms: it would have been difficult, however, for him to make any other reply without infringing upon the rules of politeness. "who made your dress for you? it is charming. and how beautifully you have put in your roses!--but violet suits light blue better than yellow. shall we change?" and, unfastening the roses from stella's shoulder, thérèse rohritz takes a bunch of dark russian violets from her girdle and arranges them on stella's gown, all with the same graceful, laughing, breathless amiability. to conquer all hearts, to make everybody happy, to give every one advice, to attend to every one's commissions, to oblige all the world,--this is the mania of edgar's sister-in-law. he once declared that she went whirling through existence, a perfect hurricane of over-excellent qualities. "what are we waiting for, thérèse?" the master of the house interrupts the flow of his wife's eloquence, in a rather impatient tone. "for zino." "he excused himself. i put his note on your dressing-table. when he received your invitation he was unfortunately--_very unfortunately_, underscored--engaged; but he hopes to be here soon after ten," rohritz explains, having rung the bell meanwhile, whereupon the maître-d'hôtel, throwing open the folding-doors, announces,-- "_madame la baronne est servie_." chapter xxii. french inferiority. one observation stella makes during the dinner,--namely, that married people apparently living happily together in paris suffer quite as much from a chronic difference of opinion as those in austria. baron rohritz and thérèse do not quarrel one iota less than jack leskjewitsch and his wife. although rohritz, as a former diplomatist,--a career which he abandoned five years ago on account of a difference with his chief and an absolute lack of ambition,--and from long residence in paris, speaks perfect french, the conversation at his special request is carried on in german. during dinner he incessantly makes all kinds of comparisons between austria and france, of course to the disadvantage of the latter country. nothing suits him in paris; he abuses everything, from the perfect cooking, as it appears at his own table, to the exquisite troop of actors at the français. "i have no objection to make to the fish," he says, condescendingly. "i am entirely without prejudice; and when there is anything to be praised in france i always do it justice. but look at the game: french game is deplorable,--marshy, tasteless, without flavour. even the strasburg pie can be had better in vienna. do you not think so?" "you will be thought an actual ogre, edmund," thérèse remonstrates, half laughing, half vexed. "you talk of nothing to-day but food." "perhaps so; but, as you will have observed, only from a lofty, strictly patriotic point of view," her husband remarks, composedly. "of course," thérèse replies. "i can, however, assure you," she says, turning to her guests, "that although i cannot defend the parisians in all respects, in one thing they are far beyond the viennese: although they do not fall behind them in cookery, they think much less of things to eat." "true," edmund agrees, "and very naturally; they think less of their eating because they can't eat; they have no digestion. they certainly are a weak, degenerate race. did you ever watch a regiment of french soldiers march past, ladies, either cavalry or infantry? it is quite pitiable, their military. do you not think so?" the baroness cannot help admitting that he is measurably right this time, and as the widow of a soldier she indulges in a hymn of praise of the austrian army, thus enchanting the baron, who before entering the diplomatic corps served, to complete his education, in a cavalry regiment. "i should really like to know why these people are in such a hurry," he begins again, after a while, calling attention to the speed with which dinner is being served. "i suppose the rascals intend to go to valentino's after dinner." "their hurry will do them no good then," thérèse remarks, shrugging her shoulders; "they will have to serve tea later in the evening. i simply suppose that they take it as a personal affront that we should converse in a language which they do not understand." "possibly," sighs rohritz. "these parisian lackeys are intolerable; their pretensions far outstrip our modest austrian means. you may read plainly in their faces, 'i serve, 'tis true, but i adhere to the immortal principles of ' .' every fellow is convinced that his period of servitude is only an intermezzo in his life, and that some fine day he shall be duke of persigny or malakoff,--in short, a far grander gentleman than i. am i not right, thérèse?" "perfectly," his wife asserts. "but let me ask you one question, my dear: if you find paris so inferior in everything, from strasburg pie to the domestics, why did you not stay in vienna?" "oh, that is another question,--quite a different question," rohritz replies. "ah, yes," thérèse says, triumphantly. "you must know, ladies, that my husband's patriotism is not so ardent as would seem, but rather of a platonic character; he loves his country at a distance. when, five years ago, after we had been here some time, he gave up his career and wanted to go back to vienna, i made no objections whatever, and we established ourselves in his beloved native city, at first only provisionally. at the end of six months he was so frightfully bored that he actually longed for paris." edmund dips his fingers in his finger-glass with a slightly embarrassed air. "that is true," he admits. "paris is the manon lescaut of european capitals: worthless thing that she is, we can never be rid of her if she has once bewitched us." and as thérèse prepares to rise from table he asks, "do you object to a cigarette, ladies, and are you fond of children? then, thérèse, let us take coffee in the smoking-room, where i am sure the children are waiting for me." chapter xxiii. prince zino capito. the smoking-room is a somewhat narrow apartment, with a large oriental rug before the broad double windows, with very beautiful old weapons in a couple of stands against the wall, and with heavy antique carved oaken chests. the broad low arm-chairs and divans are covered with oriental rugs and carpets which rohritz, as he informs stella, brought from cairo himself. the two children, a little boy twelve years old, with tight red stockings and very short breeches, and a little girl hardly three, in a white gown, with bare legs and arms, help their mamma to serve the coffee. momond takes the ladies their cups, and baby is steady enough on her legs to trip after him with a face of great solemnity, carrying the silver sugar-bowl tightly hugged up in her arms. after she has happily completed her round she puts the sugar-bowl down before her mother, with a sigh of relief as over a difficult duty fulfilled, and smooths down her short, stiff skirts with a very decorous air. but when her father, from the other side of the room, where he is talking with stella, smiles at her, she runs to him with a glad cry, forgetting all decorum springs into his lap, and is petted and caressed by him to his heart's content. "do you know whom that picture represents, baroness stella?" the host now asks, pointing to a life-size photograph hanging beneath the portrait in oil of a beautiful, fair woman. although stella had noticed the photograph as soon as she entered the smoking-room, she pretends to have her attention attracted by it for the first time. "yes, the likeness can still be recognized," she replies, bestowing a critical glance upon the picture, "although if it ever looked really like baron edgar rohritz he must have altered very much." "of course," says rohritz: "the picture was taken twelve years ago. edgar had it taken for our mother, just before he went to mexico. when he returned to europe, three years later, our mother was dead, and he was gray,--gray at twenty-seven! as he was always our mother's favourite, i have hung his picture below hers." "i maintain that photograph to be the handsomest head of a man which i know," thérèse interrupts her conversation with the baroness to declare. "we often dispute about it with my brother zino, who always cites the apollo belvedere as the highest type of manly beauty----" "because he himself resembles that arrogant fellow in the vatican," her husband interposes, dryly. it is strange how constantly the elder brother recalls baron edgar, although considerably older, and by no means so distinguished in looks. meanwhile, thérèse runs on with her usual fluency: "it is an immense pity that my brother-in-law cannot make up his mind to marry. you really cannot imagine, ladies, the pains i have taken to throw the lasso over his head. quite in vain! and such superb matches as i have made for him,--marguerite de lusignan, who has just married the duke cesarini, and the charming marie de gallière,--in short, the loveliest, wealthiest girls,--_tout ce qu'il y a de mieux_. oddly enough, the mothers liked him as well as the daughters. in vain! i never have seen a man with so decided a distaste for matrimony as edgar's. did you chance to hear of the scheme by which he contrived in grätz to rid himself of man[oe]uvring mammas?" "yes," says stella, very coldly: "he spread abroad a report that he had suddenly lost his property." "a delicious idea," thérèse laughs. "do you not think so?" stella is silent. "it never occurred to him to originate the report," edmund interposes now, rather irritably; "he was merely too lazy to contradict it. to hear you talk, thérèse, one would suppose edgar to be the most self-conceited coxcomb under the sun,--a man who spent his life in defending himself from the attacks of matrimonially-inclined ladies. but i assure you, baroness stella, that edgar has not a trace of such nonsensical coxcombry. perhaps you know him well enough to make your own estimate of his character." "i know him very superficially," stella replies, with a shrug. "why, i thought you spent several weeks last summer with him at leskjewitsch's," says rohritz, looking at her in surprise. without making any reply to this remark, stella opens and shuts her fan, and says, with a slight curl of her lip, "his heroic opposition seems overcome at last; for, as i learned lately from a letter from grätz, he has just been betrothed to a certain little countess strahlheim." "who wrote you so?" thérèse cries. "that interests me immensely! oh, the machiavelli!" "i had the intelligence from a fräulein von gurlichingen," says stella. "gurlichingen? anastasia gurlichingen?" asks the baron. "you know the gurlichingen?" stella asks, in her turn. "know her! who does not know the gurlichingen?" says rohritz. "she is the most restless phantom i have ever encountered, continually fluttering to and fro through the world, always in the train of some wealthy friend who pays her expenses. it has been her specialty hitherto to sacrifice herself for consumptive ladies: she has haunted meran, cairo, corfu. there was no taint of legacy-hunting in her conduct,--heaven forbid such a suspicion! hm! my brother-in-law zino christened her the turkey-buzzard. if you owe your piece of news to no more trustworthy source of information, baroness stella, i must take the liberty of doubting its correctness." "you know she is in paris? she called upon me a little while ago, but i was not at home," said thérèse, turning to stella. "have you any idea whom she is with now?" "with the princess oblonsky," stella replies. "with the oblonsky? not with the former von föhren?" husband and wife exclaim simultaneously. "certainly!" "what a joke!--with the oblonsky!" thérèse almost chokes with laughter. it is ten o'clock. the children have long since disappeared with their _bonne_; the servant has brought in the tea-equipage. there is a pause in the conversation, such as is apt to ensue when people have laughed until they are tired. the baron puts a fresh log on the fire and rakes the embers together. the blaze flames and crackles; little hovering lights and shadows dance over the old golden-brown leather tapestries. suddenly the door opens, and unannounced, with the _sans gêne_ of close relationship, a young man enters the room, tall, slender, with a certain attractive audacity expressed in the lines about his mouth and in his eyes which puts beyond question his resemblance to the olympian dandy. it is the apollo of modern drawing-room dimensions, the apollo forty-four years old, already a little gray about the temples, with a wrinkle or two at the corners of his eyes, in a coat of poole's, a gardenia in his button-hole, his crush hat under his arm,--prince zino capito! "pray present me," he says, after he has greeted his sister, and stella also, turning towards the baroness. "and you already know my new star?" thérèse exclaims, in surprise, after she has fulfilled his request. the prince looks full at stella, with a look peculiar to himself, a look in which admiration reaches the boundary of impertinence without crossing it,--then says, smiling,-- "_Çà_, sasa!" when he is in a good humour he calls his sister thus, by the name which he gave her when he was a lisping baby in the nursery,--"_ça_, sasa, do you really suppose that i would have rushed back from lyons simply on the strength of the enthusiastic description of your latest _trouvaille_ that you sent me in your note of invitation? no, my little sister, i am too well aware of your liability to acute attacks of enthusiasm not to receive your brilliant perorations with a justifiable mistrust. i once had the pleasure of seeing mademoiselle very often, for a while," he continues, speaking french. "where?--when?" asks thérèse. "three years ago, in venice. baron meineck lived at the britannia, where i also lodged, and fräulein stella came to venice to take care of him.--they were sad days for you," he says, turning to stella, very gravely, and with a degree of cordiality which he can impart to his voice when he chooses. "and yet they were delightful days for me in spite of all," stella replies, her eyes full of tears, and turning away her head. "most certainly you can look back to that time with a contented heart," he continues, in the same sympathetic tone. "i never have seen a daughter----" suddenly he notices how the baroness's glance rests upon him, and, becoming aware of the delicate nature of the situation, he finishes his sentence as best he can and tries to change the subject. but the baroness has lost her equanimity: it is always intensely painful to her to know that she recalls to strangers the fact that her husband in his last illness was obliged to forego her care; capito's words are like a reproof to her. "will you have the kindness to have a fiacre called for us?" she says, turning to the host. resisting all entreaties to prolong her stay, and to take another cup of tea, she pleads fatigue, the necessity of rising early, and so forth. when capito takes leave of her he asks permission to pay his respects to the ladies. but the baroness begs him to give himself no further trouble with regard to them, as she is scarcely ever at home,--whereupon she vanishes on the arm of the host, and the prince twirls his moustache with a comical grimace. "what annoys you, zino?" edmund asks on his return to the smoking-room; and when the prince enlightens him as to the extent of his lack of tact, and the unfortunate family history of the meinecks, he says,-- "i really do not see why edgar considered it necessary to prepare us so carefully for the absurdities of the old baroness. it is quite possible that she drove her husband distracted with her learning: nevertheless in ordinary intercourse she is very agreeable, and a very handsome old lady: she must have been handsomer in her time than her daughter." "do you think so?" asks thérèse. "to me stella seems charming." "_elle est tout bêtement adorable_," says zino capito, drinking his tea out of the japanese cup his sister has just handed him. "how good your tea is, sasa! in all paris no one has such good tea as yours." "you are very suspiciously complimentary," thérèse rejoins. "what do you want me to do for you?" "ask me to dine soon, and ask the meinecks," zino replies, with his attractively audacious smile. "no, i will not," thérèse says, resolutely. "and why not?" "because, as i now see, you would do all that you could to turn stella's brain. i thought you had outgrown such foolish tricks." "hm!" says capito. "i am going to do all that i can to marry her well," thérèse declares. "hm!" capito says again, but in a different tone. "if you like, i will invite you to meet the gurlichingen; she is in paris at present." "indeed! with whom is she travelling? "with----" thérèse looks full at him, with mirth in her eyes,--"with the oblonsky!" "ah! have her lungs become affected lately?" zino asks, indifferently. "not that i know of; but she probably covets respectability," says thérèse. "_ah, tiens! cela doit être drôle_. an entire change of system on stasy's part, then," says zino, putting down his teacup, and rising. "she seems to have abandoned the lucrative calling of a turkey-buzzard," rohritz remarks. "yes, and instead to have opened a laundry for the purification of--caps which have fallen among--among nettles, in the vicinity of mills.[ ] not a bad trade,--hm!" ****************** [footnote : a play upon the french proverb, '_jeter son bonnet pardessus le moulin_,' as much as to say 'to lose one's reputation.'] ****************** "going already, zino?" "of course," says zino, stretching himself and yawning as spoiled brothers allow themselves to do in presence of their sisters. "if you suppose i tore myself away from lyons to drink tea with you, you are mistaken. be good, sasa: when will you invite the meinecks and myself to dine?" thérèse, moving her forefinger to and fro before her face, makes the roman gesture of refusal. "oh, very well; as you please," zino mutters in an ill-humour. "good-evening." "i wonder where i could meet her," he says, musingly, before lighting his cigar in the coupé that awaits him. "strange!" rohritz remarks to his wife; "edgar described the young meineck to me as particularly gay and amusing." "indeed?" "now, for so young a creature, she seems to me particularly quiet." "what would you have? punchinello himself would grow melancholy with such a life as hers." her husband reflects for a few moments. after a while he says, "i wonder whether, after all, she was not a little smitten with edgar?" "upon what do you base your conjecture?" thérèse asks, in astonishment. "she put on so extraordinarily indifferent an expression whenever he was mentioned." thérèse laughs aloud. "what is there to laugh at?" her husband asks, rather crossly. "forgive me, but you remind me of the frenchman who proposed to a young lady through her mother, and when he was asked by her what reason he had to suppose that her daughter liked him, replied, 'i am quite sure of it, for she always leaves the room as soon as i enter it.'" "laugh away; we shall soon see who is right. moreover, edgar must take some interest in her, or he would not have recommended her to us so warmly," replies rohritz. "bah! he recommended her to us at the express request of our common friend leskjewitsch," his wife rejoins. "true; but----" "she is a child in comparison with him. he might be her father." edmund is silent for a while, and then says, "that is true; she is a child,--and he is very sensible." chapter xxiv. a music-lesson. following the advice of the little italian conductor of the orchestra, stella refers to him in order to procure more reasonable terms from signor della seggiola for her singing-lessons. these 'more reasonable terms' are twenty-five francs for an hour abbreviated at both ends, and sixty francs a month for a share in the singing-class,--that is, in the musical dissertations which signor della seggiola holds three times a week for six or seven pupils in a small room in the gérard piano-building. for the sake of those who consider twenty-five francs an hour a tolerably high price for lessons, and who are inclined to regard the leader's recommendation as a humbug, it may be well to state that twenty-five francs is really a lowered price, and that dilettanti usually pay from thirty to thirty-five francs for a private lesson from della seggiola. it is with the maestro's wife that stella makes the business arrangement, since della seggiola himself--an artist, an idealist, a child--understands nothing about money. he evidently labours under the delusion that he gives the lessons for nothing, since he does not take the slightest pains to give his scholars an honest equivalent in valuable instruction for their twenty-five, thirty, or thirty-five francs. as we already know, stella is tolerably familiar with the singing-teachers of many lands: she knows that, as is the case also with dentists, they all abuse one another and testify the same horror at the misdeeds of their predecessors, declaring with the same tragic shake of the head that it will be necessary to begin with the a, b, c,--that is, with concone's solfeggi, and that it is indispensable for the scholar that she should procure the work upon the art of singing with which the new teacher, as well as his predecessor, has enriched musical literature. stella already possesses five exhaustive works upon the 'bel canto,' 'l'art lyrique,' 'l'art du chant,' and so forth; each cost twenty francs and contains a more or less valuable collection of solfeggi. some of these volumes are adorned with the portrait of the author, others have prefaces in which some famous man, such as rossini, for example, recommends the work to the public as something extraordinary, something destined by its intrinsic merit to outlast the pyramids. delia seggiola's work differs from all these clumsy compositions. adorned neither with the portrait of the author nor with a preface by a celebrity, it displays upon its first page the profile of a human being cut in half,--an imposing proof of the maestro's anatomical knowledge, as well as of his close study of the physical conditions of a true training of the voice. the large and magnificently-bound volume contains no series of solfeggi, but simply some scanty, musically impossible fiorituri, or musical examples borrowed from other works, which swim like little islands in an ocean of text. as signora della seggiola expresses herself, her husband's volume is no compilation of senseless solfeggi, but a bible for the lovers of song. a bible for those who believe in della seggiola's infallibility. at the private lessons--the maestro gives these, of course, only at his own home--the accompaniments are played by an ambitious young musician who has once been with strakosch on a tour; in the class, fräulein fuhrwesen accompanies, her impresario having postponed for the present the concert tour in south america. della seggiola never touches the piano himself. he is a broad-shouldered, jolly italian, with a big, kindly, smiling face, and a black velvet cap. without ever having possessed even a tolerably good voice, he ranked for a time among the distinguished singers of the world. his fine singing is, however, of little use to his pupils. he passes the time of the lessons chiefly in reading aloud chapters from his 'bible,' while the accompanist, with unflagging enthusiasm, praises the wisdom of the work; then the pupil sings some trifle, della seggiola meanwhile gazing at her with a solemn air, sometimes grimacing to show the position of the lips, or tapping alternately her throat and her chest, exclaiming, "_ne serrez pas!_" or "_soutenez! soutenez!_" then he directs the pupil to rest, tells something funny, clicks with his tongue, throws his velvet cap into the air, and--kling-a-ling-ling signora della seggiola gives the signal that the lesson is over. the class is a rather more serious and artistic affair than the private lessons, from the fact that there are no different prices to be paid here, but that every one--with the exception of a _protégé_ of signora della seggiola's, a barytone from florence, who pays nothing--pays as in an omnibus the same sixty francs a month, whether the class consist of thirty or only three persons. and the company reminds one somewhat of an omnibus. against the background of usual shabbiness one or two brilliant social stars stand forth, making one wonder how they came there. it can hardly be asserted that even here among the disciples of della seggiola, the only true prophet of his art, any great progress in singing is made. during the six weeks for which stella has now belonged to the class it has been singing the same thing, only with less and less voice; that is all the difference. condemned by the formation of his throat, which is extraordinarily ill adapted to song, to spare the organ, della seggiola never allows one of his faithful disciples to sing one natural, healthy note, but condemns them also to a constant mezzo-voce which cannot but contract the throat. thus artificially restrained, stella's warm rich voice diminishes with extraordinary rapidity. when she complains to the maestro that this is so, he remarks that it is a very good sign, her great fault being that she has too much voice, and only when she has lost it entirely can the cultivation of a really _bel canto_ begin. this astounding assertion gives stella food for reflection, and it occurs to her to-day as she sits at the piano preparing for the class-lesson and finds that two of her notes break as she sings the scale. "della seggiola ought to be pleased with my progress," she says to herself, with some bitterness, and her heart beats hard as the constantly-recurring question arises in her mind, "if i should really lose my voice----? but where is the use of thinking of it?" she answers herself, with a shrug. the clock on the chimney-piece, the one with the manchineel-tree, strikes a quarter of ten. "it is high time to go," the girl says aloud. slipping on the still handsome sealskin jacket which her father had given her five years before for a christmas-present, she hurries along the various thronged streets, broad and narrow, through the pale-yellow january sunshine, to her destination. the 'hall' in the gérard piano-warehouse, rue du mail, where della seggiola holds his classes, is hardly more spacious than an ordinary room in berlin or vienna, and, being partly filled with pianos sewed up in linen, leaves something to be desired from an acoustic point of view. the lesson has already begun when stella enters. fräulein fuhrwesen, in her tassel-bedecked water-proof, is seated at the piano, upon the lid of which the 'bible' lies open. della seggiola, resting his right hand upon its pages, and gesticulating with his left, is delivering an inspiring discourse upon the art of song, while a tall, sallow young man, with very little hair upon his head, but all the more upon his face, is awaiting with ill-disguised impatience the moment when he can burst into song. this young man's name is meyer (pronounced meyare): he is clerk in a banking-house, and is studying for the stage. a second barytone, a young italian, is also waiting with longing for his turn. he is the star of the class, a florentine, who has wandered to paris with his two sisters, who regularly come to the class with him. they are sallow and elderly, wear very large rembrandt hats, which, as they privately inform stella, they purchased in the temple, sit on each side of their brother, and keep up a constant nod of encouragement. in strict seclusion from the young men, and guarded by a gray-haired duenna, across whose threadbare brown sacque she gaily ogles the barytone from florence, sits a dishevelled little soprano, the daughter of a diva and a journalist. of course she has no idea of going on the stage; she speaks with horror of the theatre, and thinks a dramatic career not at all _comme il faut_. an elderly englishwoman, quite copper-coloured, with very long teeth and the figure of a tallow dip, seems to be of a different opinion. she is just confessing in very problematical french to the barytone from florence how much she repents not having voice enough '_pour remplir un opera_,' and her eyes fill with tears. natalie lipinski has not yet arrived. with a pleasant greeting to the two sisters of the barytone, and to the crazy miss frazer, stella passes as quietly as possible to her place. after della seggiola has ended his discourse, and monsieur meyare has finished his '_dolcessi perduti_,' miss frazer sings the waltz from 'traviata' transposed a fifth lower than the original key, breathing very loud, and singing very low. in the middle of it she stops short, lays her red hand, covered to the knuckles with a knitted wristlet, upon her heart, and sighs. "what is it?" asks della seggiola, not without a certain impatience. "what is the matter?" "this aria is so deeply affecting," sighs the englishwoman; "it always gives me palpitation of the heart." "that is very unfortunate," says della seggiola, taking a pinch of snuff. "pray consult a physician; he will prescribe digitalis." "oh, the doctor could not help me," miss frazer asserts, wagging her head to and fro with enthusiasm. "my nervous system is too highly strung. if my voice were only stronger i should certainly have a _succès_ upon the stage,--_parce que je suis très-passionnée_." della seggiola bites his lip. at this moment the door opens, natalie lipinski enters, and behind her--stella can hardly believe her eyes--zino capito! "permit me to present to you my cousin, prince capito, signor della seggiola," says natalie, in her fluent but hard-sounding russian-french. "he hopes to be allowed to profit by your instructions." of course the lesson is interrupted. miss frazer's eyes, which always remind one more or less of a melancholy-minded rabbit, and which now wear a very sympathetic air, rest with benevolence upon the prince, who offers della seggiola his hand with the _aplomb_ for which he is justly celebrated throughout europe, hurriedly thanks him for the great pleasure he has given him by his art, and prays beforehand for indulgence and patience, since he is, as he maintains, a beginner,--only a beginner. natalie conscientiously presents him to the class, blundering, of course, with all the names. he bows stiffly, looks directly over the gentlemen's heads, scans the ladies with a curious glance, and then goes directly to stella, beside whom he takes his place, after bowing to her with the most attractive mixture of courtesy and deference. without being deterred by miss frazer's starting off with her transposed song and getting through as much of it as asthma and palpitation of the heart will permit, he begins: "i made an attempt to see you the day after meeting you at my sister's, but, unfortunately, in vain. did you get my card?" "yes." "i was so very sorry not to find the ladies at home. might i be admitted some evening?" "i will ask mamma; but----" "and how have you amused yourself meanwhile?" "oh, i have been very gay this week; madame de rohritz took me with her once to the theatre and once to the bois de boulogne." "and when thérèse does not take you out a little do you devote your entire time to historical studies and to your singing?" "sometimes i sit about in the tuileries,--i have made the acquaintance of an old governess, who chaperons me,--and sometimes i go to the louvre, which i know as perfectly as ever a guide in paris." is it by mere chance that just at this point of the conversation, which is carried on in an undertone, fräulein fuhrwesen turns and stares at the prince and stella? meanwhile, it is natalie's turn to sing. her song is the grand cavatina from 'i puritani,' '_qui la voce sua soave!_' natalie is an odd little person, short, slender, undeveloped as to figure, with a face rather too sallow, but with regular delicate features and dazzling teeth. with a fanatical enthusiasm for art and a determination to go upon the stage she combines a fortune of some millions of roubles, and, what is in still more comical contrast with her proposed career, a strict unbending sense of propriety, far transcending the prudery of the most english of englishwomen,--not that shy sense of propriety which is always on the defensive, but that which is quick to look down with aggressive contempt upon any infringement of the rules of decorum. too well bred to speak when a lady whom he knows, were she a hundred times his cousin, is singing, zino listens with exemplary attention to the bellini cavatina, not indeed without a merry twinkle of the eye now and then. natalie's voice is rather shrill, her italian accent harsh; her rendering of the impassioned aria is strictly confined to following the musical directions, _p.p_., _cresc_., _ritard_., and so forth; even at the point where the inspiration of the love-stricken elvira culminates in the words '_vien' ti posa--vien' ti posa sul mio cor!_' she never ceases to beat the time with her right hand. after this brilliant outburst della seggiola interrupts her. the fuhrwesen lifts her hands from the keys, and natalie looks inquiringly at the maestro, who takes a pinch of snuff and shakes his head. "_très-bien, mon enfant_," it is needless to say that this familiar address is very little to the taste of the haughty russian,--"_très-bien, mon enfant_; you sing in excellent time, but you must try to infuse animation into your style. fancy the situation,--half crazy with love and longing, you are calling out into the night, 'ah, come--come to my heart!' you must sing that with--how shall i express it?--with more conviction, thus:" the fuhrwesen drums the accompaniment, and della seggiola, stretching out his arms like angels' wings, throws back his head a little, and warbles, '_qui la voce!_' estimate as you please his method of instruction, all who still find delight in the old italian traditions must admit his art in singing. and prince zino--a musical epicurean to his finger-tips, rejecting everything clumsy and indigestible in music,--prince zino, for whom mozart is the only god of music and rossini is his prophet--strokes his moustache, delighted, and calls "bravo!" and della seggiola bows. the lesson continues to be quite interesting. signor trevisiani, the barytone from florence, sings something very depressing, with the refrain,-- 'maladetto sulla terra, condannato nel ceil sard.' the little soprano sings, '_plaisir d'amour_,' and zino perfectly, gravely, goes through a scale, swelling the notes, during which two sad facts are brought to light,--first, that he is the third barytone in the class,--della seggiola had hoped for a tenor,--and, secondly, that he cannot read by note. della seggiola, however, praises the charming timbre of his voice, and asks if he may not send him a teacher to correct his defective reading; whereupon fräulein fuhrwesen declares herself ready to give the prince lessons. he pretends not to hear this heroic proposition, seeming not even to perceive her; whereby he makes a mortal enemy of that extremely sensitive and irritable person. the glory of the class is the closing performance,--the famous duet between don giovanni and zerlina, rendered by signor trevisiani and natalie lipinski. it would be difficult to imagine a more lugubrious don giovanni than the young man from florence. he is freshly shaven, perhaps in honour of his part; his cheeks are covered with red scratches, like those of a german youth who bears about in his face the record of his bravery; his hair, artistically dishevelled about his forehead and ears, falls over his coat-collar at the back of his neck. except for a grass-green cravat, he is dressed entirely in black, like the page in 'marlbrook;' his costume, evidently provincial, comes from the same quarter of paris that has produced his sisters' hats,--the temple. much intimidated by his haughty zerlina, his throat contracts so that his voice, naturally fine and resonant, comes from his dry lips hoarse and miserably thready. although natalie sings, as ever, in faultless time, the notes that should be in unison are far from sounding so, whereupon della seggiola advises the singers to take each other's hands. mademoiselle lipinski edges away still farther from her don giovanni, and extends to him her finger-tips. della seggiola makes them repeat the duo three times, does his best to make it go smoothly, gently entreats zerlina to be more coquettish, orders don giovanni to be more seductive. in vain. zerlina draws down the corners of her mouth and looks at the wall; don giovanni scratches his ear. the duo sounds worse and worse. much irritated at this melancholy result, which she ascribes entirely to signor trevisiani's awkwardness, natalie at last says crossly to the young florentine, "i beg you not to torment me any more: it will never do!" then across her shoulder to her cousin she explains, impatiently, "zino, signor trevisiani is hoarse; you and i used to sing the duo together. come, try it." "if there is time," zino says, with amiable readiness, taking his place beside his cousin. there is really no time for it, as della seggiola would have informed any one save the prince. twelve o'clock has struck, but he does not mention that fact to zino. hungry and resigned, he sits down beside the piano, his hands clasped upon his stomach, his eyes fixed upon the tips of his boots stretched out before him, prepared to endure the blessed duo for the fourth time. but what is this? he listens eagerly, all present listen, all eyes are riveted upon the prince, from whose lips there flows such melody as we expect only from the greatest italian singers. without paying any further attention to zerlina, della seggiola inquires at the close of the duo,-- "do you sing the serenade also?" "_À peu près_," says zino, whereupon the fuhrwesen strikes the first notes of the accompaniment, and he sings it. the singers of the new high-art school, the interpreters of wagner, curse out the notes at their auditors; prince zino smiles them at his hearers, and the strong infusion of irony in his smile only heightens the effect of his style. erect but unstudied in attitude, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his head slightly thrown back, he is the veritable personification of the gay, thoughtless _bon-vivant_, mozart's don giovanni as the master created him. as he ends, miss frazer, bathed in tears, rushes up to him with both hands held out, exclaiming, "_merci! merci!_" stella, laughing, claps applause, and signor trevisiani gazes at him as if he longed to learn his art. but della seggiola asks,-- "where did you learn to sing, mon prince?" "everywhere." "from whom?" "from no one." "that's right!" exclaims seggiola, forgetting all humbug in genuine artistic enthusiasm. "for, between ourselves be it said, singing is never taught." and when the prince laughs, and hopes on the contrary to profit much from the art of the maestro, the latter replies, with the inborn courtesy of his nation,-- "if you will kindly help me to reveal to my class here the beauty of song, you shall always be welcome, mon prince. i can teach you nothing." * * * * * the lesson is over. zino helps stella and his cousin to put on their wraps, takes leave of della seggiola with his brilliant smile and cordial pressure of the hand, of the rest with a very brief nod, and leaves the room with his two special ladies. "a charming man, that principe capito," says della seggiola, rubbing his hands delightedly. "and he can sing like mario in his best days. i used to give his sister lessons." "i have met him before in vienna," fräulein fuhrwesen mutters. "he is an italian, to be sure, but his arrogance he learned in austria." chapter xxv. a new acquaintance? the lesson at an end, the members of della seggiola's class have no more acquaintance with one another than have people who have travelled together by railway after they have left the train. the soprano with her slovenly duenna in a long french cachemire shawl, the italian with his two sisters, one on each arm, all fly apart like bits of lead from an exploding shell. a saucy smile about his mouth, capito walks beside the two girls; he softly hums to himself '_la ci darem la mano!_' "you sang well, zino," natalie remarks, after a while. "della seggiola was absolutely enthusiastic." "what good did it do me?" says zino, shrugging his shoulders. "it gave him a reason for politely turning me away." "he was afraid you might agitate miss frazer: she suffers already from her heart," stella says, with her usual audacity in alluding to uncomfortable topics. "on the whole, della seggiola was right," natalie declares: "it would not have been becoming for you to join the class." "'tis odd how often the pleasantest things in this world are unbecoming," zino murmurs. "do you really think it would have been so very pleasant to hear us practising away at the same things twice a week?" stella asks, gaily. "without giving him time to reply, natalie begins to cross-examine him upon his impressions of della seggiola's method of instruction. "what do you think of him as a teacher?" she asks. "he sings delightfully," zino replies, somewhat vaguely. "yes, but he is too lax as a teacher; he is not strict enough,--does not suit to their capacity the tasks he imposes upon his pupils." "do you think so?" says zino. "on the contrary, i thought he exacted far too much of his scholars' capacity." "how so?" natalie asks, rather offended. "he required you to be coquettish, and that fellow--what was his name?--trappenti--to be seductive. rather too difficult a task for both of you, i should think," says the prince. natalie frowns: "i thought della seggiola's remarks to-day highly unbecoming." "of course, when you were singing a love-song, to require you to imagine yourself in the place of the singer,--_c'est de la dernière inconvenance_. moreover, it was exacting more than you were capable of performing,--that is, so far as i know." and, with a quick turn of the conversation which would be quite inexcusable in any one else, he looks her in the face, and asks with a light laugh, as if the question concerned something infinitely comical, "do tell us,--it will interest baroness stella too, i am sure,--you are twenty-five years old----" "twenty-six," natalie corrects him. "twenty-six, then. were you ever in love?" to the prince's no small surprise, natalie turns away her head at this question, and, blushing to the very roots of her hair, mutters angrily between her set teeth, "you are intolerable to-day!" "ah, indeed!" says prince zino, with a merry twinkle of his eyes. "it must be with one of the lithographic portraits hanging in the corridor in your home at jekaterinovskoe,--orlow, or potemkin. by the way, 'tis a great pity you blush so seldom, natalie: it becomes you charmingly." at the next street-corner stella's and natalie's ways separate, to the great vexation of the prince, seeing that he too must of course take his leave of the beautiful austrian. but, if he can no longer enjoy the pleasure of talking with stella, he resolves to please himself by still keeping her in sight. instead of remaining with his cousin and quietly going his own way, he decides to walk along the same street with stella, on the other side of the way. natalie, who understands his little man[oe]uvre perfectly, looks after him before turning her corner, and shakes her head. "i wonder how many times he has been in love before?" she thinks. "poor little star! she is very pretty. i trust she may be more sensible than i." meanwhile, zino and stella walk leisurely along on opposite sides of the rue des petits-champs. "how well she walks! what a fine carriage she has!" he murmurs, never losing sight of her. "her movements have such an easy grace, and now and then a dreamy, gliding rhythm about them; 'tis music for the eyes. and then such colour,--the fair face with its black eyes and red lips, the gold of the hair setting off the exquisite glow of the complexion,--she is enchanting!" zino is one of those men whose sensuality is refined and idealized by the admixture of a purely artistic and æsthetic appreciation of the beautiful. the worship of the beautiful is, as he is fond of declaring, his own special, private religion; the paroxysms of enthusiasm which this worship was apt to cause in him in former years have long since grown rarer and rarer. but to-day he is distinctly conscious of the slow approach of an attack. "bah! it will pass away," he says to himself, "as all such attacks do; it can lead to nothing. but all the same she is bewitching!" thus both go their ways,--he with his eyes, quite intoxicated with beauty, riveted upon her face and figure,--she, as he is rather annoyed to perceive, so absorbed in her own thoughts as to be utterly oblivious of his vicinity. between them, around them, swarms parisian life, with its bustle and noise; on the pavements pass neat grisettes by twos and threes, their smooth hair uncovered, either coming from or going to breakfast, men with dirty grayish-white blouses, servant-girls in white caps, englishwomen with long teeth, and parisians of all kinds, recklessly pressing on towards some aim known to themselves only; in the middle of the street there is a hurly-burly of every kind of vehicle, from little hand-carts, laden with fish, flowers, oranges, or vegetables, and pushed by women with bent backs, to omnibuses as big as small houses, their tops reaching above the shop-windows, and dragged with difficulty by the strongest horses. here and there some one is running after one or other of these conveyances, a breathless day-governess, helped up by both hands to the back platform by the conductor, or a notary with a leather wallet under his arm, who climbs to the top with the agility of a monkey. these tops are crowded. beside respectable business-men with clean-shaved cheeks and thick sausage-like moustaches are seated all sorts of bohemians, half-students, half-artists, pale and thin, with melancholy eyes in faces weary with cheap pleasures, a strange and genuinely parisian species of human being, always eager for any variety, be it a ball at bulliers or the overthrow of a government, a restless, excitable, shallow, sparkling crowd, which might be called the oxygen of paris in contrast with its hydrogen. and beside the huge city omnibus there toil, slowly, heavily-laden carts to which are harnessed long trains of huge white norman steeds, with blue sheepskins upon their backs and bells around their necks, bells which have a rustic simple sound amid all the demoniac clatter of paris, like the clear voices of children heard in some bacchanalian revel. tall, sturdy normans in white, flapping broad-brimmed hats walk beside them, shaking their heads as they look down upon the wealthy degradation and the sordid misery of the filigree population of paris. the january sun shines above it all. there in the fresh cold air is an odour of oranges, fish, and flowers. stella stops beside a flower-cart to buy a bunch of violets. zino pauses to watch her. amid the noise of the street he cannot understand what she says, but through the roar of the mid-day crowd, the loud pulsation of the great city stronger at this hour than at any other, he distinguishes brief detached notes of her gentle bird-like voice. how cordial the smile she has just bestowed upon the flower-girl! "if she smiled at me like that i should give her the entire cart-full of flowers. i wonder if i might send her a bouquet to the 'negroes?'" stella, with a charming shake of the head, has just taken out her purse, when a lumbering omnibus interposes between her and zino's admiring gaze. the omnibus is followed by a cart, then by another, and another. at last the view is once more uninterrupted; but where is stella? there she stands, pale, agitated, her eyes cast down, beside a tall, thin, consumptive-looking woman in shabby black, leading by the hand a little girl,--a woman with golden hair, and features in which, pinched and worn though they be by many a bitter experience, a striking likeness may be traced to stella's beautiful profile. "where did she pick up that acquaintance?" the prince asks himself; but before he can decide where and when he has seen that woman before, stella and the stranger have vanished in a little confectioner's shop. chapter xxvi. five-o'clock tea. however recklessly a woman may have trifled with her reputation in her youth, tossing it about as a thing of naught, there is sure to come a time in the progress of years when the first wrinkle appears, and instantly a careful search is made for the lost article. then she needs a friend who shall smooth it out and polish it up and return it to her,--a friend who believes in its inherent spotlessness and will do her best to convince others of the same. this office stasy has undertaken to perform for the princess oblonsky. and what is to be her reward for her efforts? delicious food, exquisite lodgings and service in apartments fairy-like in their appointments, numerous presents, and altogether very considerate treatment, with the exception of a few outbreaks of temper, unavoidable with such women as the princess. from all which it may be clearly perceived that the position of the oblonsky is far from being as good as it was upon her husband's death, three years ago, or she would scarcely covet at so high a price the support of such a person as anastasia. she certainly has been most unfortunate,--poor princess sophie. when, three years ago, she returned from petersburg a widow and possessed of a colossal fortune, she hoped to obliterate all memories of former irregularities by a marriage with prince zino capito. but zino did not second her views. two months after the death of the prince he scarcely spoke to her. it was during the following winter that sophie oblonsky committed the serious 'imprudence' by which she lost forever her social position. at the roulette-table in san carlo she made the acquaintance of a young hungarian who was presented to her as a comte de bethenyi. he was young, ardent, wore picturesque fur collars and jackets which well became his handsome gypsy face, flung his money about everywhere, and played the piano. sophie oblonsky was always sensitive to music. the picturesque hungarian inspired her with an interest such as none but a disappointed woman of forty can experience. in dread of compromising herself, she consented to marry him, and they were betrothed, whereupon suddenly various esterhazys and zichys of her acquaintance appeared at san carlo, and in the casino of the place met the princess upon her lover's arm, bowed to her, and honoured her companion with a very odd stare. after they had passed, sophie heard them laugh. in an hour all monaco knew that the princess oblonsky had betrothed herself to a fencing-master from klausenburg, who shortly before had won a prize of ten thousand marks in the saxon lottery. that same evening caspar bethenyi risked his last thousand francs on number twenty-nine,--perhaps because the twenty-ninth of january was his birthday,--and lost. the following night he put a bullet through his brains. the correspondent of 'figaro' wrote an amusing article upon the episode, and the princess oblonsky was henceforth impossible: she had made herself ridiculous. the world found the affair extremely comical,--so comical that there was a strong admixture of contempt even in the compassion accorded to the poor fencing-master, who had signed his name simply caspar bethenyi in the strangers' book, and who, it was afterwards discovered, had accepted rather unwillingly the rank bestowed upon him by waiters and journalists. since this had occurred, two years before, the oblonsky had tried in vain to regain a footing in society. considerable surprise was expressed that when thus exiled from the 'world' of western europe she did not retire to petersburg; but she probably had her own reasons for not doing so. another woman in her place, with her immense means, might have let go all she had lost and lived gaily from day to day. but she was naturally slow, and with the luxurious tendencies of her temperament were mingled sentimentality and a certain liability to sporadic attacks of a sense of propriety. she grasped at everything that could make her at one with the world. she had set her heart upon a respectable marriage, becoming her rank. in the far distance edgar von rohritz hovered before her as the st. george who was destined to slay for her the dragon of prejudice. certain people, especially women, understand how to touch up their reminiscences with the same artistic skill that a photographer expends upon his pictures, so that very little remains of the fact as it was originally projected upon the memory. sophie oblonsky erased, in this touching up of her reminiscences, everything that she disliked. she talked so much of her virtue that she finally came to believe in it. meanwhile, she behaved with perfect propriety and was fearfully bored. it is five o'clock, and the heavy curtains before the windows of her drawing-room are already drawn close. the lamps shed a mild, agreeable light. a lackey has just brought in the tea. upon a pretty japanese stand, beside the silver samovar, sparkle the glass decanters of cordial and all the modern accompaniments of afternoon tea. it is the princess's reception-day. that she entirely ignores in her intercourse with stasy her own loss of position, that she ascribes her seclusion solely to a voluntary retirement from a hollow world which disgusts her, there is as little need of saying as that stasy, without a word from the princess to induce her to do so, feels herself under obligations to introduce sophie to a new social circle. this 'circle' consists as yet but of a few wealthy americans, just arrived in paris, and of--artists. the princess has a special liking for artists; they are, she maintains, so much fresher, so much quicker and pleasanter as companions, than her equals in rank, of whose wearisome shallowness she has many a story to tell. and her special favourite among these is the pianist fuhrwesen. why, good heavens, the only occupation which really interests the princess at this time is the search for some private irregularity in the lives of women of extreme apparent respectability; and in these investigations the pianist is always ready to assist her. dressed with great taste but with severe simplicity, holding a small japanese hand-screen between her face and the glow from the fire, the princess is leaning back in a low chair near the hearth, complaining of headache, and hoping that there will not be as many people here to-day as on her last reception-day. a quarter of an hour--yes, half an hour--passes, and no one appears. stasy is hungry; the _foie gras_ sandwiches are very tempting, but to partake of one would be a tacit admission that there is no hope of a visitor, and she must not be the first to confess the fact. "poor boissy!"--this is a painter whom the oblonsky has taken under her protection,--"poor boissy! probably he cannot summon up the courage to come; he is ashamed of his wife. ah, he really cannot dream how considerate i am for artists' wives. it is a theory of mine that it is our duty, as ladies, to educate artists' wives for their husbands. i know it is not usual to receive them; but that seems to me very petty, and i hate all pettiness." another quarter of an hour passes. stasy is faint with hunger. "one of the fanes must be ill," she observes, "or they would certainly be here. i must find out what----" but sophie interrupts her impatiently. "pour me out a cup of tea," she orders her. the tea is cold and bitter from waiting so long for guests who do not arrive. sophie finds it detestable, and reproaches stasy therefor. stasy consoles herself for her friend's capricious injustice by taking two glasses of cordial, three sandwiches, and half a dozen little cakes. meanwhile, sophie observes, with a yawn, "i cannot tell you how glad i am that no one came. people bore me so. i revel in my solitude. and to think that i must shortly resign it! i must call upon our ambassadress shortly." in spite of her wonderful degree of _aplomb_, anastasia at this point of the conversation is silent and looks rather confused. "you saw her in the bois lately," the oblonsky continues, in a somewhat irritated tone. "yes; you pointed her out to me." "well, you must have noticed how stiffly she bowed. no wonder. she must have known how long i have been in paris without calling upon her." "i have always told you that you carry to excess your passion for solitude," stasy chirps. "it is easy to go too far in such a preference." "ah, the world is odious to me," sophie declares. the bell outside is heard to ring at this moment. "insufferable!" sonja exclaims. "i trust no one is coming to disturb us now!" and, glancing at the mirror over the chimney-piece, she adjusts her _jabot_ and a curl above her forehead. the lackey flings wide the folding doors and announces, "mademoiselle urwèse,"--the french abbreviation, apparently, for fuhrwesen; for, even more copper-coloured than usual, in consequence of the biting north wind outside, with her hair blowing about her eyes, a kind of reddish-yellow turban upon her head, and wearing her tassel-bedecked water-proof, the pianist enters. "how nice of you! this is really charming, my dear fuhrwesen!" exclaims sophie, hastily concealing her disappointment. "this is my day, but i closed my doors for all strangers,--absolutely for all," the imaginative princess asseverates; then, pausing suddenly, she glances uneasily at stasy. but stasy has long since learned to let such rhapsodies pass her by without so much as the quiver of an eyelash: her face is motionless, and the oblonsky goes on fluently: "you were the only one whom baptiste had orders to admit. take off your wraps: you will stay and dine, of course, dear, will you not?" "with your kind permission," fräulein fuhrwesen says, submissively, kissing the oblonsky's hand. "and now sit here by the fire and warm yourself. anastasia,"--this is drawled over her shoulder,--"pour out a glass of cordial for her.--you can have nothing more, my dear; i cannot permit you to spoil your appetite. we are going to have an extremely fine dinner." "your highness is really too kind," says the pianist. "ah, how intensely becoming that green gown is to you! did you hear prince olary's description of you?--'the venus of milo, dressed by worth.' was it not capital?" and the pianist gazes at the oblonsky with enthusiastic admiration. "yes, yes, you are in love with me, my dear: 'tis an old story," the princess says, with a laugh. "but now tell us something new: you always have a budget of news. any fresh scandal in the faubourg?" "let me think," fräulein fuhrwesen says, reflectively. "what news have i heard? _À propos_--yes, i remember; but it will shock your highness terribly. i really had no idea of such depravity in girls of what is called the best standing." "oh, tell us, tell us!" the princess urges her. "i must first be sure that i shall not wound fräulein anastasia," the pianist remarks, discreetly. "are you not in some way related, or a very near friend, to the little meineck, fräulein von gurlichingen?" "not at all," anastasia assures her. "i spent a couple of weeks in the same house with her last summer, but i had very little to say to her. i never liked her." "meineck? meineck?" says the oblonsky, with lifted eyebrows. "is not she the young person who you told me fell so desperately in love with rohritz?" anastasia nods. "the young lady apparently possesses an inflammable heart," fräulein fuhrwesen remarks, contemptuously: "it already throbs for another,--for prince lorenzino capito." the princess becomes absorbed in contemplation of her nails; anastasia observes, "that would seem to be rather an aimless enthusiasm. pray how did you learn anything about this affair?" fräulein fuhrwesen draws a deep breath: "you know i play the accompaniments at della seggiola's class. stella meineck has attended it for two months. the company is rather mixed, especially so far as the men are concerned. who do you suppose made his appearance to join the class the day before yesterday? it really is too ridiculous,--pretending to want to learn to sing! prince lorenzo capito." "you don't say so!" stasy ejaculates. "yes, prince capito," the narrator repeats. "he stares past all the others, takes a seat beside little meineck, and talks with her during the entire lesson. what do you think of that, ladies?" stasy sighs, and the oblonsky says,-- "_c'est bien extraordinaire!_ i certainly should not have thought that so insignificant a person could have inspired capito with the slightest interest." "i know prince capito," the visitor goes on: "i met him in vienna at the countess thierstein's. his reputation, so far as women are concerned, is disgraceful. any girl is good enough to help him while away an hour or two." "yes, he is a terrible creature," the princess sighs. "i really had no idea of it. he used to be a good deal at our house while my husband was alive. of course he never presumed with me." "_cela va sans dire_," exclaims stasy. "of course, you know me: to friendly intercourse--yes, i do not pretend to more reserve than i possess--even to a slight flirtation with an interesting man--i have no objection; but anything beyond that absolutely passes my comprehension." "the little meineck, however," fräulein fuhrwesen continues, with a malicious smile, "does not appear to be so strict in her ideas. i distinctly heard her during the singing-lesson arranging a rendezvous in the louvre with the prince." "a rendezvous?" sophie repeats, with horror. "that is indeed---- and do you know whether capito kept the appointment?" "certainly. i made sure of it," continues her informant. "the morning after the singing-class i had a lesson to give near the louvre, and after it was over i had a little time to spare. i am perfectly familiar with the museum, as i often go there to visit an acquaintance of mine. i never look at the pictures any more, they tire me to death, but the louvre is always a nice place to get warm. so i mounted the staircase, and lingered for a while beside the register in the salle la caze, exchanging a word or two with an englishman who is copying a ribera. suddenly the man turned, as every man turns to look after a pretty girl. i turned also, and whom should i see but mademoiselle stella, with her yellow hair and her sealskin jacket! please tell me, ladies, how a person so miserably poor as she is--i know all about the meinecks' pecuniary circumstances, coming as i do from zalow--can buy a sealskin jacket, and a beautiful one? why, one has to save for three years to get a respectable water-proof." "probably it was given to her," the princess says, with a shrug. "but go on." "she went directly through the room, without looking at the pictures, precisely like some one who had come simply to meet some one else. i went up to her, and, though i cannot endure the haughty creature, i spoke to her: 'ah, baronne, how are you?' she replied curtly, looking past me to the right and left, and finally, observing that she could not stay, for she had promised to meet some one,--oh, a lady, of course!--walked quickly away. my time was up. i looked after her, and was leaving, when whom should i encounter in the galerie d'apollon but prince capito! i suppose any one who knows of his devotion to art can readily imagine why he should be in the louvre! what do you say to such conduct?" "absolutely depraved!" exclaims the princess. "we all know whither these 'innocent meetings' in the picture-galleries lead," the fuhrwesen continues. "the next thing she will pay him a visit in his lodgings." "oh, my dear!" the oblonsky laughs affectedly. "bah! i live opposite the prince in the rue d'anjou; i should not be at all surprised if i were to see that young lady walk into no. ---- some fine day." "if you do you must come and tell us instantly!" exclaims the princess, taking her visitor's hand. "oh, how cold you are! is it possible you are not warm yet? indeed, you are not sufficiently clothed----" "my cloak is a little thin, but i cannot help that. your highness will readily understand that i am not able to buy a sealskin jacket." "you---- anastasia, be kind enough to tell justine to bring down my two winter cloaks." anastasia obligingly brings the cloaks herself, and the princess requests fräulein fuhrwesen to try them on. although the little pianist is shorter by almost a head and shoulders than the majestic princess, and consequently the garments trail behind her like coronation-robes, the oblonsky assures her that they fit her as though they had been made for her, and immediately bestows upon her one of the two, a magnificent wrap of dark-green velvet, trimmed with fur. the pianist kisses both hands of the donor, and kneels before her; the princess says, laughing, "don't be absurd, my dear. you see that giving--making others happy--is a passion with me. stasy has one of my cloaks, you have another, i keep the simplest for myself. i have always lived for others only." chapter xxvii. a change at erlach court. "there is something rotten in the state of denmark," edgar von rohritz says to himself, looking out of his window at erlach court upon the snow-covered garden below. six days ago he arrived at the castle to spend christmas, as had been agreed upon. the christmas festivities are at an end. the children from the three villages upon whom katrine had showered gifts have all, as well as freddy, become accustomed to their new possessions, but the giant christmas-tree, robbed, it is true, of its sugarplums, still stands with its candle-stumps and gilt ornaments in the corridor, and from the brown frames of the engravings in the dining-room a few evergreen boughs are still hanging, remnants of the christmas decorations. rohritz has enjoyed celebrating the lovely festival in the country,--everything was bright and gay; but there is a change of atmosphere at erlach court; the social charm for which it used to be renowned is lacking. edgar's reception both by husband and by wife was most cordial: the captain is gay, talkative,--almost gayer and more talkative than in summer; but there is a cloud on katrine's brow. instead of the frank but thoroughly good-humoured tone in which she was wont to deride the captain's exaggerated outbreaks, she now passes them by in silence. she never quarrels with him, she is decidedly displeased with him, and--what surprises rohritz more than all else--the captain seems to care very little for her displeasure. to-day rohritz asked katrine if it was quite decided that the captain was to leave the army and retire once for all to the country. whereupon katrine's fine eyes sparkle angrily, and with a slight quiver of her delicate nostril she replies, "so it seems. he will not listen to any suggestion of resuming the hard duties of the service, but has accustomed himself entirely to the lazy life of a landed proprietor." and when rohritz remains silent, she exclaims, angrily, "i know what you are thinking: that i gave him no choice save to resign his career or his domestic life,--which is no choice at all with men of his stamp, whose love of domesticity is very pronounced, and who have no ambition! but when i acted so i thought he would lead a country life, without deteriorating; i thought he would occupy himself,--would devote his energies to politics, to slavonic agricultural interests----" "indeed?" rohritz asks. "did you really expect that of les?" "yes," katrine exclaims, "i did expect that of jack; and i had a right to expect it, for he lacks neither energy nor sense." "he was always considered one of the keenest and most gifted officers in the army," says rohritz. "and with justice," katrine confirms his words. "you have no idea of the energy with which he devoted himself to the service. were you ever in hungary?" "yes, madame, i served as captain for two years in w----." "then you are familiar with the fearful heat of the hungarian summers. to order dinner and to sit upright at table exhausted my capacity; whilst he, although he rose at four that he might get through riding-school before the terrible heat of the day, scarcely ever lay down for half an hour. he continually had something to arrange, to decide, to command; he occupied himself with the individual concerns of every soldier in his squadron; he never took a moment's rest from morning until night; while now--now he does nothing, nothing but sleigh, mend a toy for the boy now and then, and read silly novels." rohritz is spared the necessity of replying, for at this moment the quiet drawing-room where this conversation is going on is invaded by the sharp clear tinkle of large sleigh-bells. katrine turns her head hastily and walks to the window. "so soon again!" she exclaims, as a fair, stout, pretty woman, wrapped in furs, allows herself, with much loud talking, to be helped out of the sleigh by the captain. whilst katrine, with a very gloomy face, takes her seat in an arm-chair to await the stranger's appearance, rohritz withdraws, under the pretext of an obligation to answer immediately an important letter. but he writes no letter; he does not even sit down at his writing-desk, but stands at his window looking out at the snow. in town he had quite forgotten how pure and white snow originally is. he gazes at it as at some curiosity which he is beholding for the first time. on the rose-beds, the bushes, the old linden,--everywhere it lies thick,--thick! here and there some branch thrusts forth a black point from the white covering, and the trunks of the trees are all divided in halves, a black half and a white one. he reflects upon the domestic drama about to be enacted close at hand. he is sorry for katrine, although he lays at her door the blame for all the annoyances of which she has spoken to him, petty, provoking annoyances, which under certain circumstances may be the forerunners of actual misfortune. "one more who has thrust aside happiness," he murmurs, bitterly, adding on the instant, "if we could only recognize our happiness at the right time! if it could only say to us, 'here i am, clasp me close!' but the truest, finest happiness is never self-asserting: it walks beside us mute and modest, warming and rejoicing our hearts, while we know not whence come the warmth and the delight." * * * * * as the stout blonde whom leskjewitsch helped out of the sleigh not only remains to lunch, but also takes afternoon tea and dinner at erlach court, rohritz has abundant opportunity to observe her. that, like all sirens who disturb domestic serenity, she should be inferior in every respect to the wife whose peace of mind she threatens, was to have been expected; but that she should be so immeasurably inferior to katrine,--for that rohritz was not prepared. anywhere else save in the country, and moreover in a world-forgotten corner of ukrania, where the foxes bid one another good-night, and human beings are consequently easier to be induced than in civilized countries to bid one another good-day in spite of stupid social prejudices, any intercourse between this lady and the family at erlach court would have been impossible. the daughter of a lucifer-match manufacturer in p----, with a moderate degree of education and a strong passion for hunting, three years ago she had married the son of a riding-teacher, a certain herr ruprecht, who had been first a cavalry-officer, then a circus manager in america, and finally a newspaper-man in vienna. after these various experiences with her promising husband, they had shortly before taken up their abode in a villa not far from erlach court, on the opposite bank of the save. as the husband spent most of his time with a pretty actress, the young wife passed her days in dreary solitude. the country-people called her the grass-widow. "i need not assure you that i am not in the least jealous," katrine remarks to rohritz in the drawing-room, while the grass-widow with freddy and the captain is playing billiards in the library, "but i frankly confess that i find the pleasure which jack takes in the society of that common creature--that fat goose--incomprehensible. it irritates me. moreover, she is ugly!" rohritz receives this outburst of katrine's precisely as he receives all her outbursts,--in thoughtful, courteous silence. frau ruprecht certainly is common and silly; ugly she is not. she has a dazzling complexion, a magnificent bust, and a regular profile, although with lips that are too thick, a double chin, and light eyelashes. she speaks in a common, viennese dialect, has never read a sensible book in her life, uses perfumes in excess, and has no taste whatever in dress. but she drives like a viennese hackman, she rides like a jockey, and her knowledge of sporting-matters would do honour to a professional trainer. she allows leskjewitsch the utmost freedom of speech, and is ready to laugh at his worst jokes. she disgusts edgar rohritz quite as much as she disgusts katrine; nevertheless he understands what there is about her to attract leskjewitsch. chapter xxviii. a paris letter. a few days after the appearance at erlach court of the grass-widow, the mail brings rohritz a letter with the paris post-mark. edgar recognizes his sister-in-law's hand, opens it not without haste, and reads it not without interest. it runs thus: "_eh bien_, my dear edgar, _j'espere que vous serez content de moi_," thérèse always writes to her brother in a jargon of french, italian, german, and english, which, out of regard for the pedantry of modern purists, we translate into as good english as we are able to command: "i hope you will be pleased with me. i frankly confess to you, what you probably guessed from my last postal card, that your request to me to try to brighten their life in paris for two of your countrywomen did not afford me much pleasure. as a rule, compatriots so recommended are an unmitigated bore, from the pianists whose three hundred--no, that's too few--five hundred tickets we must dispose of, and who then, when you ask them to a soirée, are too grand to play the smallest mazourka of chopin, to the baronesses wolnitzka, who request you to introduce them to parisian society because they never have an opportunity to see any one at home. the pianists are bad enough, but the wolnitzkas--oh! in one respect they are precisely alike: they are always offended. if you invite them _en famille_ they are offended because they suppose you are ashamed of them; if you invite them to a ball they are offended because you pay them no particular attention. the upshot is that you always have to refuse them something,--to lend a thousand francs to the genius when he already owes you five hundred,--to procure for the wolnitzkas an invitation to some ball at the embassy; then ensues a quarrel, and they draw down the corners of their mouths and look the other way when they meet you in the street. "only at the repeated request of your brother, who wherever anything austrian is concerned is the personification of self-sacrificing devotion, did i make up my mind to call upon your acquaintance at the 'negroes.' "the hôtel is--very plain, but i believe very respectable,--which is more than one has a right to expect of just such furnished lodgings in paris. the staircase, a narrow crooked flight of steps with slippery sloping stairs, creaked beneath my feet; i was afraid it would break down as i mounted to the meinecks' _appartement_. one final, depressing, menacing memory of the wolnitzkas assailed me. justin rings, the door opens, and all my prejudices vanish like snow before the sun. the daughter alone was at home. i fell in love with her on the instant,--so deeply in love that before i left i called her stella and kissed her cheek. she is enchanting. "it is not only that she is exquisitely beautiful; she combines the most innocent simplicity with the greatest distinction, a combination never found except in austrian women. you see i know how to value your countrywomen when they are really worth it. "her face, her entire air, seemed created to banish all sadness from her presence; and yet there was a pathos in her look, in her smile, that went to my heart. but she must be happy. i mean to search for happiness for her; and i shall find it. "_ce que femme le veut y dieu le veut!_ when i do anything i do it thoroughly. what do you think? it took me three weeks to resolve to call upon the meinecks. i invited them to dine without waiting for them to return my visit. you know my way. we passed a charming evening together, strictly informal, to become acquainted with one another. the mother was as little eccentric as is possible for a blue-stocking to be, and in the course of four hours had only two attacks of absence of mind, which does her honour. what a handsome face! edmund, who is a connoisseur in such matters, maintains that she must have been more beautiful than her daughter,--high praise, since the daughter, by the way, pleases him as much as she does me. and then what wealth of learning behind that brow with its white hair! wells of knowledge! a walking encyclopædia! "although the fashion of her gown was that of twenty years ago, she is still a thorough _grande dame_; and that is saying much in consideration of the evident dilapidation of their finances. "as a mother she may have her disagreeable side; she is too original,--too egotistic. she neglects her lovely daughter frightfully. all the time not absorbed by her literary labours she devotes to the study of paris; and what mode of pursuing this study with the due amount of thoroughness do you suppose she has invented? she drives about for a certain number of hours daily on the tops of the various omnibuses. "fancy!--on the top of an omnibus! a day or two ago, coming home from the bon-marché, as i was detained by a crowd of vehicles in the rue du bac i saw her comfortably installed upon the dizzy height of an omnibus-top. she wore a short black velvet cloak frayed at all the seams, the fur trimming eaten away by moths, pearl-gray gloves (her hands are ridiculously small), such as were worn twenty years ago upon state occasions, a black straw bonnet, and no muff. she sat between two vagabonds in white blouses, with whom she was talking earnestly, and looked like--well, like a queen dowager in disguise. as it was just beginning to rain, i sent my servant to beg her to alight, and took her home in my carriage. "a lady on the top of an omnibus! it is frightful; it is impossible. but still more impossible is a young girl who wishes to go upon the stage; and stella wishes to go upon the stage. "nevertheless my relations with the meinecks grow daily more intimate. heroic conduct on my part, is it not? "poor little stella! i feel an infinite pity for her. i have no faith in her career. pshaw! stella meineck on the stage! 'tis ridiculous! she does not know what she is talking about. "meanwhile, i have impressed upon her that she is to tell no one of her artistic plans, which may come to naught. it might do her an injury. and i have a scheme! ah, leave it to me. what i do i do well. before the season is over stella will be married. to establish a young girl with no money is difficult nowadays, particularly in paris, where every man has a fixed price; but there are bargains to be had occasionally. "she is beautiful, she is lovely, and if the meinecks do not date precisely from the crusades the name sounds fine enough to impress some wealthy citizen who writes on his card the name of his estate in the country after his own, in hopes of thus manufacturing a title for himself. "i see you curl your haughty austrian lip; you regard all these pseudo-aristocrats with sovereign contempt. you are wrong. good heavens! why should not a man call himself after his castle if it has a prettier name than his own? do we not find it more agreeable to present him to our acquaintances as monsieur de hauterive than as monsieur cabouat? now 'tis out! there is a certain monsieur cabouat de hauterive whom i have in my eye for stella. he is very rich, has frequented the society of gentlemen from childhood, and has been received during the last few years by everybody; he loves music, has one of the finest private picture-galleries in paris, and is in the prime of life,--barely forty-two,--quite young for a man: in short, he seems made for stella. last summer he laughingly challenged me to find a wife for him, expressly stating that he desired no dowry. at that time he was longing for repose and a home. i heard lately, however, that he had become entangled in a _liaison_ with s----, of the opéra-bouffe. that would be frightful. "moreover, i have two other men in view for stella,--an englishman, forty-five years old, rather shy in consequence of deafness, of very good family, an income of six thousand pounds sterling, and of good trustworthy character; and a dutchman whose ears were cut off in turkey, wherefore he is compelled to wear his hair after the fashion of the youthful bonaparte; but these are trifles. "poor melancholy little stella will be glad to shelter her weary head beneath any respectable roof. the only thing that troubles me is that zino knew her three years ago in venice, and is perfectly bewitched by her. can i prevent him from making love to her? it would be dreadful. not that it would ever occur to him to be wanting in respect for her, but he might turn her head, and that would ruin all my plans. she might then conceive the idea of marrying only a man with whom she is in love,--perfect nonsense in her position: there is none such for her. love is an article of supreme luxury in marriage, and exists for wealthy people and day-labourers only. "yes, when i do anything i do it well! i do not write to you for two years, but then i give you twenty pages at once. have you had the patience to read all this? if you have, let me entreat you to take to heart what follows. "give us the pleasure of a visit from you. you do not know our new home, and i am burning with desire to show it to you. in the first story of our little house there is a room all ready for you, very comfortable, and, i give you my word, the chimney does not smoke. if you cannot be induced to come to us, let edmund take rooms for you wherever you please. only come! i shall else fancy that you have never forgiven me for once being bold enough to want to marry you off. adieu! i promise you faithfully not to try to lasso you again. with kindest messages from us all, "your affectionate sister, "thérèse." an extra slip of paper accompanied this succinct document. its contents were as follows: "paris, th december. "how forgetful i am! the enclosed letter has been lying for a week in my portfolio. although it is an old story now, i send it, because it will inform you of all that has been going on. "two words more. since i wrote it i have invited stella and hauterive to dinner once, and have had them another evening in our box at the opera. they both dislike wagner: that is something. moreover, he thinks her enchanting, and she does not think him very disagreeable,--which is about all that can be expected in a _mariage de conveyance_. everything is working along smoothly; the betrothal is a mere question of time. what do you say now to my energy and capacity?" * * * * * he says nothing. he is very pale, and his hands tremble as he folds the letter and puts it away in his desk. a distressing, paralyzing sensation overpowers him. for a moment he sits motionless at his writing-table, his elbows resting upon it, his head in his hands. suddenly he springs to his feet. "'tis a crime! i must prevent it!" the next moment he slays his zeal with a smile. he prevent? and how? shall he, like his namesake in the opera, rush in at the moment when the betrothal is going on and shout out his veto? and what is it to him if stella chooses to lead a wealthy, brilliant existence beside an unloved husband? no one forces her to do so. meanwhile, the door of his room opens, and with the familiarity of an old comrade the captain enters. "will you not play a game of billiards with me, edgar, before i drive out?" he asks. rohritz declares himself ready for a game. chapter xxix. a storm and its consequences. the billiard-table is in the library, a long, narrow room, with a vast deal of old-fashioned learning enclosed in tall, glazed bookcases. in a metal cage between the windows swings a gray parrot with a red head, screaming monotonously, "rascal! rascal!" the afternoon sun gleams upon the glass of the bookcases; the whole room is filled with blue-gray smoke, and looks very comfortable. the gentlemen are both excellent billiard-players, only edgar is a little out of practice. leaning on his cue, he is just contemplating with admiration a bold stroke of his friend's, when freddy, quite beside himself, rushes into the room and into his father's arms. "why, what is it? what is the matter, old fellow?" the captain says, stroking his cheek kindly. "os--ostler frank----" freddy begins, but without another word he bursts into a fresh howl. startled by such sounds of woe from her son, katrine hurries in, to find the captain seated in a huge leather arm-chair, the boy between his knees, vainly endeavouring to soothe him. rohritz stands half smiling, half sympathetically, beside them, chalking his cue, while the parrot rattles at the bars of his cage and tries to out-shriek freddy. "what has happened? has he hurt himself? what is the matter?" katrine asks, in great agitation. "n--n--no!" sobs freddy, his fingers in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth terribly depressed; "but os--ostler frank----" ostler frank is the second coachman and freddy's personal friend. "ostler frank is an ass!" exclaims the captain, beginning to trace the connection of ideas in his son's mind; "an ass. you must not let him frighten you." "what did he tell you?" asks katrine, standing beside her husband. "how did he frighten you? he has not dared to tell you a ghost-story? i expressly forbade it." "oh, no, katrine: 'tis all about some stupid nonsense, not worth speaking of," replies the captain,--"a mere nothing." "i should like to know what it is, however," katrine says, growing more uneasy. "he--told--me--papa must fight a duel; and when--they--fight a duel--they are killed!" freddy screams, in despair, nearly throttling his father in his affection and terror. "i should really be glad to have some intelligible explanation of the matter," katrine says, with dignity. "oh, it is the merest trifle," the captain rejoins, changing colour, and tugging at his moustache. "the affair is very simple, madame," rohritz interposes. "les felt it his duty, lately,--the day before yesterday, in fact,--to chastise an impertinent scoundrel in hradnyk, and has conscientiously kept at home since, awaiting the fellow's challenge,--of course in vain. what he should have done would have been to emphasize in a note the box on the ear he administered." "yes, that's true," says the captain: "it is a pity that it did not occur to me." freddy has gradually subsided. as during his tearful misery he has done a great deal of rubbing at his eyes with inky fingers, his cheeks are now streaked with black, and he is sent off by his mother with a smile, in charge of a servant, to be washed. "might i be informed," she asks, after the door has closed upon the child, and with a rather mistrustful glance at her husband, "what the individual at hradnyk did to provoke the chastisement in question?" "'tis not worth the telling, katrine," stammers the captain. "why should you care to know anything about it?" "you are very wrong, les, to make any secret of it," rohritz interposes. "the scoundrel undertook to use certain expressions which irritated les, with regard to you, madame." "with regard to me?" katrine exclaims, with a contemptuous curl of her lip. "what could any one say about me?" "what, indeed?" the captain repeats. "well, i will tell you all about it some time when we are alone, if you insist upon it. it was a silly affair altogether, but i took the matter to heart." "you hotspur!" katrine laughs. rohritz has just turned to slip out of the room and leave the pair to a reconciliatory _tête-à-tête_, when the door opens, and a servant announces that the sleigh is ready. "where are you going?" katrine asks, hastily, in an altered tone, as the servant withdraws. "i was going to glockenstein, to take the 'maître de forges' to the grass-widow; she asked me for it yesterday; but if you wish, katrine, i will stay at home." "if i wish," katrine coldly repeats. "since when have i attempted to interfere in any way with your innocent amusements?" "i only thought----you have sometimes seemed to me a little jealous of the grass-widow." rohritz could have boxed his friend's ears for his want of tact. katrine's aristocratic features take on an indescribably haughty and contemptuous expression. "jealous?--i?" she rejoins, with cutting severity, adding, with a shrug, "on the contrary, i am glad to have another woman relieve me of the trouble of entertaining you." tame submission to such words from his wife, and before a witness, is not the part of a hot-blooded soldier like jack leskjewitsch. "adieu, rohritz!" he says, and, with a low bow to his wife, he leaves the room. for an instant katrine seems about to run after him and bring him back. she takes one step towards the door, then pauses undecided. the sharp, shrill sound of sleigh-hells rises from without through the wintry silence: the sleigh has driven off. katrine goes to the window to look after it. with lightning speed it glides along, the centre of a bluish, sparkling cloud of snow-particles whirled aloft by the trampling horses. it is out of sight almost immediately. her head bent, katrine turns from the window, and leaves the room with lagging steps. * * * * * the _menu_ for dinner comprises the captain's favourite dish of roast pheasants, but six o'clock strikes and the master of the house has not yet arrived at home. "would it not be better to postpone the dinner a little for to-day?" katrine asks rohritz, for form's sake. they wait one hour,--two hours: the captain does not appear. at last katrine orders dinner to be served. unable to eat a morsel, she sits with an empty plate before her, hardly speaking a word. the meal is over, coffee has been served, freddy has played three games of cards with his tutor and then disappeared with a very sleepy face. katrine and rohritz sit opposite each other, each taking great pains to appear unconcerned. one quarter of an hour after another passes without a word exchanged between them. suddenly katrine rises, goes to the window, opens first the inner shutter and then the peep-hole in the other. "listen how the wind roars!" she says, in a hoarse, subdued voice, to rohritz. "and the snow is falling as if a feather bed had been cut in two." rohritz is really unable to smile, as he would have been tempted to do at any other time, at the contrast between katrine's deeply tragic air and her very commonplace comparison: he is rather anxious himself. "hark! just hark how the wind whistles! i hope jack has not got wedged in a snow-drift." rohritz makes some reply which katrine does not heed. in increasing agitation she paces the room to and fro. "the worst place is the bit of road near the quarry," she murmurs to herself. "if he goes a hand's-breadth too far on one side, then----" "les has a remarkable sense of locality, and is the best whip i know," rohritz remarks, soothingly. she is silent, compresses her lips, listens at the window, hearkens to the raging wind, which drives the snow-flakes against the shutters and tears and rattles at the boughs of the giant linden until they shriek from out their long winter sleep. how much we are able to forgive a man when we are anxious about him! "i would rather send some one to meet him," she stammers. "i am exceedingly anxious." she reaches out her hand for the bell-rope, when suddenly from the far distance, like mocking, elfin laughter, comes the tinkle of sleigh-bells. katrine holds her breath, listens. the sleigh approaches, draws up before the door. rohritz goes out into the hall. katrine hears a man stamping the snow from his boots, hears the captain's fresh, cheery voice as he answers his friend's questions. her anxiety is converted into a sensation of great bitterness. she cannot rally herself too much for her childish anxiety, cannot forgive herself for behaving so ridiculously before rohritz. whilst she has been fancying her husband lost in a snow-drift, he beyond all doubt has been admirably entertained with the grass-widow. the door opens; the captain appears alone, without his comrade. "still up, katrine?" he asks, in a gentle undertone, approaching his wife, and with an uncertain, half-embarrassed smile he adds, "rohritz told me you were anxious about--about me." as he speaks he tries to take his wife's hand to draw her towards him; but katrine avoids him. "rohritz was mistaken," she rejoins, very dryly. "for a moment i thought you might have fallen into the quarry, because i could not see any apparent reason for your late return. but as for anxiety----" without finishing the sentence, she shrugs her shoulders. the captain smiles bitterly, and passes his hand across his forehead. "yes, he was evidently mistaken; it was an attempt to bring us together," he murmurs; "his sentimental representation did at first seem rather incredible to me. but what one wishes to believe one does believe so easily! i was foolish enough to delight in the hope of a kindly welcome from you; but, in fact, in comparison with the reception you have vouchsafed me the weather outside is genial." he seats himself astride of a low chair, and begins to drum impatiently upon the back of it. "it seems to me quite late enough to go to bed," says katrine, taking a silver candlestick from the mantel-piece. "it is a quarter-past ten." suddenly the captain grasps her by the wrist. "stay!" he says, sternly. "you have come back in a very bad humour," katrine remarks, with a contemptuous smile. "the grass-widow must have proved unkind. your delay in returning led me to suppose the contrary." the captain looks at his wife with an odd expression. was it possible she could take sufficient interest in him to be jealous? "i have not seen the grass-widow," he rejoins, after a short pause. "that is, you did not find her at home? how very sad!" "i did not go to glockenstein." "ah, indeed! i thought----" "you are quite right," he said, with an air of bravado. "after the very kind and choice words with which in the presence of an auditor you dismissed me, i certainly whipped up the horses in order to reach glockenstein with all speed. when angels will have nothing to do with us, we are fain to go for consolation to the devil: he is sure to be at hand. frau ruprecht would have received me with open arms; i am by no means"--with a forced laugh--"so insignificant in her eyes; for her i am quite a hero, and what would you have? she is stupid, but she is pretty and young, and an amount of consideration from any woman flatters a poor fellow who is never without the consciousness of his inferiority in the eyes of his clever wife at home." "ah! really?" katrine sneers. "may i beg you to make a little haste with your explanations?--the lamp is beginning to burn dimly." "it burns quite well enough for what i have to say," replies the captain. "i whipped up my horses, as i said,--i was positively in a hurry to fall at the ruprecht's feet; but, just at the last moment, so many different things occurred to me! glockenstein was in sight, but i turned aside, and then drove over to reitzenberg's to settle with him about the wood." "ah! it seems to have been a very protracted business discussion." "i took supper with reitzenberg, and played a game of cards afterwards." "hm! since, then, you have perhaps sufficiently explained the reason of your delay, will you permit me to withdraw?" katrine asks. "apparently you do not believe me. and yet you ought to know that falsehood is not to be reckoned among my bad qualities." "true; but"--katrine shrugs her shoulders--"no man hesitates to improvise a little when there's a lady in the case. i should like to know, however, why you take so much trouble in the present instance for me, who have so little interest in such things." and, taking the candlestick once more from the chimney-piece, she asks, "can i go now? have you finished?" "no," he exclaims, angrily, "i have not finished, and you will hearken to me. matters are come to a worse pass than you fancy; our whole existence is at stake. you know how my sister lina's marriage turned out, and you are in a fair way to plunge me into the same misery into which franz meineck was thrust by his wife." "your comparison of me to your sister seems to me rather forced," katrine replies. "i know it is not pleasant to hear one's relatives criticised by another, however we may disapprove of them ourselves, but i must defend myself. your sister neglected her household and her children, giving herself over to a ridiculous ambition; whilst i----" she hesitates, deterred from proceeding by something in the captain's look: "whilst you----" he begins. "i know perfectly well what you would say. your household is perfectly attended to, you are an ideal mother, and daintily neat. in a word, you would have been for me the ideal wife if you had ever shown me a particle of affection." "i have always done my duty by you." "your hard, prescribed, bounden duty." "you could not expect anything more of me. when we married it was agreed between us that each should be satisfied with a sensible amount of friendship." he has risen, and is gazing at her keenly, searchingly. "that is true; you are right," he says, bitterly. "the sad thing about it is that i had forgotten it!" "i cannot understand how you--i must say i never have observed--that you----" "indeed? you never have observed that i have long ceased to keep my part of our compact!" the captain exclaims. "really? women are fabulously blind when they do not choose to see. do you suppose i should have allowed the reins to be taken from my hands, do you suppose i should have resigned my authority over you, have lost the right of disposing of my own child, and have abandoned my profession, if--if i had not fallen in love with you like a very school-boy! there! now despise me doubly for my confession, and until you see me stifling in the mire, like poor franz meineck, console yourself with the conviction that you have done your duty by me." he makes her a profound bow, then turns and leaves the room. chapter xxx. a sleepless night. "until you see me stifling in the mire, like poor franz meineck, console yourself with the conviction that you have done your duty by me." strange how deeply these words are impressed upon katrine's soul! she does not sleep during the night following upon the captain's explanation, no, not for a quarter of an hour. she tosses about restlessly in bed; a moonbeam which has contrived to slip through a crack in her shutters points at her with uncanny persistency, like an accusing ghostly finger. the little clock on her writing-table strikes twelve; the sixth of january is past, the seventh of january has begun. the seventh of january! it was her wedding-day. on the seventh of january nine years before, without a spark of love for jack leskjewitsch, but with the angry memory of humiliation suffered at another's hands, she had donned her gown of bridal white and her bridal wreath had been placed upon her head. in her inmost soul she had compared her bridal robes to a shroud, and so cold, so white, so stern, had she looked on that day that those who helped to dress her for the sacred ceremony had often said later that they had seemed to themselves to be preparing a corpse for burial, while all who witnessed the marriage declared that no funeral could have been sadder. she had first known jack on her father's, the freiherr von rinsky's, estate in m----. quartered at the castle, jack had soon ingratiated himself with its gouty old master. katrine did not dislike him,--nay, she rather liked him. her pride, which had been suffering from the destruction of her illusions ever since the winter she had spent with her aunt in pesth three years before, turned with a bitterness that bordered on disgust from all the homage paid her by men. jack leskjewitsch had always been attentive to her without ever making love to her,--which attracted her. when he asked her to marry him he did it in so dry, odd a way that from sheer surprise she did not at once say no. she replied that she would take his offer into consideration. living beneath the same roof with a young stepmother whom she did not like, and who ruled her father, the suit of a wealthy, thoroughly honourable man was not to be lightly rejected. yet if he had wooed her passionately and tenderly she would surely have refused to listen to him. this, however, he did not do. when she confessed to him that a bitter disappointment had paralyzed all the sentiment she had ever possessed, that he was not to expect any love from her, he received the confession with the utmost calmness, and replied that he too had nothing to offer her save cordial friendship. "those of my friends who married for love are one and all wretched now. let us try it after another fashion," he had said to her. and thus, almost with a laugh, without the slightest emotion, they had been betrothed on a gray, rainy november day, when the winds were raging as if they had sworn to blow out the sun's light in the skies, while the last field-daisies were hanging their heads among the faded meadow-grass as if tired of life. six weeks afterwards they were married, and took the usual trip to rome and from one hotel to another. the pale moonbeam still pointed at her like an accusing finger; its silver light fell upon her past and revealed many things which she had heedlessly forgotten during the nine years which now lay behind her. she had married poor, very poor, had brought her husband nothing save her trousseau. all the material comfort of her existence came from him. to show him any special gratitude for that would indeed have been petty; but, putting it aside, with how much consideration he had always treated her! how carefully he had removed from her path all need for trouble and exertion, with the tenderness which rude soldiers alone know how to lavish upon their wives. she had complained of the inconveniences of the nomadic life of the army; but who had drained all those inconveniences to the dregs? he! he had taken all trouble upon himself. in their wanderings she and the child had been cared for like the most frail and precious treasures, upon the transportation of which it was impossible to bestow too much thought. it had always been, "spare yourself, and look out for the boy!" and either "it is too hot," or "it is too cold: you might be ill, or you might take cold; but do not stir. i will see to it; rely upon me!" yes, she had indeed relied upon him; he looked after everything, without any words, without annoying her with restlessness, quietly, simply, and as if it could not have been otherwise. and what had she done for him in return for all his care and consideration? she had kept his home in order, had treated him with more or less friendliness, had never flirted in the least with any other man, and had presented him with a charming child. but no; she had not even presented him with it: she had jealously kept it for herself, had grudged him every caress which the boy bestowed upon his father; she had spoiled the child in order that she might hold the first place in his heart. yet, oddly enough, in spite of all her indulgence the boy was fonder of his fiery, irritable, good-humoured, but strict papa whose nod he obeyed, than of herself, whom the young gentleman could wind around his finger. she confessed this to herself, not without bitterness. when, the previous autumn, erlach court had come to her by inheritance from a grand-uncle, she was filled with a desire to break off all connection with an army life. without the slightest consideration for her husband, she had left him and forced him for her sake to adopt an existence that was contrary to all his habits and tastes. the moonbeam still penetrated into her room: it grew brighter and brighter, and at last lit up the most secluded corner of her heart. "until you see me stifling in the mire, like poor franz meineck, console yourself with the conviction that you have done your duty by me." again and again the words echoed through her soul. "i have done my duty by him," she repeated to herself, with the obstinacy with which we are wont to clutch a self-illusion that threatens to vanish. "i have done my duty." suddenly she trembles from head to foot, and, hiding her face in the pillow, she bursts into tears. the boundless egotism, in all its petty childishness, which has informed her intercourse with her husband flashes upon her conscience. how is it that she has never perceived that he has long since ceased to perform his part of their agreement? little tokens of affection full of a timid poetry hitherto heedlessly overlooked now occur to her. why had she not understood them? why had she never felt a spark of love for him? her cheeks burn. she had continually reproached her husband with never being done with his illusions, and she---- in a secret drawer of her writing-table there is at this very moment, shrivelled and faded, a gardenia which she has never been able to bring herself to destroy. she springs up, lights a candle, hastens to her writing-table, finds the ugly brown relic,--and burns it. when she lies down in bed again the admonitory moonbeam has vanished, but through the cold black of the winter night filters the first weak shimmer of the dawn. the dreamy ding-dong of a church bell among the mountains ringing for early mass has the peaceful sound of a sacred morning serenade as it floats into her room. it is barely six o'clock. she folds her hands, a fervent prayer rises to her lips, and, with a still more fervent, unspoken prayer in her heart, her brown head sinks back upon the cool white pillow, and she falls asleep. chapter xxxi. glowing embers. "papa is lazy to-day," freddy remarks the next morning, breaking the silence that reigns at the breakfast-table and looking pensively at his father's empty chair. it is late, freddy has drunk his milk, and rohritz and the tutor are engaged with their second cup of tea. the host, usually so early, has not yet made his appearance. "you ought not to make such remarks about papa," katrine corrects her son on this occasion, although she is usually very indulgent to freddy's impertinence. "run up to his room and tell him i sent you to ask whether he took cold last evening, and if he would not like a cup of tea sent to him." in two minutes the boy returns, shouting gaily, "papa sends you word that he does not want anything; he has nothing but a bad cold in his head, and he is coming presently." in fact, the captain follows close upon the heels of his pretty little messenger. "i was troubled about you," katrine says, receiving him with a sort of timid kindness which seems painfully forced. "indeed? very kind of you," he makes reply, in a very hoarse voice, "but quite unnecessary." "you seem, however, to have taken cold," rohritz interposes. "pshaw! 'tis nothing. i lost my way in the dark last night, and got into a drift this side of k----: that's all.--well, katrine, am i to have my tea?" "i have just made you some fresh; the first was beginning to be bitter," she makes excuse. "wait a moment." the captain is about to reply, but a fit of coughing interrupts him. "papa barks as hector does at the full moon," freddy remarks, merrily. katrine frowns. why does freddy seem so thoroughly spoiled to-day? "i told you just now that it is very wrong in you to speak in that way of your father." "let him do it; papa knows what he means," the captain replies, turning to his little son sitting beside him rather than to his wife. "you're fond enough of papa,--love him pretty well,--eh, my boy?" "oh, don't i?" says freddy, nestling close to his father; "don't i?" that any one could doubt this fact evidently amazes him. the captain talks and plays merrily with the boy, never addressing a single word to katrine. breakfast is over. for an hour katrine has been sitting in her room, some sewing which has dropped from her hands lying in her lap, listening and waiting for his step,--in vain. another quarter of an hour glides by: her heart throbs louder and louder, and tears fill her eyes. suddenly she tosses her work aside, rises, and with head erect, looking neither to the right nor to the left, walks with firm, rapid steps along the corridor to the captain's room. at the door she pauses,--pauses for one short moment,--then boldly turns the latch and enters. is he there? yes, he is standing at the window, looking out upon the quiet, white landscape. rather surprised, he looks back over his shoulder at his wife, for he knows it is she: he could recognize her step among a thousand. "do you want anything?" he asks, dryly. "n--no." the captain turns again to the snowy landscape. "what are you gazing at so steadily?" katrine asks him. "is there anything particularly interesting to be seen out there?" "no," he replies; "but when the room is cheerless, one looks out of the window for diversion." a pause ensues. "what shall i say to him? what can i say to him?" she asks herself, uneasily. the blood mounts to her cheeks; she stands rooted to the spot, not venturing to approach him. at last, she begins with all the indifference at her command, "you have forgotten our wedding-day today, for the first time. strange!" "very," the captain rejoins, with bitter irony. another pause ensues. katrine is just about to withdraw, mortified, when the captain again turns to her. "i did not forget. no, i do not forget such things; and, if you care to know, i had provided the yearly, touching surprise in celebration of the anniversary; but i suppressed it at the very last moment." "and why?" "why? a woman of your superior sense should be able to answer that question herself. after having been laughed at eight times for my well-meant attentions, i said to myself finally that it was useless to serve for the ninth time as a target for your sarcasm." she comes a step nearer to him. "i had no desire to laugh to-day." "indeed! hm! then you can open the packet on my writing-table. i had the boy photographed for you, and the picture turned out very well." she opens the packet. 'tis a perfect picture,--freddy himself, bright, wayward, charming, one hand upon his hip, his fur cap on his head. "he is a beauty, our boy!" she exclaims, smiling down upon the picture in its simple frame. "our boy!" the captain murmurs. "you are immensely gracious to-day; you usually speak of him as if he belonged to you only." katrine blushes a little, but, without apparently noticing this last remark, says, "he begins to look like you, the dear little fellow!" "indeed? tis a pity----" "you really would do better to sit by the fire and warm yourself than to stand shivering at that cold window." "the fire has gone out, and there is small comfort in sitting by the ashes." "you ought to have made the fire burn afresh." "i tried to," he replied, with significant emphasis, "but i failed." "really!" she says, laughing archly in the midst of her vexation; "you must have tried very awkwardly. if i am not mistaken, there are embers enough under the ashes to set rome on fire. i should like to see." she kneels upon the hearth, scrapes together the embers, and with great skill and precision piles three logs of wood on top of them. one minute later the wood is burning with a clear flame. "jack!" she calls, very gently. he starts, and looks round. "jack, is the fire burning brightly enough for you now?" she asks. as in a dream he approaches her. "now sit down," she says, in a tone of gay command, pulling forward a large, comfortable arm-chair, "and warm yourself." he obeys, looking down at her half in surprise, half in tenderness, as she kneels beside him, slender, graceful, wonderfully fair to see, with the reflection from the fire crimsoning her cheeks and lending a golden lustre to her light-brown hair. her breath comes quick, as it does when there is something in the heart, longing for utterance, which will not rise to the lips. she had thought out so many fine phrases early this morning in which to clothe her repentance, but they all stick fast in her throat. the bell rings for lunch. good heavens! is this moment to pass without sealing their reconciliation? he sits mute. the wood in the chimney crackles loudly, sometimes with a noise almost like a pistol-shot. katrine still kneels before the fire, growing more and more restless. on a sudden she throws back her head, and, casting off the unnatural degree of feminine gentleness which has characterized her all the morning, she exclaims angrily, her eyes flashing through burning tears, "what would you have, jack? how far must i go before you come to meet me?" "oh, katrine, my darling, wayward katrine!" the captain almost shouts, clasping her in his arms. "at last i know that 'tis no deceitful dream mocking me!" a light tripping step is heard in the corridor. both spring up as freddy's merry little face appears at the door: "lunch is growing cold." * * * * * in the evening, as the couple are sitting in the drawing-room in the twilight, katrine says,-- "if only there were no such thing as war!" "what makes you think of that?" asks the captain. "why, because i should beg you to go back to the service, if i were not so mortally afraid of a campaign." "no need to take that into consideration," the captain rejoins, "for in case of war i should go back immediately: not even you could prevent me, kitty. but tell me, could you really summon up courage enough?" "could i not? it will be very hard eventually to part from the boy, but sooner or later we must send him to the theresianeum, and--to speak frankly--even a separation from freddy would not distress me so much as to see you degenerate in an inactive life." "you really would, then, kitty?--would voluntarily subject yourself again to all the inconveniences and petty miseries of the soldier's nomadic life?" "try me," and her large eyes are very serious and determined as they look into his own, "try me, and you shall see what a comfortable home i will make for you in the forlornest hungarian village." "ah, you angel!" her husband exclaims, taking her soft little hand in his and pressing it against his cheek. "what a pity it is that we have lost so much time in all these nine years!" "a pity indeed," she admits, "but 'tis never too late to mend,--eh?" at this moment rohritz enters the room, as is usual at this hour every afternoon, to get a cup of tea. he observes, first, that the pair have forgotten to ring for the lamp, and, secondly, that they stop talking upon his entrance; in short, that, for the first time, he has intruded. "you have come for your tea," says katrine. "i had positively forgotten that there was such a thing. ring the bell, jack." before the evening is over edgar has made a very important discovery,--to wit, that however cordially one may rejoice when two human souls after long and aimless wanderings come together and are united, any prolonged association with a couple so reconciled is considerably more tedious than with an unreconciled pair; wherefore he leaves erlach court on the following day. chapter xxxii. thÉrÈse, the wise. in thérèse's boudoir are assembled four people, thérèse, her husband, her brother zino, and edgar,--edgar, who on the previous day, to the great surprise of his relatives in paris, was persuaded to transfer himself from the hôtel bouillemont, whither he had gone upon his arrival, to the avenue villiers and the shelter of his brother's hospitable roof. thérèse, exhausted, more breathless than usual, is lying on a lounge, wrapped in a thick white coverlet, shivering, coughing, feverish, with every symptom of a violent cold, and disputing vehemently with her husband as to whether, as he maintains, she caught the said cold on monday at the bon-marché, or, as she maintains, on tuesday in his smoking-room. "no one could take cold in my smoking-room; it is the only room in the house where the temperature is a healthy one," edmund declares. "judge for yourself, edgar; there's no getting a sensible word out of zino. how could any one catch cold in my smoking-room? i know perfectly well how she caught it. day before yesterday--monday--there were bargains in oriental rugs advertised at the bon-marché. my wife rushes there in such a storm----" "that means, i drove there in an hermetically-closed coupé," thérèse defends herself. "pshaw! the damp air always penetrates into every carriage," her husband cuts her words short. "the fact is, she rushed to the rue du bac, where she did not buy a single rug, but instead a dozen umbrellas, and then came home in a state of exhaustion,--such exhaustion that i had positively to carry her up-stairs, because she was unable to stir; and now she blames my smoking-room for her cold! it is absurd!" and, by way of further expression of his anger, for which words do not suffice, edmund rattles the tongs about among the embers on the hearth. "have some regard for my nerves, edmund," thérèse entreats, stopping her ears with her fingers. "you make more noise than one of wagner's operas. twelve umbrellas!" then turning to edgar, "to place the slightest dependence upon what my husband says----" but before she can finish her sentence edmund breaks in again: "it makes no difference; it might have been three umbrellas and six straw bonnets: it is all the same. every parisian woman suffers from the bargain-mania, but i have never seen the disease developed to such a degree as in my wife. she buys everything she comes across, if it is only a bargain,--old iron rubbish, new plans of paris, embroideries, antique clocks, and bottles of rock-crystal as----christening-presents for children who are not yet born!" "_À propos_ of presents," thérèse observes, reflectively, "do you not think, zino, that the chandelier of venetian glass i bought last year would be a good wedding-present for stella meineck?" "is she betrothed, then?" zino inquires, naturally. "as good as," thérèse assents. "to whom?" capito asks, sitting down, both hands in his trousers-pockets, and crossing his legs. "to arthur de hauterive,--a brilliant match," says thérèse. "cabouat de hauterive," murmurs zino, ironically stroking his moustache, and stretching his legs out a little farther. "a brilliant match if you choose, but rather a scaly fellow,--eh?" "i should like to know what objection you can make to him," thérèse asks, crossly. zino shrugs his shoulders up to his ears, and then straightens them again, without taking any further pains to clothe in words his opinion of monsieur cabouat. "he is not a thorough gentleman," says the elder rohritz. "he is a thorough snob," says zino. "one question, if you please." edgar suddenly and unexpectedly takes part in the conversation: he has hitherto seemed quite absorbed in contemplation of a photograph on the mantel-piece of his little niece. "has fräulein meineck agreed to the match?" "yes, to my great surprise," his brother replies. "i did not expect it of her." "it was no easy task to bring her round," thérèse declares; "but i went to work in the most sensible manner. 'have you any other preference?' i asked stella yesterday, after telling her that monsieur de hauterive was ready to lay his person and his millions at her feet and had begged me to ascertain for him beforehand that his suit would not be rejected." "and what was stella's reply?" edmund asks. "she started and changed colour. 'dear child,' i said, 'it is perfectly natural that you should have some little fancy: we have all had our enthusiasms for the man in the moon; _cela va sans dire_; such trifles never count. the question is, have you a passion for some one who returns it and who you have reason to hope will marry you?' "'no!' she answered, very decidedly. "'then do not hesitate an instant, dear child,' i exclaimed; and when she did not reply i laid the case before her, making clear to her how unjustifiable her refusal of this offer would be. 'you have no money!' i exclaimed. 'you propose to go upon the stage. that is simply nonsense; for, setting aside the fact that you have scarcely voice enough to succeed, a theatrical career for a girl with your principles and prejudices is impossible. look your future in the face, dear heart. your little property must soon, as you cannot but admit, be consumed; that meanwhile the fairy prince of your girlish dreams should appear as your suitor is not within the bounds of probability. you must choose between two courses, either to earn your living as a governess or to give lessons; since you do not wish to leave your mother, you must adopt the latter. fancy it!--running about in galoshes and a water-proof in all kinds of weathers, looked at askance by servants in the halls, tormented by your clients and pupils, no gleam of light anywhere, except in an occasional ticket for the theatre, either given to you or purchased out of your small savings, and finally in your old age a miserable invalid existence supported chiefly by the alms of a few charitable pupils. this is the future that awaits you if you refuse monsieur de hauterive. on the other hand, if you accept him, how delightful a life you will lead! you can assist your mother and sister largely, and will have nothing to do except to treat with a reasonable degree of consideration a good husband who exacts no passionate devotion from you, and to be the mistress, with all the grace and charm natural to you, of one of the finest houses in paris. why, you cannot possibly hesitate, my darling.'" all three gentlemen have listened with exemplary patience to this lengthy exordium,--edmund with a gloomy frown, and zino with the half-contemptuous smile which he has taught himself to bestow upon the most tragic occurrences, while edgar's face tells no tale, as during his sister-in-law's long speech it has been steadily turned away, gazing into the fire. "and what did the little baroness have to say to your brilliant argument in favour of a sensible marriage?" zino asks, after a short pause. "for a moment she sat perfectly quiet: she had grown very pale, and her breath came quick. then she looked up at me out of those large, dark eyes of hers, which you all know, and said,-- "'yes, you are right. i will be sensible.' "i took her in my arms, and exulted in my victory. i confess i had a hard battle; but you must all admit that i was right." "i admit that you went resolutely to work," says her husband, gloomily. "what do you think, edgar?" "since i have no personal knowledge of monsieur cabouat de hauterive, my opinion is of no value," edgar replies, dryly. "well, you at least think i was right, zino?" thérèse exclaims, rather piqued. "certainly," he replies, "since i have lately become quite too poor to indulge in expensive pleasures, and consequently cannot marry for love. i shall be glad at least to know stella well taken care of." "_mauvais sujet!_" thérèse laughs. "i see it is high time to marry you off, or you'll be committing some stupidity. i must marry you all off,--you too, edgar--ah, _pardon_, i believe i did promise to leave you unmolested; but i have such a superb match for you." "who is it?" asks zino. "i am really curious." "natalie lipinski." "_pardon_, there you are reckoning without your host," the prince says, almost crossly. "natalie does not wish to marry." "so say all girls, before the right man appears." "you're wrong," zino interposes. "i know of three people--hm! people of some importance--to whom natalie has given the mitten. two of them i cannot name: the third well, i myself am the third. she refused me point-blank." "_tiens!_ now i guess the reason of your lasting friendship for natalie: you are ever grateful to her for that refusal!" thérèse laughs. "you and natalie!--it is inconceivable." "she pleased me," the prince confesses. "'tis strange: you're sure to over-eat yourself on delicacies; you never do on good strong bouillon. natalie always reminds me of bouillon. she is the only girl for whom ever since i first knew her--that is, ever since i was a boy--i have felt the same degree of friendship. _Ça!_" he takes his watch out of his pocket; "she begged me not to fail to come to the rue de la bruyère to-day. will not you come too, edgar? she would be delighted to see you." edgar lifts his brows with a bored expression. before he finds time in his slow way to answer, thérèse interposes: "do go, edgar, please! you must know that monsieur de hauterive is to make his declaration to stella to-day. i advised him to speak to her before he preferred his suit to her mother: it is the fashion in austria. stella would be sure to value such a concession to austrian custom. yes, edgar, go to the lipinskis' and watch little stella and her adorer. if i were not so utterly done up i would go too, i am so very curious." chapter xxxiii. stella's failure. like most of the salons of foreigners in paris, even of the most distinguished, that of the lipinskis produces the impression of a social menagerie. artists, americans, diplomatists, stand out in strong relief against a background of old russian acquaintances. french people are seldom met with there. scarcely three months have passed since the lipinskis took up their abode in paris, and they have not yet had time to organize their circle. the agreeable atmosphere of every-day intimacy which constitutes the chief charm of every select circle is lacking. the russians and the elderly diplomatists gather for the most part about the fireplace, where madame lipinski holds her little court. she is an uncommonly distinguished, graceful old lady, who had been a celebrated beauty in the best days of the emperor nicholas's reign, and had played her part at court. one of the empress's maids of honour, she had preserved in her heart an undying, unchanging love for the chivalric, maligned emperor, so sadly tried towards the end of his life. she wears her thick white hair stroked back from her temples and adorned by a rather fantastic cap of black lace; her tiny ears, undecorated by ear-rings, are exposed,--which looks rather odd in a woman of her age. as soon as she becomes at her ease with a new acquaintance she tells him of the annoyance which these same tiny ears occasioned her at the time when she was maid of honour. the empress condemned her to wear her hair brushed down over her cheeks, merely because the emperor once at a ball extolled the beauty of her ears. "she was jealous, the poor empress," the old lady is wont to close her narrative by declaring, and then, raising her eyes to heaven, she says, with a deprecatory shrug, "of me!" what she likes best to tell, however, is how the emperor once, when he honoured her with a morning call, had with the greatest patience kindled her fire in the fireplace, whereupon she had exclaimed, "ah, sire, if europe could behold you now!" the artistic element collects about natalie. on the day when edgar and zino are sent to the lipinskis' to observe stella and monsieur cabouat, the artistic element is represented by a pianist of much pretension and with his fingers stuck into india-rubber thimbles, and besides by signor della seggiola. della seggiola, without his gray velvet cap, in a black dress-coat, looks freshly washed and--immensely unhappy. his comfortable, barytone self-possession stands him in no stead in this cool atmosphere: he has no opportunity to produce the jokes and merry quips with which he is wont to enliven his scholars during his lessons. restless and awkward, he goes from one arm-chair to another, is absorbed in admiration of a piece of japanese lacquer, and breathes a sigh of relief when he is asked to sing something, which seems to him far easier in a drawing-room than to talk. the pianist, on the contrary, needs a deal of urging before he consents to pound away fiercely at the pleyel piano as though he were a personal enemy of the maker. "i have a great liking for artists," madame lipinski, after watching the barytone through her eye-glass, declares to her neighbour prince suwarin, who is known in parisian society by the nickname of _memento mori_, "but they seem to me like hounds,--delightful to behold in the open air, but mischievous in a drawing-room. one always dreads lest they should upset something. natalie disagrees with me: she likes to have them in the house; she is exactly my opposite, my daughter." in this prince capito agrees with her, and hence his regard for natalie. it is about half-past ten when edgar and zino enter the lipinski drawing-room. after edgar has paid his respects to both ladies of the house,--a ceremony much prolonged by madame lipinski,--he looks about for stella, and perceives her directly in the centre of the room, seated on a yellow divan from which rises a tall camellia-tree with red blossoms, beside zino. he is about to approach her, when he feels a hand upon his arm. he turns. stasy stands beside him, affected, languishing, in a youthful white gown, a bouquet of roses on her breast, and a huge feather fan in her hand. "what an unexpected pleasure!" she murmurs. as just at this moment a young lady, a pupil of the pianist, has seated herself at the piano, to play a bolero, edgar is obliged to keep quiet, and cannot help being detained beside the wicked old fairy; nay, he is even pinned down in a chair beside her. the assemblage listens in silence to the young performer's first effort; but when the spanish dance is followed by a swedish 'reverie' the silence ceases. the hum of conversation rises throughout the room,--conversation conducted in that half-whisper which reminds one of the low murmur of faded leaves. the first to begin it was zino. "i do not understand how such delicate hands can have so hard a touch," he whispers, leaning a little towards stella, with a significant glance towards the narrow-chested little american at the piano. "dummy instruments ought always to be provided for these drawing-room performances of young ladies: there would be just as much opportunity for the performers to display their beautiful hands, and the misery of the audience would be greatly alleviated." stella laughs a little, a very little. she is melancholy to-night. zino thinks of the sword of damocles suspended above her fair head, and pities her. for a moment he is compassionately silent; then, espying anastasia, he says, "i should like to know how the gurlichingen comes here. she is a person of whom, were i natalie, i should steer clear." "to steer clear of the gurlichingen against her will is almost as difficult as to steer clear of an epidemic disease; she steals upon us perfectly unawares," says stella, with a slight shrug. "of all antipathetic women whom i have ever encountered, the gurlichingen is the most antipathetic," the prince boldly asseverates. "her smile is peculiarly agreeable. it always reminds me of captain white's oriental pickles,--'the most exquisite compound of sweet and sour.' at nice they called her the death's-head with forget-me-not eyes. to-night she looks like a skeleton at a masquerade. just look at her! if she only would not show all her thirty-two teeth at once!" "where is she?" asks stella, slightly turning her head. so great has been her dread of perceiving somewhere her menacing destiny, monsieur de hauterive, that hitherto she has not looked about at all. "there, between rohritz and that flower-table, there----" by 'rohritz' stella has been wont for weeks to understand the husband of thérèse; she has not yet heard of edgar's arrival in paris. she raises her eyes, and starts violently. he is here in the same room with her, and has not even taken the trouble to bid her good-evening. good heavens! what of that? how many minutes will pass before monsieur de hauterive comes to ask her to redeem thérèse rohritz's pledged word? and then---- the blood mounts to her cheeks. "_sapristi!_" zino thinks to himself, "can it be possible that my brother-in-law has been keener of vision than my very clever sister?" "do you not think, baron rohritz," stasy meanwhile remarks to the victim still fettered to her side, "that prince capito pays too marked attention to our little friend stella?" "that is his affair," edgar replies, coldly. "and what does your sister-in-law say to stella's conduct with capito?" "my sister-in-law evidently has no fault whatever to find with the young lady, for this very day she praised her in the warmest terms." "yes, yes," stasy murmurs; "thérèse, they say, has taken stella under her wing." "she is very fond of her." "yes, yes; all paris is aware that thérèse,"--to speak all the more familiarly of her distinguished acquaintances the less intimate she is with them is one of stasy's disagreeable characteristics,--"that thérèse has set herself the task of marrying stella well. if this be so she ought to advise the girl to conduct herself somewhat more prudently, or the little goose will soon have compromised herself so absolutely that it will be impossible to find a respectable match for her. do you know that for stella's sake zino has joined della seggiola's class?" "would you make stella meineck responsible for prince capito's eccentricities?" "granted that it was not in consequence of her direct permission, i do not say it was. but she makes appointments with him in the louvre; and"--stasy's eyes sparkle with fiendish triumph--"she visits him at his lodgings. a very worthy and truthful friend of mine has rooms opposite the prince's in the rue d'anjou, and she lately saw stella, closely veiled, pass beneath the archway of his----" "absurd!" rohritz exclaims, indignantly; and, without allowing her to finish, he leaves her very unceremoniously to go to stella. but before he can make his way among the various trains, and the thicket of furniture of a parisian drawing-room, to the yellow divan, some one else has taken the place beside stella just vacated by zino,--a handsome, broad-shouldered man of about forty, well dressed, correct in his appearance, but not distinguished, although it would be impossible to describe what is lacking. there is something brand-new, stiff, shiny, about him. between him and a dandy of the purest water, like capito, for instance, there is the same difference that is to be found between a piece of genuine old meissner porcelain and some of modern manufacture. "who is the man with the red face and peaked moustache beneath the camellia there?" edgar asks his old acquaintance prince suwarin, whom he has just met. "that is a certain cabouat de hauterive, a millionaire, who is very fond of pretty things," replies suwarin. "a little while ago he bought a superb rousseau for his gallery, and now, they say, he intends to buy a pretty wife for his house. but he is absolutely lacking in the very _a_, _b_, _c_ of æsthetic knowledge. the picture-dealer, arthur stevens, selected his rousseau for him. i should like to know who found a wife for him. whoever it was had good taste, i must say. the stupid fellow brags to all his acquaintances of the beauty of his new acquisition. she's a countrywoman of yours, if i'm not mistaken,--the young girl there beside him. she is simply divine!" in fact, she is exquisitely lovely. how can stasy presume to slander her so brutally? truly it would be difficult to imagine anything more modest, more innocent, than the slender creature beside that broad-shouldered parvenu! her elbows pressed close to her sides, her hands in her lap, with drooping head she sits there deadly pale, and evidently trembling with dread, as if awaiting sentence of death. "it is a crime to force a young girl thus," rohritz mutters between his set teeth. "i would not for the world have thérèse's work to answer for. fool that i am!--fool!" every drop of blood in his veins boils; for a moment it seems as if the sight of that pale, sad, child-like face must rob him of all self-control, as if thus at the last moment he must snatch her from the glittering, terrible fate to which she has devoted herself and bear her off in his arms, far, far away, to a peaceful green country where in the dreamy evening twilight stands a white castle in the shade of a mighty linden, where the odour of the linden-blossoms mingles on the evening breeze with the fragrance of the large, pale roses which look up from the dark verdure to the blue evening skies, where the music of gently-rustling leaves blends sadly with the sobbing ripple of the save! none but a maniac, however, would in our civilized century yield to such an impulse. edgar is by no means a maniac: he is even too well bred to show the slightest outward sign of his agitation. calmly, his eye-glass in his eye, he stands beside suwarin and answers intelligibly and connectedly his questions as to the new viennese ballet. stella meineck has less self-control. while monsieur in the most insinuating minor tones is preluding the momentous question, she is vainly trying to convince herself of all that should force her to receive his suit with joyful gratitude from the hand of fate as a gift of god. she recalls the petty poverty of the life that lies behind her, the endless, monotonous misery of the future in galoches and water-proof that lies before her, the hotel-bill that is not paid, the golden brooch she has been obliged to sell to buy two pair of new gloves,--everything, in short, that is hopeless and comfortless in her life. oh, she will be sensible, will accept his offer. there,--now he has put the great question, so distinctly, so clearly, that no pretence of misunderstanding that might delay the necessity for her reply is possible. she catches her breath; her heart beats as if it would break; black misty clouds float before her eyes; there is a sound in her ears as of the rushing of a far-distant stream. she raises her head, and is about to speak, when her eyes meet edgar's; and if instant death were to be the consequence of her refusal, her consent is no longer possible. "you are very--very kind," she stammers, imploringly, "monsieur de hauterive, but i cannot--i cannot--forgive me, but--i cannot." a moment more, and she is sitting alone beneath the camellia-bush. chapter xxxiv. rohritz dreams. "she has given him the sack." "so it seems." "a pretty affair! how pleased thérèse will be!" the speakers are capito and edgar as they leave the rue de la bruyère, where the small hotel which the lipinskis have rented is situated, and walk along under the blue-black heavens glittering with millions of stars, to the more animated part of paris. "yes, thérèse will be pleased," edgar murmurs, repeating zino's words. "it serves her right," zino says, laughing. "i must confess, stella ought not to have let matters go so far; but i cannot help liking it in her that she refused the fellow. natalie and i were looking at her; it was immensely funny,--and yet so sad. ah, that poor, distressed, pale face! after it was all over, natascha--she has lately grown very intimate with stella--called the girl into a little private boudoir, where the poor child began to sob bitterly. natascha kissed her and comforted her, i brought her a cup of tea, and we gradually soothed her." "disgusting creature, that cabouat!" growls rohritz. "in my opinion he is an awkward, common snob," says zino, "and if i am not mistaken he will shortly prove himself to be so in the eyes of every one. the affair cannot fail to be unpleasant, since he has been boasting everywhere that he intended to marry a most beautiful austrian, a friend of madame de rohritz, a charming young girl, very highly connected, and with no dowry." "he is at perfect liberty to say that at the last moment he changed his mind," rohritz remarks, casually. "i rather think he'll not content himself with that. _Ça_, you are coming with me to the masked ball at the opera?" "not exactly. i am going to bed." "indolent, degenerate race!" zino jeers. "what is to become of paris, if this indifference to all gaiety gets the upper hand? i dreamed last night of a white domino: i am going to look for it." so saying, he leaves edgar, and has walked on a few steps, when he hears himself recalled. "capito! capito!" "what is it?" "pray get me an invitation to the fanes' ball; it is short notice, but----" "all right: that's of no consequence at an american's ball," zino replies, and hurries on to his goal. the two men turn their steps in opposite directions. capito hastens back into the heart of paris, where the garish light from gas-jets and lamps illuminates a night life as busy as that of the day, and rohritz passes along the boulevard malesherbes, towards the rue villiers. around him all is quiet; the few shops are closed; an occasional pedestrian passes, his coat-collar drawn up over his ears, and humming some _café-chantant_ air, or a carriage with coach-lamps sparkles along the middle of the street like a huge firefly. the street-cars are no longer running: the street is but dimly lighted. the dumas monument looms, clumsy and awkward, on its huge pedestal in the little square on the place malesherbes. a thousand delightful thoughts course through rohritz's brain. what a pleasant hour he has had talking with stella at the lipinskis'! at first she was stiff towards him, but gradually, slowly, she thawed into the loveliest, most child-like confidence. he will wait no longer. at the fanes' ball, the next evening but one, he will confess all to her. what will she reply? blind as are all mortals to the future, he looks back, and seeks her answer in the past. slowly, slowly, he passes in review all the lovely summer days which he has spent with her, to that evening when he carried her in his arms through the drenching rain across the slippery, muddy road. again he sees the windows of the little inn gleam yellow through the gloom; he hears stella's soft word of thanks as he puts her down on the threshold. the picture changes. he sees a large, watery moon gleaming through prismatic clouds, sees a little skiff by the shore of a dark, swollen stream, and in the skiff, at his--edgar's--feet, kneels a slender girl in a light dress, trembling with distress, her eyes imploringly raised to his, her delicate hands clasping his arm. he bends over her. "stella, my poor, dear, unreasonable child!" he has lifted her, clasps her in his arms, presses his lips upon her golden hair, her eyes, her mouth---- with a sudden start he rouses from his dream to find that he has run against a passer-by, who is saying, crossly, "_mais comment donc?_ is not the pavement wide enough for two?" and, looking up, edgar perceives that he has already passed ten numbers beyond his brother's hotel. chapter xxxv. a sprained ankle. "my dear rohritz,-- "accidents will occur in the best-regulated families! as i was escorting my cousin in a ride yesterday, my horse slipped and fell on the ice, and i sprained my ankle. was there ever anything so stupid! if it could be called a misfortune for which one could be pitied; but no, 'tis a mere tiresome annoyance. ridiculous! and i am engaged to dance the cotillon at the fanes' with stella meineck. old fellow as i am, i had really looked forward to this pleasure. _eh bien!_ all the massage in the world will not enable me to put my foot on the ground before the end of a week. have the kindness, as they say in your native vienna, to dance the cotillon in my stead with our fair star. send me a line to say that you agree, or come and tell me so yourself. "is thérèse going to the ball? tell her from me to be nice to stella, and not to reckon it against her that, in spite of a moment of indecision induced by the distinguished eloquence of my very clever little sister, she has behaved nobly and honestly throughout,--in short, just as was to be expected of her. adieu! yours forever, "capito." such is the letter edgar receives the second morning after the lipinskis' soirée, while he is breakfasting with his brother in the latter's smoking-room. "zino?" asks edmund, looking up from his 'figaro,' the reading of which is as much a part of his breakfast as are the fragrant black coffee and the yellowish viennese bread with norman butter. "read it," edgar replies, as he scribbles with a lead-pencil on a visiting-card, "i am quite at your disposal," and hands it to the waiting servant. "he's a fool!" the elder rohritz remarks, handing back the note to his brother. "he knows perfectly well that you do not dance." "but one can talk through a cotillon," edgar says, with as much indifference as he can assume. "you have consented?" "i could not do otherwise. stella is a stranger in paris: it might be a source of annoyance to her to have no partner for the cotillon. if at the last moment she should find a more desirable partner than myself, i am of course ready to retire. _À propos_, is thérèse going to the ball? her cold is better?" "yes." "what kind of ball is it?" "a kind of public ball in a wealthy private house, given by immensely wealthy americans, who know nobody, whom nobody knows, and who arrange an entertainment from the arabian nights, that they may be talked of, mentioned in 'figaro,' and laughed at in society. only three weeks ago there was no end of ridicule heaped upon mrs. and mr. fane, unknown grandees from california, when it was reported that they wished to give a ball. nobody dreamed of accepting their invitation; but mrs. fane was clever enough to induce a couple of women of undeniable fashion to be her 'lady patronesses,' and when the rumour spread that the duchess of ---- had accepted there was a perfect rage for invitations. every one declared, '_cela sera drôle!_' every one is going. with the best parisian society there will of course be found people whom one sees nowhere else. i wonder how many of the guests will take sufficient notice of the host and hostess to recognize them in the street the next day? but it will certainly be a beautiful ball, and an amusing one. stella is going with the lipinskis, i believe. i am curious to see how she will look in a ball-dress,--charming, of course, but rather too thin." in the course of the morning edgar drops in upon capito, and finds him, in half-merry, half-irritated mood, stretched upon a lounge which is covered by a bearskin, the head of the animal gnashing its teeth at the prince's feet. of course capito's rooms form a tasteful chaos of oriental rugs, turkish embroideries, interesting bibelots, and charming pictures. throughout their arrangement, from the antique silken hangings veined with silver that cover the walls, to the low divans and chairs, there runs a suggestion of effeminate, oriental luxury, in whimsical contrast with the proverbially vigorous personality of the prince, hardened as it has been by every species of manly sport and exercise. the atmosphere is heavy with the fragrance of a gardenia shrub in full bloom, the odour of cigarettes, and the aroma of some subtle indian perfume. a tall palm lifts its leaves to the ceiling. half a dozen french novels, two guitars, and a mandolin lie within zino's reach. he wears a queer smoking-jacket of blue silk faced with red, and his foot is swathed in towels. "i'm delighted to see you! sit down. 'tis most annoying, this sprain of mine. but what do you say to the pleasure to which you have fallen heir?" "in fact, i never dance," rohritz makes reply, "but, to oblige you----" edgar's eyes are wandering here and there through the room, and suddenly rest upon a certain object. "ah, 'tis my watteau that attracts you!" capito observes. "a pretty little picture. i bought it at the hôtel drouot a while ago for a mere song,--five thousand francs." "five thousand francs! ridiculous," says rohritz. "the picture is really lovely. but it was not the watteau alone that attracted my attention, but----" he points to two or three pictures which are turned with their faces to the wall. "ah! ah!" the prince laughs. "you wish to know what led to that prudential measure? well, i have had a visit from ladies." "from whom?" rohritz asks, absently. "unasked i should probably have told you, but in view of such ill-bred curiosity i am mute," zino replies, still laughing. "hm!--evidently a woman of character," rohritz observes, indifferently. "of course: 'tis the only kind with whom i can endure of late to associate. if you but knew how bored i was at the opera ball the other night! i was made ill by the bad air. the feminine element must always play a large part in my life; but, you see, of late i can tolerate none but the most refined, the most distinguished of the species. we are strange creatures, we men of the world: in the matter of cigars, wine, horses, we always require the best, while with regard to women we are sometimes satisfied with what----" the arrival of a fresh caller, one of capito's sporting friends, interrupts these interesting reflections. rohritz takes his leave. the same day he is driving by chance through the rue d'anjou, when his attention is attracted by a slender, graceful, girlish figure hurrying along, evidently anxious to reach her destination. is not that stella? he leans out of the carriage window, but it is dark, and she is closely veiled. and yet he could swear that it is she. she vanishes in the hôtel ----, in the house where he called upon zino capito this very day. for one brief moment all the evil that stasy said of stella confuses his brain; then he compresses his lips: he cannot believe evil of her. a malicious chance has maligned her. she must have a double in paris. chapter xxxvi. lost again. how stella has looked forward to this ball! how carefully and bravely she has cleared away all the obstacles which seemed at first to stand in the way of her pleasure! how eagerly and industriously she has gathered together her little store of ornaments, has tastefully renovated her old venetian ball-dress! how she has exulted over zino's note, in which with kindly courtesy he has begged her to accord to his friend edgar rohritz the pleasure he is obliged to deny himself! and now--now the evening has come; her ball-dress lies spread out on the sofa of the small drawing-room at the 'three negroes;' but stella is lying on her bed in her little bedroom, in the dark, sobbing bitterly. for the second time she has lost the _porte-bonheur_ which her dying father put on her arm three--nearly four years before, and which was to bring her happiness. she noticed only yesterday that the little chain which she had had attached to it for safety was broken, but the clasp seemed so strong that she postponed taking it to be repaired, and to-day as she was coming home, about five o'clock, fresh and gay, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of anticipation, and laden with all sorts of packages, she perceived that her bracelet was gone. in absolute terror, she went from shop to shop, wherever she had made a purchase, always with the same imploring question on her lips as to whether they had not found a little _porte-bonheur_ with a pendant of rock-crystal containing a four-leaved clover,--a silly, inexpensive trifle, of no value to any one save herself. but in vain! almost beside herself, she finally returned to her home, and told her mother of her bitter distress; but the baroness only shrugged her shoulders at her childish superstition, and went on writing with extraordinary industry. she has lately determined to edit an abstract of her work on 'woman's part in the development of civilization,' for a book-agent with whom she is in communication, and who undertakes to sell unsalable literature. it seems that the abstract will fill several volumes! in the midst of stella's distress, the baroness begins to bewail to her daughter her own immense superabundance of ideas, which makes it almost impossible for her to express herself briefly. and so stella, after she has hearkened to the end of her mother's lament, slips away with tired, heavy feet, and a still heavier heart, to her bedroom, and there sobs on the pillow of her narrow iron bedstead as if her heart would break. there comes a knock at the door. "who is it?" she asks, half rising, and wiping her eyes. "me!" replies a kindly nasal voice, a voice typical of the parisian servant. stella recognizes it as that of the chambermaid. "come in, justine. what do you want?" "two bouquets have come for mademoiselle,--two splendid bouquets. ah, it is dark here; mademoiselle has been taking a little rest, so as to be fresh for the ball; but it is nine o'clock. mademoiselle ought to begin to dress: it is always best to be in time. shall i light a candle?" "if you please, justine." the maid lights the candles. "ah!" she exclaims in dismay when she sees stella's sad, swollen face, "mademoiselle is in distress! good heavens! what has happened? has mademoiselle had bad news?--some one dead whom she loves?" any german maid at sight of the girl's disconsolate face would have suspected some love-complication; the french servant would never think of anything of the kind in connection with a respectable young lady. "no, justine, but i have lost a _porte-bonheur_,--a _porte-bonheur_ that my father gave me a little while before he died,--and it is sure to mean some misfortune. i know something dreadful will happen to me at the ball. i would rather stay at home. but there would be no use in that: my fate will find me wherever i am: it is impossible to hide from it." "ah," sighs justine, "i am so sorry for mademoiselle! but mademoiselle must not take the matter so to heart: the _porte-bonheur_ will be found; nothing is lost in paris. we will apply to the police-superintendent, and the _porte-bonheur_ will be found. ah, mademoiselle would not believe how many lost articles i have had brought back to me! will not mademoiselle take a look at the bouquets?" and the parisian maid whips off the cotton wool and silver-paper that have enveloped the flowers. "_dieu! que c'est beau!_" cries justine, her brown, good-humoured face beaming with delight beneath the frill of her white cap. "two cards came with the flowers; there----" stella grasps the cards. the bouquet of gardenias and fantastic orchids comes from zino; the other, of half-opened, softly-blushing malmaison roses and snowdrops, is edgar's gift. in their arch-loveliness, carelessly tied together, the flowers look as if they had come together in the cold winter, to whisper of the delights of spring and summer,--of the time when earth and sunshine, now parted by a bitter feud, shall meet again with warm, loving kisses of reconciliation. zino's orchids and gardenias lie neglected on the cold gray marble top of a corner table; with a dreamy smile, in the midst of her tears, stella buries her face among the roses, which remind her of erlach court. "mademoiselle will find her _porte-bonheur_ again; i am sure of it; i have a presentiment," justine says, soothingly. "but now mademoiselle must begin to make herself beautiful. madame has given me express permission to help her." * * * * * at this same hour a certain bustle reigns in the dressing-room of the princess oblonsky. costly jewelry, barbaric but characteristically russian in design and setting, gleams from the dark velvet lining of various half-opened cases in the light of numberless candles. in a faded sky-blue dressing-gown trimmed with yellow woollen lace, stasy is standing beside a workwoman from worth's, who is busy fastening large solitaires upon the princess's ball-dress. the air is heavy and oppressive with the odour of veloutine, hot iron, burnt hair, and costly, forced hot-house flowers. monsieur auguste, the hair-dresser, has just left the room. beneath his hands the head of the princess has become a masterpiece of artistic simplicity. instead of the conventional feathers, large, gleaming diamond stars crown the beautiful woman's brow. she is standing before a tall mirror, her shoulders bare, her magnificent arms hanging by her sides, in the passive attitude of the great lady who, without stirring herself, is to be dressed by her attendants. her maid is kneeling behind her, with her mouth full of pins, busied in imparting to the long trailing muslin and lace petticoat the due amount of imposing effect. although half a dozen candles are burning in the candelabra on each side of the mirror, although the entire apartment is illuminated by the light of at least fifty other candles, a second maid, and fräulein von fuhrwesen, now quite domesticated in the princess's household, are standing behind the princess, each with a candle, in testimony of their sympathy with the maid at work upon the petticoat. yes, sophie oblonsky is going to the fanes' ball: she knows that edgar will be there. at last every diamond is fastened upon the ball-dress, among its trimming of white ostrich-feathers. the task now is to slip the robe over the princess's head without grazing her hair even with a touch as light as that of a butterfly's wing. this is the true test of the dressing-maid's art. the girl lifts worth's masterpiece high, high in the air: the feat is successfully accomplished. in all paris to-night there is no more beautiful woman than the princess oblonsky in her draperies of brocade shot with silver, the diamond _rivière_ on her neck, and the diamond stars in her hair. the fuhrwesen kneels before her in adoration to express her enthusiasm, and stasy exclaims,-- "you are ravishing! do you know what i said in cologne to little stella, who, as i told you, was so desperately in love with edgar rohritz? 'beside sonja the beauty of other women vanishes: when she appears, we ordinary women cease to exist.'" "exaggerated nonsense, my dear!" sonja says, smiling graciously, and lightly touching her friend's cheek with her lace handkerchief. "but now hurry and make yourself beautiful." "yes, i am going. i really cannot tell you how eagerly i am looking forward to this ball. i feel like a child again." "so i see," sonja rallies her. "make haste and dress; when you are ready i will put the diamond pins in your hair, myself." and when stasy has left the room the princess says, turning to fräulein von fuhrwesen, "i only hope anastasia will enjoy herself: it is solely for her sake that i have been persuaded to go to this ball; i would far rather stay at home, my dear fuhrwesen, and have you play me selections from wagner." chapter xxxvii. the fanes' ball. yes, the fanes' ball is a splendid ball, one of the most beautiful balls of the season, and fulfils every one's expectations. not one of the artistic effects that puzzle newspaper-reporters and delight the public is lacking,--neither fountains of eau-de-cologne, nor tables of flowers upon which blocks of ice gleam from among nodding ferns, nor mirrors and chandeliers hung with wreaths of roses, nor the legendary grape-vine with colossal grapes. the crown of all, however, is the conservatory, in which, among orange-trees and magnolias in full bloom, gleam mandarin-trees full of bright golden fruit. there are lovely, secluded nooks in this paradise, where has been conjured up in the unfriendly northern winter all the luxuriance of southern vegetation. large mirrors here and there prevent what might else be the monotony of the scene. the company is rather mixed. it almost produces the impression of the appearance at a first-class theatre of a troop of provincial actors, with here and there a couple of stars,--stars who scarcely condescend to play their parts. most of the guests do not recognize the host; and those who suspect his presence in the serious little man in a huge white tie and with a bald head, whom they took at first for the master of ceremonies, avoid him. his entire occupation consists in gliding about with an unhappy face in the darkest corners, now and then timidly requesting some one of the guests to look at his last meissonier. when the guest complies with the request and accompanies him to view the meissonier, mr. fane always replies to the praise accorded to the picture in the same words: "i paid three hundred thousand francs for it. do you think meissoniers will increase in value?" the hostess is more imposing in appearance than her bald-headed spouse. her gown comes from felix, and is trimmed with sunflowers as big as dinner-plates,--which has a comical effect. thérèse rohritz shakes her head, and whispers to a friend, "how that good mrs. fane must have offended felix, to induce him to take such a cruel revenge!" but except for her gown, and the fact that she cannot finish a single sentence without introducing the name of some duke or duchess, there is nothing particularly ridiculous about her. yet, criticise the entertainment and its authors as you may, one and all must confess that rarely has there been such an opportunity to admire so great a number of beautiful women, and that the most beautiful of all, the queen of the evening, is the princess oblonsky. anywhere else it would excite surprise to find her among so many women of unblemished reputation; but it is no greater wonder to meet her here than at a public ball. anywhere else people would probably stand aloof from her; here they approach her curiously, as they would some theatric star whom they might meet at a picnic in an inn ball-room. perhaps her beauty would not be so completely victorious over that of her sister women were she not the only guest who has bestowed great pains on her toilette. all the other feminine guests who make any pretensions to distinction seem to have entered into an agreement to be as shabby as possible. as it would be hopeless to attempt to rival the fane millions, they choose at least to prove that they despise them. one of the shabbiest and most rumpled among many dowdy gowns is that worn by thérèse rohritz, who, pretty woman as she is, looks down with evident satisfaction upon her faded crêpe de chine draperies, remarking, with a laugh, that she had almost danced it off last summer at the balls at the casino at trouville. her husband is not quite pleased with such evident neglect of her dress on his wife's part, nor does he at all admire thérèse's careless way of looking about her through her eye-glass and laughing and criticising. he must always be too good an austrian to be reconciled to what is called _chic_ in paris. there is the same difference between his austrian arrogance and parisian arrogance that there is between pride and impertinence. he thinks it all right to hold aloof from a parvenu, to avoid his house and his acquaintance; but to go to the house of the parvenu, to be entertained in his apartments, to eat his ices and drink his champagne, to pluck the flowers from his walls, and in return to ignore himself and to ridicule his entertainment, he does not think right. but whenever he expresses his sentiments upon this point to his wife, thérèse answers him, half in german, half in french, "you are quite right; but what would you have? 'tis the fashion." the only person at the ball who is honestly ashamed of her modest toilette is stella, and this perhaps because the first object that her eyes encountered when she appeared with the lipinskis, a little after eleven, was the oblonsky in all her brilliant beauty and faultless elegance. by her side, her white feather fan on his knee, sits---- edgar von rohritz. stella's heart stands still; ah, yes, now she knows why she has lost her bracelet. all the tender, child-like dreams that stole smiling upon her soul at sight of his flowers die at once, and stasy's words at the cologne railway-station resound in her ears: "yes, it is ridiculous to think of rivalling the princess: when she appears we ordinary women cease to exist." "yes, it is ridiculous to think of rivalling the princess," stella repeats to herself, "particularly for such a stupid, awkward, insignificant thing as i am." she cannot take her eyes off the beautiful woman. how she smiles upon him, bestowing her attention upon him alone, while a crowd of parisian dandies throng about her, waiting for an opportunity to claim a word. there is no doubt in stella's mind that he is reconciled with sophie oblonsky. a man will forgive a very beautiful woman everything, even the evil which he has heard of her, nay, he may find a mysterious charm in her transgressions, if she takes pains to win his favour with intelligence, prudence, and the necessary degree of reserve. this piece of wisdom stella has gained from the french romances of which she has read extracts out of pure ennui as they appear daily in 'figaro' and the 'gaulois.' that a man must find it difficult to shake off an old friend who approaches him with imploring humility, that he cannot well refuse when she requests him to bring her an ice, and that should she hand him her fan he cannot possibly lay it down on a table with a proudly forbidding air and then take his leave with a formal bow,--all this stella never takes into consideration; and this is why she is so wretchedly unhappy as she seats herself beside natalie lipinski on a plush ottoman, near a table of flowers. a young russian, a friend of the lipinskis, begs natalie for a waltz, and she takes his arm and goes into the adjoining dancing-room. stella is left alone, beside old madame lipinski, who is just getting ready to relate something extremely entertaining about the emperor nicholas, when rohritz suddenly perceives stella. with a smiling remark he hands the white feather fan to a gentleman standing beside him, and hastens towards the young girl, paying his respects, of course, first to the elder lady, and then to her. if he has reckoned upon her old-time child-like, confiding smile, he is disappointed. she answers him stiffly, and thanks him for his flowers without cordiality. "how pale she looks!" he says to himself. "what can be the matter with her? can she have cried her eyes out because she must dance the cotillon to-night with me instead of with zino capito?" "'tis very hard that poor capito should be disabled just at this time," he remarks. "yes, because the burden of dancing the cotillon with me devolves upon you," stella replies, betraying, for the first time since he has known her, a degree of sensitiveness that is almost ridiculous. "i am, of course, perfectly ready to release you from the obligation." "that would be a readiness to rob me of a pleasure to which i had looked forward eagerly," he replies, gravely. "you had looked forward to it?--really?" stella asks, with genuine surprise in her eyes. "really?" and she looks down with a shake of the head at her poor white dress, at her entire toilette, in which nothing is absolutely modern save the long gloves that reach to her shoulders. it is rather remarkable that these gloves are the only thing about her with which edgar rohritz finds fault. "what charming dimples that swedish kid must hide!" he says to himself. a seat beside stella hitherto occupied by an englishwoman with very sharp red elbows is vacated. edgar takes possession of it. "yes, i had looked forward to it," he says, "although i do not dance, and you will consequently be obliged to talk with me through the cotillon." a pause ensues. she looks down; involuntarily he does the same. his eyes rest upon her foot that peeps out beneath the hem of her ball-dress. he recalls how once, on a meadow beneath a spreading oak, kneeling before her he had held that foot in his hands. what a charming, soft, warm little foot it was! she suddenly perceives that he is looking at it; she withdraws it hastily, and with a half-wayward, half-distressed air pulls her skirt farther over her knee. of course he does not smile, but he wants to. and he could reproach this girl for accidentally in the outline of her features recalling a woman who from all that he could discover concerning her was more to be pitied than blamed. it was odious, cruel; more than that, it was stupid! leaning towards her, and speaking more softly than before, he says, gravely, "and i hope that during the cotillon you will confide to me, as an old friend, why you look so sad to-night." any other girl would have understood that these words from a man of edgar's great reserve of character were to pave the way for a declaration. stella understands nothing of the kind. "why i am so sad?" she replies, simply. "because----" at this moment natalie approaches on the arm of a blonde young man. "count kasin wishes to be presented to you, stella," she says. the young man bows, and begs for a dance. stella goes off upon his arm, not because she has any desire to dance, but because it would be disgraceful for a young girl to sit through an entire ball. "who is that young lady?" asks an englishman of edgar's acquaintance. "she is an austrian,--baroness stella meineck." "strange how like she is to that famous greuze in the louvre,--'_la cruche cassée_'! she is charming." the words were uttered without any thought of evil, but nevertheless edgar feels for a moment as if he would like to throttle the hon. mr. harris. and why is he suddenly reminded of the girl whom he had seen this afternoon in the twilight hurrying along the street to vanish in the house where zino has his apartments? how very like she was to stella! * * * * * an hour has passed. stella has walked through two quadrilles, has walked and polked with various partners, as well as she could,--that is, conscientiously and badly, just as she learned from a dancing-master eight years before, and, try as she may, she is conscious that she never shall take any real pleasure in this hopping and jumping about. now, when the rest are just beginning fairly to enjoy the ball, she is tired,--quite tired. with her last partner, a good-humoured, gentlemanly young austrian diplomatist, she has become so dizzy that in the midst of the dance she has begged to be taken back to madame lipinski. but madame lipinski has left her place; some one says she has gone to the conservatory; and thither stella and her partner betake themselves. they do not find madame lipinski, but stella feels decidedly better. the green, fragrant twilight of the conservatory has a soothing effect upon her nerves. the air is cool, compared with that of the ball-room; the roughened surface of the mosaic floor affords a pleasant change after the slippery smoothness of the dancing-room. stella sinks wearily into an inviting low chair. "are balls always so terribly fatiguing?" she asks her companion, with her usual frankness. he bows. "i did not mean to be rude," she hastily explains, "but you must confess that it is much pleasanter to talk comfortably here than to whirl about in there," pointing with her fan in the direction of the dancing-room. the attaché, quite propitiated, takes his place upon a low seat beside her, and prepares for a sentimental flirtation. to his great surprise, stella seems to have as little enthusiasm for flirting as for dancing. "a charming spot!" he begins. "the fragrance of these orange-blossoms reminds me of nice. you have been at nice, baroness?" "i have been everywhere, from madrid to constantinople," stella sighs; "and i wish i were at home. my head aches so!"--passing her hand wearily across her brow. "shall i get you an ice, or a glass of lemonade?" he asks, good-naturedly. "i should be much obliged to you," stella replies. "hm! it does not look as if she were very anxious for a _tête-à-tête_ with me," he thinks, as he leaves her. he has gone: she is alone among the fragrant flowers and the larged-leaved plants. softened, but distinctly audible, the sound of hopping and gliding feet reaches her ears, while, now sadly caressing and anon merrily careless, the strains of a strauss waltz float on the air. for a while she sits quite wearily, with half-closed eyes, thinking of nothing save "i hope the attaché will stay away a long time!" mingling softly and tenderly with the music she hears the dreamy murmur of a miniature fountain. why is she suddenly reminded of the melancholy rush of the save, of the little canoe by the edge of the black water? suddenly she hears voices in her vicinity, and, raising her eyes to a tall, broad mirror opposite, she beholds, framed in by the gold-embroidered hangings of a heavy portière, a striking picture,--the princess oblonsky and edgar. they are in a little boudoir separated from the conservatory by an open door. without stirring, stella watches the pair in the treacherous mirror. edgar sits in a low arm-chair, his elbow on his knee, his head propped on his hand, and the princess is opposite him. how wonderfully beautiful she is!--beautiful although she is just brushing away a tear. "it always makes me so ugly to cry!" stella thinks, not without bitterness. the princess's gloves and fan lie beside her; her arms are bare. with an expression of intense melancholy, an expression not only apparent in her face and in the listless droop of her arms, but also seeming to be shared by every fold of her dress, she leans back among the soft-hued, rose-coloured and gray satin cushions of a small lounge. "strange, that we should have met at last!--at last!" she sighs. stella cannot distinguish his reply, but she distinctly hears the princess say, "do you remember that waltz? how often its notes have floated towards us upon the breath of the roses in the long afternoons at baden! how long a time has passed since then! how long----" a black mist rises before stella's eyes. she puts up her hands to her ears, and, thrilling from head to foot, springs up and hurries away,--anywhere, anywhere,--only away from this spot,--far away! * * * * * at the other end of the conservatory she is doing her best to regain her composure and to keep back the tears, when suddenly she hears a light manly tread near her and the clinking of glasses. "ah! 'tis binsky: he has found me," stella thinks, most unjustly provoked with the good-humoured attaché. "i really believe, baroness, you are playing hide-and-seek with me," the young diplomatist addresses her in a tone of mild reproof. there is nothing for it but to turn round. beside the attaché, in all the majestic gravity of his kind, stands a lackey with a salver, from which she takes a glass of lemonade. after the servant has withdrawn, count binsky says, with a laugh, "i have been looking for you, baroness, in every corner of the conservatory. i must confess to having made interesting discoveries during my wanderings. look here,"--and he shows her a white ostrich-feather fan with yellow tortoise-shell sticks broken in two,"--i found this relic in the pretty little boudoir near the place where i left you. now, did you ever see anything so mutely eloquent as this broken fan?--the tragic culmination of a highly dramatic scene! i should like to know what lady had the desperate energy to reduce this exquisite trifle to such a state." "perhaps there is a monogram on the fan," says stella, her pale face suddenly becoming animated. "look and see." "to be sure. i did not think of that," the young man replies, examining the fan. "'s. o.' beneath a coronet." "sophie oblonsky," says stella. "of course,--the oblonsky." the attaché is seized with a fit of merriment on the instant. "the oblonsky,--the woman who had an affair with rohritz long ago. she seemed to me this evening to have a strong desire to throw her chains about him afresh, but"--with a significant glance at the fan--"rohritz evidently had no inclination to gratify her. hm! she must have been in a bad humour,--the worthy princess!" the attaché laughs softly to himself, then suddenly assumes a grave, composed air, remembering that he is with a young girl, before whom such things as he has alluded to should be forbidden subjects and his merriment suppressed. he glances at stella. no need to worry himself; she does not look in the least horrified: her white teeth just show between her red lips, merry dimples play about the corners of her mouth, and her eyes sparkle like black stars. she really does not understand how five minutes ago she could have wished the poor attaché at the north pole. she now thinks him extremely amusing and amiable. she feels so well, too,--so very well. is it possible that there may be no evil omen for her in the loss of her bracelet? nevertheless, try as she may to hope that it may be averted, a shiver of anxiety thrills her at the recollection of her lost amulet. "if the ball were only over!" she thinks. chapter xxxviii. found at last. the hour of rest before the cotillon has come; the dancing-room is almost empty. only a few gentlemen are selecting the places which they wish reserved for themselves and their partners, and a couple of lackeys are clearing away from this battlefield of pleasure the trophies left behind, of late engagements, shreds of tulle and tarlatan, artificial and natural flowers, here and there a torn glove, etc. edgar tells himself that his hour has come, the hour when he may indemnify himself for ennui hitherto so heroically endured. meanwhile, he goes to the buffet to refresh himself with a glass of iced champagne, and in hopes of finding stella. the supper-room is in the story below the ballroom. the different stories are connected by an extremely picturesque staircase, decorated with gorgeous exotics and ending in a vestibule, or rather an entrance-hall, hung round with antique flemish draperies. the buffet is magnificent, and the guests who are laying siege to it, especially the more distinguished among them, are conducting themselves after a very ill bred fashion. edgar perceives that several of them have taken rather too much of mr. fane's fine cliquot. he looks around in vain for stella. in one corner he observes the oblonsky, with bright eyes and sweet smiles, surrounded by a throng of languishing adorers; farther on, stasy, in pale blue, with rose-buds and diamond pins in her hair, in a state of bliss because an american diplomatist is holding her gloves and a russian prince her fan; he sees thérèse taking some bonbons for the children. stella is nowhere visible. he thinks the champagne poor, doing it great injustice, and, irritated, goes to the smoking-room to enjoy a cigar. the first man whom he sees in the large room is monsieur de hauterive. his face is very red, and he is relating something which must be very amusing, for he laughs loudly while he talks. the men standing around him do not seem to enjoy his narrative as much as he does himself. a few offensive words reach edgar's ears: "_la cruche cassée_--stella meineck--an austrian--these viennese girls--mistress of prince capito!--i have it all from the princess oblonsky!" "would you have the kindness to repeat to me what you have just been telling these gentlemen?" rohritz says, approaching the group and with difficulty suppressing manifestation of his anger. "i really do not know, monsieur, by what right you interfere in a conversation about what does not concern you," cabouat manages to reply, speaking thickly. "may i ask who----" edgar hands him his card. the other gentlemen are about to withdraw, but edgar says, "what i have to say to monsieur de hauterive all are welcome to hear: the more witnesses i have the better i shall be pleased. i wish to call him to account for a slander, as vile as it is absurd, which he has dared to repeat, with regard to a young lady, an intimate friend of my family. you said, monsieur----" "i said what every one knows, what ladies of the highest rank will confirm, what the princess oblonsky has long been aware of, and the proof of which i obtained to-day." "might i beg to know in what this said proof consists?" edgar asks, contemptuously. monsieur de hauterive, with an evil smile upon his puffy red lips, draws from his vest-pocket a golden chain to which is attached a crystal locket containing a four-leaved clover. with a hasty movement edgar takes the trinket from him, and searches for the star engraved upon the crystal. "you know the bracelet?" asks de hauterive. "yes," says edgar. "i found it on the staircase of prince capito's lodgings. when i rang the prince's bell his servant informed me that the prince was not at home. as i was perfectly aware that he had been confined to a lounge for two days with a sprained ankle, i naturally supposed that the prince had special reasons for wishing to receive no one. what conclusion do you draw?" edgar's tongue is very dry in his mouth, but he instantly rejoins, "my conclusion is that mademoiselle de meineck, visiting a friend, a lady, who, as i happen to know, has lodgings in that house, lost her bracelet on the landing, and that prince capito has no desire to receive monsieur de hauterive." "your judgment strikes me as kind, rather than acute," says monsieur de hauterive. "will you kindly tell me the name of the friend lodging in number ----?" he adds, with a sneer. edgar is silent. "i thought so!" exclaims de hauterive. "and you would debar me from mentioning what any unprejudiced person must admit, that----" but before he can utter another word his cheek burns from a blow from edgar's open palm. the next moment rohritz leaves the smoking-room, and goes out into the vestibule, longing for solitude and fresh air. there, among the antique hangings, the australian ferns, and the italian magnolias, among the bronze, white-toothed negroes that bear aloft lamps with ground-glass shades shaped like huge flower-cups, he stands, the little bracelet in his hand. he feels stunned; red and blue sparks dance before his eyes, and his throat seems choked. he would fain groan aloud, or dash his head against the wall, so great is his distress. he cannot believe it; and yet all a lover's jealous distrust assails him. he is perfectly aware that his defence of stella was pitiably weak, his invention of a female friend lodging in number ---- clumsy enough; he knows that everything combines to accuse her. has he been deceived for the second time in his life? whom can he ever trust, if those grave, dark, child-like eyes have been false? and suddenly in the midst of his torment he is possessed by overwhelming pity. "poor child! poor child!" he says to himself. "neglected, dragged about the world, without any one to care for her, fatherless, and the same as motherless!" should he judge her? no, he will defend her, hide her fault, protect her from the whole world. but a stern voice within asks, "what protection do you mean? will you--dare you offer her the only thing that can save her from the world,--your hand?" he is tortured. no, he cannot. and yet how desperately he loves her! why did he not take her in his arms when she lay at his feet in the little skiff, and shield her next his heart forever? he must see her; an irresistible longing seizes him; yes, he must see her,--insult her, mistreat her, it may be,--but clasp her in his arms though he should kill her. "why are you standing here, like othello with desdemona's handkerchief?" he suddenly hears his brother ask, close beside him. he starts, closes his fingers over the bracelet, and tries to assume an indifferent air. "where is stella?" inquires thérèse, who is with her husband. "how should i know?" asks edgar. "but some one must know! some one must find her!" she exclaims, in a very bad humour. "the lipinskis have gone home, and have placed her in my charge, and i must wait until she is found before we too can go home. ah, do you want to dance the cotillon with her? pray find her, and as soon as you have done so we must go home,--instantly! i do not want to stay another moment." and, in a state of evident nervous agitation, thérèse suddenly turns to her husband, and continues, "i cannot imagine, edmund, how you could bring me to this ball!" "that is a little too much!" her husband exclaims, angrily. "had i the faintest desire to come to this ball? did i not try for two long weeks to dissuade you from coming? but you had one reply for all my objections: 'marie de stèle is going too.' since you are so determined never, under any circumstances, to blame yourself, blame the duchess de stèle, not me." "marie de stèle could not possibly know that a russian diplomatist would bring that woman to this ball and present her as his wife." "neither could i," rejoins her husband. "a man ought to know such things," thérèse retorts; "but you never know anything that everybody else does not know, you never have an intuition; although you have been away from your own country for fifteen years, you are the very same simple-minded austrian that you always were." "and i am proud of it!" edmund ejaculates, angrily. "be as proud as you please, for all i care," says thérèse, as, at once angry and exhausted, she sinks into a leathern arm-chair. "but now, for heaven's sake, find stella meineck, that we may get away at last." edgar has already departed in search of her. he passes through the long suite of rooms, for the most part empty because all the guests are in the dining-rooms at present. "they neither of them know anything yet," he says to himself, bitterly, and his heart beats wildly as he thinks, "if she can only explain it all!" he searches for a while in vain. at last he enters the conservatory. a low sound of sobbing, reminding one of some wounded animal who has crept into some hiding-place to die, falls upon his ear. he hurries on. there, in the same little boudoir where he had lately been with the princess oblonsky, stella is cowering on a divan in the darkest corner, her face hidden in her hands, her whole frame convulsed with sobs. "baroness stella!" he says, advancing. she does not hear him. "stella!" he says, more loudly, laying his hand on her arm. she starts, drops her hands in her lap, and gazes at him with such terrible despair in her eyes that for an instant he trembles for her reason. he forgets everything,--all that has been tormenting him; his soul is filled only with anxiety for her. "what is the matter? what distresses you?" he asks. "i cannot tell it," she replies, in a voice so hoarse, so agonized, that he hardly knows it for hers. "it is something horrible,--disgraceful! it was in the dining-room i was sitting rather alone, when i heard two gentlemen talking. i caught my own name, and then--and then--i would not believe it; i thought i had not heard aright then the gentlemen passed me, and one of them looked at me and laughed, and then--and then--i saw an english girl whom i knew at the britannia, in venice--she was with her mother, and she came up to me and held out her hand with a smile, but her mother pulled her back,--i saw her,--and she turned away. and then came stasy----" her eyes encounter rohritz's. "ah! you have heard it too!" she moans and puts her hands up to her throbbing temples. her cheeks are scarlet; she is half dead with shame and horror. "you too!" she repeats. "i knew that something would happen to me at this ball when i found i had lost my bracelet again, but i never--never thought it would be so horrible as this! oh, papa, papa, i only hope you did not hear,--did not see; you could not rest peacefully in your grave." and again she buries her face in her hands and sobs. a short pause ensues. "she is innocent; of course she is innocent," an inward voice exclaims exultantly, and rohritz is overwhelmed with remorse for having doubted her for an instant. he would fain fall down at her feet and kiss the hem of her dress. "be comforted: your bracelet is found," he whispers, softly. "here it is!" she snatches it from him. "ah, where did you find it?" she asks, eagerly, her eyes lighting up in spite of her distress. "i did not find it. monsieur de hauterive found it on the first landing of the staircase at number ----, rue d'anjou," he says, speaking with difficulty. "ah, i might have known! i must have lost it when i went to see my poor aunt corrèze, and when i dropped my bundles on the stairs!" she is not in the least embarrassed. she evidently does not even know that zino's lodgings are in the rue d'anjou. "your aunt corrèze?" asks rohritz. "do you not know about my aunt corrèze?" she stammers. "yes, i know who she is." "she was very unhappy in her first marriage," stella goes on, now in extreme confusion, "very unhappy, and--and--she did not do as she ought; but she married corrèze four years ago,--corrèze, who abused her, and who is now giving concerts in america. she recognized me in the street from a photograph of me which papa sent her from venice. she was so sweet to me, and yet so sad and shy, and she had her little daughter with her, a beautiful child, very like her, only with black hair. papa once begged me to be kind to her if i ever met her, for his sake. what could i do? i could not ask her to come to us, for mamma will not hear her mentioned, and has for years burned all her letters unanswered. once or twice i arranged a meeting with her in the louvre; then she was taken ill, and could not go out, and wanted to see me. i went to see her without letting mamma know. it was not right, but--papa begged me to be kind to her----" her large, dark eyes look at him helpless and imploring. "poor child! your kind heart was sorely tried," he murmurs, very gently. "i am so glad to be able to tell some one all about it," she confesses: she has quite forgotten her terrible, disgraceful trial, in the child-like sensation of delightful security with which rohritz always inspires her. the tears still shine upon her cheeks, but her eyes are dry. she tries to fasten the bracelet on her wrist; rohritz kneels down beside her to help her; suddenly he possesses himself of the bracelet. "stella," he whispers, softly and very tenderly, "there is no denying that you are very careless with your happiness. let me keep it for you: it will be safer with me than with you." she looks at him, without comprehending; she is only aware of a sudden overwhelming delight,--why, she hardly knows. "stella, my darling, my treasure, could you consent to marry me?--could you learn to enjoy life at my side?" "learn to enjoy?" she repeats, with a smile that is instantly so deeply graven in his heart that he remembers it all his life afterwards. "learn to enjoy?" she puts out her hands towards him; but just as he is about to clasp her to his heart she withdraws them, trembling, and turns pale. "would you marry a girl at whom all paris will point a scornful finger to-morrow?" she sobs. "point a scornful finger at my betrothed?" he cries, indignantly. "have no fear, stella; i know the world better than you do: that finger will be pointed at the worthless woman whose wounded vanity invented the monstrous slander. there is still some _esprit de corps_ among the angels. those in heaven do not permit evil to be wrought against their earthly sisters. one kiss, stella, my star, my sunshine, my own darling." for an instant she hesitates, then shyly touches his temple with her soft warm lips. "one upon your gray hair," she murmurs. they suddenly hear an approaching footstep. rohritz starts to his feet, but it is only his brother, who says, as he advances towards them,-- "where the deuce are you hiding, edgar? my wife is frantic with impatience." "thérèse must be merciful," edgar replies, with a smile. "when for once one finds the flower of happiness in his pathway, one cannot say, 'i have no time to pluck you; my sister-in-law is waiting for me.'" "aha!" edmund exclaims, with a low bow. "hm! thérèse will be vexed because i was right, and not she; but i rejoice with all my heart, not because i was right, but because i could wish you no better fortune in this world." * * * * * stella's betrothal to edgar is now a week old. thérèse was vexed at first at her own want of penetration, but it was an irritation soon soothed. she is absorbed in providing the most exquisite trousseau that money and taste combined can procure in paris. zino, too, was vexed, first that stella should have been subjected to annoyance on his account, and in the second place because his temporary lameness prevented his challenging de hauterive. "it was tragic enough not to be able to dance the cotillon with our star, but not to be able to fight for the star is intolerable." thus capito declares in a long congratulatory epistle to edgar, adding, in a postscript, "the ladies in whose honour certain pictures were turned, as you lately observed, with their faces to the wall, were the lipinskis, mother and daughter. i am betrothed to natalie." the princess oblonsky has left paris for naples; the fuhrwesen accompanied her. monsieur de hauterive is said to have followed her. stasy is left behind in paris, where she meditates sadly upon the ingratitude of human nature. she is no longer an ardent admirer of the oblonsky. and the lovers? the scene is the little drawing-room with the blue furniture and bright carpet at the "three negroes." the baroness is sitting at her writing-table, scribbling away with all her wonted energy at something or other which is never to be finished; the floor around her is strewn with torn and crumpled sheets of paper. from without come the sound of heavy and light wheels, the echo of heavy and light footsteps. but through all the noise of the streets is heard a dreamy, monotonous murmur, the slow drip of melting snow. a thaw has set in, and the water is dripping from the roofs. sometimes the baroness pauses in her writing and listens. there is something strangely disturbing to her in the simple sound: she does not clearly catch what the water-drops tell her; she no longer understands their speech. beside the fire sit edgar and stella. his left arm is in a sling. in the duel with small-swords which took place a couple of days after the fanes' ball he received a slight wound. therefore there is an admixture of grateful pity in stella's tenderness for him. they are sitting, hand clasped in hand, devising schemes and building airy castles for the future,--the long, fair future. "one question more, my darling," rohritz whispers to his beautiful betrothed, who still conducts herself rather shyly towards him. "how do you mean to arrange your life?" "how do i mean--have i any decision to make?" "indeed you have, dearest," he says, smiling. "my part in life is to see you happy." "how good and dear you are to me!" stella murmurs. "how could you torment me so long,--so long?" "do you suppose i was happy the while, dear love?" he whispers. her reproach touches him more nearly than she thinks. how could he hesitate so long, is the question he now puts to himself. what has he to offer her, he with his weary, doubting heart, in exchange for her pure, fresh, untouched wealth of feeling? "but to return to my question," he begins afresh. "will you live eight months in society and four months in the country?--or just the other way?" "just the other way, if i may." "jack leskjewitsch wrote me at the close of his note of congratulation--the most cordial of any which i have had yet--that his wife wishes to sell erlach court, and thus deprive him of all temptation to retire for a second time to that capua from a military life. shall i buy erlach court for you, stella,--for you?--for your special property?" "it would be delightful," she murmurs. "let us be married, then, here in paris at the embassy, and meanwhile have everything in readiness for us at erlach court. we can then make a tour through southern france to our home for our wedding journey." but stella shakes her head: "no, our wedding journey must be to zalow, to visit papa's grave. you see, when he gave me the four-leaved clover that you have round your neck now he said, 'and if ever heaven sends you some great joy, say to yourself that your poor father prayed the dear god that it might fall to your share!' so i must go to him first to thank him: do you not see?" edgar nods. then, looking at the girl almost mournfully, he says,-- "is the joy really so great, my darling?" she makes no reply in words, but gently, almost timidly, she puts her rounded arm about him and leans her head on his breast. meanwhile, the baroness looks round. 'tis strange how the monotonous melody of the falling water-drops interferes with her work. a kind of wondering melancholy possesses her at sight of the lovers: she turns away her head and lays her pen aside. * * * * * "the world was all before them where to choose their place of rest, and providence their guide," she murmurs to herself. "'tis strange how well the words suit the beginning of every young marriage. and yet they are the last words of 'paradise lost.'" the end. printed by j. b. lippincott company, philadelphia. transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/storyageniusfro lockgoog . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. . there are three stories included in this volume: (a) the story of a genius (b) the nobl' zwilk (c) what happened to holy saint pancras of evolo the story of a genius from the german of ossip schubin englished by e. h. lockwood r. f. fenno & company: and e. sixteenth street :: new york copyright, by r. f. fenno & company _the story of a genius_ the story of a genius i monsieur alphonse de sterny will come to brussels in november and conduct his oratoria of "satan." this short notice in the _indépendence belge_ created a general sensation. the musicians shrugged, bit their lips, and sneered about the public's injustice toward home talent. the "great world,"--between ourselves the most unmusical "world" in the universe,--very nearly stepped out of its aristocratic apathy. this is something which seldom happens to it in artistic matters, but now, for a whole week it talked nothing but de sterny: of his octave playing a little, and of his love affairs a great deal. in autumn brussels has so little to talk about! alphonse de sterny had been in his day a great virtuoso and a social lion. reigning belles had contended for his favor; george sand was said to have written a book about him, nobody knew exactly which one; the fair princess g---- was supposed to have taken poison on his account. but five years before the appearance of this notice in the _indépendence belge_, de sterny had suddenly withdrawn from the world. during that time he had not given any concerts, nor had he produced any new piano pieces, in his well-known style, paraphrases and fantasies on favorite airs. now, for the first in that long interval his name emerged, and in connection with an oratorio! de sterny and an oratorio! the world found that a little odd. the artists thought it a great joke. ii it is november fifth, the day on which the first rehearsal of "satan" is to be held, under the composer's own direction. in the concert hall of the "grand harmonic" the performers are already assembled. in honor of the distinguished guest half a dozen more gas jets are burning than is usual at rehearsals, yet the large hall with its dark auditorium and the dim flickering light on its stage, has a desolate, ghostly air. a smell of gas, dust and moist cloth pervades the atmosphere. a grey rime of congealed mist clings to and trickles down the clothes of the latest arrivals. one sees within the hall how bad the weather must be without. the lusty male chorus, with their pear-shaped flemish faces, their picturesquely soiled linen, and their luxuriant growth of hair, knock off the clay from their boots and turn down the legs of their trousers. the disheveled female chorus, on whose shoulders the locks are hanging out of curl, complain of indisposition, and exchange cough lozenges. the members of the orchestra work away sulkily on their instruments. across the dissonance of the thrilling fiddles darts the sharp sound of a string that breaks. two dilettanti have slipped in by favor. one is a young piano teacher of german extraction, who raves about the music of the future. the other is an amateur, well known in brussels by the nickname of "l'ami de rossini." the instruments are tuned; here and there a violin practices a scale. the gas jets chirp faintly. the male chorus stamp their feet to keep warm, and rub their red knuckles together. de sterny is letting himself be waited for. the friend of rossini makes up to the lady soloists. "madame," he says to the alto, whose engagement at the "monnaie" he had helped to bring about, "madame, i pity you. de sterny is an exponent of this new music of the future. his compositions are among the most ungrateful tasks ever set the human throat. one only needs to sing them to expiate by penance all one's musical pleasures." "you are too severe, monsieur," said the alto. "no one can wonder at the 'friend of rossini' for hating the music of the future, and i grant that some numbers of this oratorio are quite astonishingly dull. but with some of the others, monsieur, i predict that you will have to confess yourself in sympathy." "_i_, confess myself in sympathy with the music of the future!" "well, well," said the alto, soothingly, "up to a certain point i agree with your aversion, but you must grant all the same that wagner and berlioz are composers of genius, and that the music of the future has opened new regions of art." "what has it opened? a parade ground for pretentious mediocrity! i'll grant this much, that wagner and berlioz are ill-doers of genius. but the 'school!' and this new invention they call descriptive music! an insurrection of fiddles screaming over against one another! and they give it names. 'battleo of the horatii'--'eruption of vesuvius'--so that the audience may have something to think about since they can't feel anything, except headache!" l'ami de rossini laughed very much at his own joke. "h'm!-m! and this fine work of de sterny's," he began again, "i suppose it consists of splendid paraphrases upon poverty of thought." "the 'satan' contains pearls which will enchant you," replied the alto. "but see--here comes de sterny! i commend the 'duet of the outcasts' to your attention." followed by the capellmeister and a little group of intimate admirers, alphonse de sterny stepped upon the platform. the german pianist started and raised a pair of rapture dilated eyes. de sterny, who was well accustomed to create that sort of excitement, smiled faintly, threw her an encouraging glance, and nodding to the bowing orchestra took his place before the conductor's desk. then he let his keen eyes run over the ranks of his musical forces. the violin rows were not even. "who is absent?" he asked, pointing to the vacant place. the violins looked at one another, murmured a name indistinctly, and some one said, "he is excused." "he is only just out of the hospital," explained the capellmeister, "he often is irregular about rehearsals." "and you permit that?" asked de sterny, with his deliberate smile. "he--he--never spoils anything at the concerts, and i have consideration for him because, because,"--the capellmeister stammered, embarrassed, and stopped short. "but certainly it is an inexcusable irregularity and should be punished," he added. de sterny shrugged his shoulders. "don't disturb yourself," he said, "but next time i hope i shall find my musical forces all together." he rapped on the desk. his manner of conducting was characteristic. it recalled neither the fiery contortions of verdi, nor the demoniac energy of berlioz. his movements at first were quiet, almost weary, his countenance wore an expression of fixed concentration; suddenly his eyes lighted up, his lip quivered, his breast heaved as an exciting climax approached, he raised his arms higher and higher, like wings with which he would wrench himself free from earth; then all at once he collapsed with a look of dejected exhaustion. "he is killing himself!" sighed the pianist, in a gush of sympathy. but the friend of rossini said testily: "he is an incarnate phrase like his own music, and just as full of grimaces!" the introductory figure had confirmed his aversion to de sterny. "a pretentious fuss!" he muttered grimly, while the pianist with her hand on her heart declared she had "heard the fall of avalanches!" the figure was repeated and left for future study, and then the alto laid aside her furs, rose, threw the "friend of rossini" one glance, drew her mouth into the regulation oratorio smile, and began. upon a somewhat dramatic recitation there followed a meltingly sweet, inexpressibly mournful melody! yes, really a _melody_! as simple, genuine and tender as a melody of mozart, but adapted to the requirements of our modern pain craving ears by a few bitter-melancholy modulations. the friend of rossini could scarcely believe his senses. and now with every number,--a few bombastic interludes excepted--the beauties of "satan" increased until at last at the "duet of the outcasts," a duet wherein the whole human race seems to weep for its lost heaven, the orchestra rose and broke into enthusiastic applause. de sterny shed tears, assured them it was the happiest moment of his life, and the execution of the orchestra surpassed all his hopes, the pianiste fell into raptures, and the friend of rossini growled, while he mechanically moved his hands in applause, "where did he get that now? a plagiarism--a mass of plagiarism--but from whence?" the duet was followed by a really hateful finale, which the more experienced among the musicians forgave for the sake of the oratorio's otherwise uncommon beauties. the musical craft generally put their envy in their pockets, didn't understand, but made their bows as became them before a great mystery. next morning, de sterny, in the coupe of the countess c---- drove up the steep street montague de la cour. he was going to be served with an exquisite breakfast, by gold laced lackeys, and to let himself be buzzed about by mind perverting flatteries uttered in soft aristocratic voices. suddenly he saw something that interested--that startled him. before one of the large red posters which announced the approaching oratorio performance, stood a broad-shouldered man with worn-out boots, shabby clothes, and a soft felt hat dragged down over his ears. a crowd of wagons blocked the way, and the coupe was obliged to stop. again the virtuoso glanced at the shabby man; this time he saw him in profile. strange! de sterny turned pale as a corpse and leaned back shuddering in the soft green satin cushions of the carriage. could it be that he knew the shabby man, or had known him before the brutalizing stamp of drink had disfigured his face? who knows? for the matter of that there was enough in the stranger's appearance to draw a glance and a shudder from any passer-by. round shoulders, a loose carriage, a slouching walk, and yet in the whole person and expression of broken-down vigor, and burned-out fire. a handsome face, with somewhat too full red lips, a short nose, powerful brow and eyes, the latter contracting and peering out like those of a wild animal that shuns the light, or like those of a man who will see nothing but the narrow path in which he is condemned to walk, or, perhaps, where he has condemned himself to walk, for life: in the whole countenance the marks of past anguish and present degradation. meanwhile the jam has given way, and while c---- cream colors, striking out to regain lost time, bring the great man rapidly up to the countess's palace, the shabby stranger enters one of those butter shops out of which, in the rear, a liquor shop usually opens, and calls for a glass of gin. iii who was he? what was he? one of those riddles that heaven sends from time to time down to earth to be solved. but the earth occasionally finds the task too difficult and buries the riddle unread in her bosom. he was born in brussels, the son of a chorus singer in the theatre "de la monnaie," and of one of those hungarian gipsy musicians, who appear now here now there in the capitals and small towns of europe, always in bands, like troops of will-o'-the-wisps, carrying on their unwarranted and unjustifiable but bewitching musical nonsense. the mother, margaretha von zuylen, she was called, gave the boy the first name of his hungarian father, who had disappeared before the child saw the light. the flemish woman's son was named gesa, gesa von zuylen. he had a dark-eyed face, framed by black curls; at the same time he was somewhat rounded in feature, and heavily built, indicating that he was a son of his flat, canal-intersected fatherland. his temperament was a strange mixture of dreamy inertness and fitful fire. the alley in which he grew up was called the rue ravestein, and stretched itself crooked and uneven, dirty and neglected, behind the rue montagne de la cour, out toward st. gudule. the nooks and corners of that region, albeit close to the brilliant centre of urban civilization, have an ill name, are picturesquely disreputable, and quite unrecognized by the good society of brussels. no carriage can pass here, partly because the alleys are too narrow, partly because their original unevenness--no country in the world has a more hilly capital than flat belgium--is increased here and there by a few rickety steps. consequently nearly all the inhabitants extend their domestic establishments into the open air. the active life and the dirt remind one of southern cities. decaying vegetables, squirrel skins, paper flowers, old ball gloves, ashes, and other trash make themselves comfortable on the large irregular stones of the pavement, and through the middle slowly creep the dull and stagnant waters of the drain. long-legged hyena-like dogs, with crooked backs and rough hides, that remind the visitor of constantinople, belonging to nobody, snuff amongst the refuse; scissors-grinders, and other roofless vagabonds, lie, according to the time of year, in the shade or the sunshine; untidy women in dirty wrappers, with slovenly hair caught up on pins, lean out of windows and carry on endless conversations; others stand in the house doors, a puffy red fist on either hip, and look forth, blinking at time creeping by. the houses are not alike, some are narrow and tall, some broad and low, as if crowded into the ground by their monstrous red-green roofs. in a few windows are flower pots, others are closely curtained. small, not particularly tempting drinking shops, with dark red woodwork, on which is written in white letters, "hier verkoopt men drank," frequently break the rows of dwellings. any one of these alleys, in gesa's youth, might have passed for all the rest, only the rue ravestein perhaps was still more disreputably picturesque than the others. with the lazy hum of its vagabond life there mingled the sound of the coffin maker's hammer and the sharp stroke of the stone mason's chisel. against the rear wall of an ancient grey church there leaned an enormous crucifix, and from beneath the time-blackened halo around his head, the redeemer looked sadly down on the shame and misery that he had not been able to banish from the world. two narrow church windows mirrored themselves in the waters of the drain, that is, on days when the drain was clear enough. in these surroundings gesa grew up. his mother belonged among those females who stood in the house doors and blinked at time creeping by. she was a type of a handsome fleming, tall, somewhat heavy, with powerful limbs and a red and white complexion. her red lips parted indolently over very white teeth, a delicate pink played about her nostrils. she had the prominent eyes and the richly waving, luxuriant, tawny hair with which rubens liked to adorn his magdalens. when she was not engaged at the theatre, or standing in the house door, she was lounging on her straw bed in the gaunt room, reading robber stories out of old journals, that were bought from an antiquary in a rag shop near by, and circulated from hand to hand among the gossips of the rue ravestein. lazy to sleepiness, good-humored to weakness, she had ever a caress for gesa, and a merry frolic for the big grey cat. she lived only in the moment. in the beginning of the month, she fed the boy with dainties, toward the end she ran in debt. from his earliest youth gesa was musical. before he could speak, he would look up with great dark eyes to his mother, enchanted when she rocked him in her arms and sang a cradle song. a friend of margaretha taught the little one to play on the violin. gesa learned extraordinarily fast. the chorus singer's financial condition growing constantly more and more unfortunate, led her to make use of her son's talent, and she actually procured him an engagement, when he was hardly nine years old, in the band of a circus that had erected its temporary booths on the "grand sablon," and whose company consisted of an acrobat of conspicuous beauty, a particularly unpleasant dwarf named molaro, four monkeys and a pony, the height of whose accomplishments it was to stand on three legs, though that might have been due to infirmity rather than art. gesa's orchestral duties consisted in supporting, along with an old flutist, the musical disorders of a narrow-chested, long-haired youth, who hammered waltzes and polkas on a tired old spinnet, while at the same time, as he confessed to little gesa with a sigh, he had vainly longed all his life to be entrusted with the execution of a funeral march! the circus gave its performances from two to four in the afternoon, and was always empty. while gesa, behind the orchestra rails, fiddled his simple part mechanically, his childish eyes peered out into the ring beyond. there he saw the acrobat, bedizened in paint and tinsel, with pink tights and green silk hose, a gold circlet on his head, throwing somersaults in the air, and contorting his limber body on a trapeze. he saw the dwarf, with his big red bristly head, and his tights, yellow on one side and blue on the other, making disgusting jokes. the dwarf was always applauded. the little monkeys tremblingly played their bits of tricks. the smell of sawdust, gas, orange peel and monkeys crept into the little fiddler's nostrils, he sneezed. then he grew sleepy, and his bow stopped. "allons donc!" wheezed the pianist, stamping his foot. gesa opened his eyes, and met those of his mother, who sat blonde and phlegmatic at the edge of the ring. she smiled and nodded to him; he fiddled on. when the chorus singer was not hindered by rehearsals at the theatre, she never omitted a performance of the circus. gesa imagined she came to hear him play. but one fine day gesa was rude to the dwarf molaro, and paid for it with his place in the orchestra. margaretha, however, still continued a regular visitor at the circus. and then there came an april afternoon with cold showers of rain and violent blustering wind. winter and spring waged war without. gesa, who since he had ceased to have a regular occupation, read incessantly in the knight and robber romances of his mother, sat bent over the faded and tattered leaves of an old journal, completely lost in a tale of terror, both elbows planted on the shaky table and a finger in each ear. margaretha entered, and came up to him. "your supper stands already prepared in the cupboard," she said, stammering and hesitating. "you--you need not wait for me. i shall come home late. adieu, my treasure!" "adieu, mama," said he, indifferently. he was used to her coming home late and scarcely looked up from his reading. she went. five minutes later she returned. "have you forgotten something, mother?" he asked. "yes," muttered his mother. she was flushed, and searched about aimlessly, now here, now there. at last she came and bent over the boy, kissed him once, twice, thrice, pressing his head to her breast. "god guard thee," she murmured, and went away. gesa read on. presently, he was obliged to brush away something bright that obscured the already indistinct print of the journal. it was a tear of his mother. gesa lay down that night as usual, when margaretha was engaged at the theatre, without fastening the door. when he awoke next morning, he found his mother's bed empty. frightened he cried "mother! mother!" he knew she could not hear him; he cried out to relieve the oppression at his heart. slipping into his clothes he ran down into the street. the gutter, brimming full from the melted snow, quivered in the morning wind. slanting red sunbeams shimmered in the church windows. a few melancholy organ tones sounded through the grey walls out into the empty street. gesa wept bitterly. "mother!" he cried, louder and more pitifully than ever--"mother!" she had always been kind to him. he looked up and down. the whole world had grown empty for him. he understood that his mother had deserted him. the children in the rue ravestein understand so quickly! a long thin hand was laid on his shoulder. he looked up, beside him stood a gentleman whom he knew. the gentleman lived on the first floor of the house where margaretha's garret was. he was pale as the christ on the great crucifix, and looked down almost as sadly. "poor fellow!" he murmured, "she has left thee?" gesa bit his teeth into his under lip, turned very red and shook off the stranger's hand. he felt for the first time that pity can humiliate. the strange gentleman, however, stroked him very softly on the head, and said once more, "poor fellow! you must not blame her. love is like that!" "what is love?" asked gesa, looking at him steadily. the stranger cleared his throat. "a sickness, a fever," said he, hastily, "a fever in which one dreams beautiful things--and does hateful ones." iv m. gaston delileo was the stranger's name, but in the rue ravestein they never called him anything but "the sad gentleman,"--the "droevige herr." he might have been between forty and fifty years old, had a yellow face that reminded one of a carving in old ivory, wore a full beard, and long straight black hair parted in the middle of his forehead. except in the hottest summer weather he never went on the street otherwise than wrapped in an old dark blue, red-lined carbonari cloak. about seven months before, he had moved into the rue ravestein, stroked the children's heads, greeted the women in passing, was generally liked and associated with no one. before margaretha's flight she had secretly placed a letter in the otherwise empty letter-box before his door, begging that he would adopt the boy, thereby showing some shrewd knowledge of character in trusting to his benevolence. his wife was dead: his only child, a little daughter, at that time hardly seven years old, was being brought up by relatives in france, as his bachelor housekeeping would have made it difficult for him to give the child proper care. thus widowed and solitary, afflicted moreover with a great heart that needed love, and had never all his life long been satisfied, he took the boy to himself without any overnice reasoning upon the subject. "come to breakfast," he said quite simply, took the orphan by the hand and led him into his own dwelling. when the meal was over, and while m. delileo, with that rage for systematizing which often distinguishes especially unpractical people, was bending over his writing table, making out a plan of education, a division of hours, and finally a long list of things which gesa might possibly need within the next ten years, the boy slipped curiously around in the little room, and examined its arrangement. the furniture was a decayed mixture of stiff, military empire, and pretentious, crooked louis-philippe. on the walls hung a few sketches by once celebrated masters, with dedications "à mon chère ami, etc.," a few poet's autographs in little black frames, and besides these the rapidly executed portrait of a very beautiful woman, in a white satin dress with a great many strings of pearls around her neck, and a little crown on her head. "is that the queen?" asked gesa of his new protector. whereupon the "droevige herr," rising up from his occupation, answered, not without a certain solemnity, "that, my child, that was the gualtieri!" "ah!" said gesa, and was exactly as wise as before. how indeed was he to know that the gualtieri in her time had been one of the most famous, and alas! one of the most infamous artistes in the world? "she was a queen too,--a queen of song," added delileo after a pause. "and did you know her?" asked gesa, still absorbed in staring at the romantically costumed lady. "she was my wife," answered delileo with emphasis, and an eloquent gesture. "ah! then she must have loved you very much," observed gesa, seriously, wishing to say something pleasant. but delileo shrank and turned away his head. beneath this portrait, day after day, on a shabby black marble-top table, stood fresh flowers in a crumbling blue delft pitcher. v immediately upon the beginning of their life together, delileo made a correct estimate of his protégé's musical gifts, and thanks to some artist connections that still remained to him, he procured instruction for gesa from one of the most famous violinists at that time established in the brussels conservatory. he cared for the rest of gesa's education himself. a curious education, truly! "correct spelling and an extensive knowledge of literature," he would assert, "are two absolute necessities of a gentleman's culture, further than that he needs nothing." gesa's orthography, in spite of his instructor's praiseworthy efforts, remained somewhat uncertain, his knowledge of literature on the contrary made astonishing progress, and soon reached from the "essais de montaigne," delileo's first hobby, to delileo's own romance--his second hobby. this romance, which was called "the twilight of the gods," and had been waiting ten years in vain for a publisher, formed a striking counterpart to delileo's carbonari cloak. like that romantic article of apparel it smelled of mould, and the breath of superannuated philanthropic theories hovered about it. it began with a legend and ended with an ode. many an evening the elder spent in reading this nondescript production to his protégé, gesa always attending with the devout fervor which believing natures bring to mysteries they do not understand. an odd couple they made, the broken man with his nervous restlessness, the restlessness of one who has accomplished nothing, and who sees the grave before him--and the vigorous young fellow, with his healthy laziness, the self-confident laziness of one who feels a great talent within him and to whom life seems as if it could never end. the weary spirit of one strayed constantly back, from the hopeless insipidity of his present, to an utopia of the year thirty: the other's imagination, meanwhile, crippled by no sort of experience, galloped confidently out into the future, behind a double team of fresh young chimeras! enthusiasts were they both,--delileo the more unpractical of the two. poor gaston delileo! he belonged in the category of universal geniuses; for which reason he had brought his genius to the attainment of absolutely nothing in the universe! music, painting, literature, political economy,--he had pursued them all, one after the other or simultaneously, just as it happened, and all with the greatest zeal. he had believed with devout idealism in the capacity of society for improvement. he had adopted the theories of st. simon, and had worn with enthusiasm the vest laced up behind of that brotherhood, and a headband on which his name was embroidered. history relates that the st. simonian brotherhood, with their practical division of labor, limited his activity in the beginning to the contribution of money and the brushing of boots! later they enrolled him the memorable "three hundred," who set forth to seek the mother of the sect in foreign lands, after madame de stael had declined that post of honor. his money was gone, his illusion had changed to disgust. he had withdrawn in melancholy from the world, seeking to hide himself and his disappointment. he wished nothing but to forget and be forgotten:--that is in the present; from the future, a far-off, misty future, he still hoped something--for his romance. meanwhile he supported existence by copying notes,--like rousseau. two, three years passed by, gesa became as handsome as a youth in a picture. at delileo's side he could not fail to gain cultivation of mind and heart, but associated with the eccentric st. simonian he remained a stranger to all discipline of character. more and more there was revealed a want of concentration, and a vague dreaminess in his nature which to a practiced observer, would have boded no good for his future. he could never maintain a medium between relaxed indolence and exhausting ardor: in tough, persistent capacity for work he failed altogether, and whatever did not come to him by inspiration, he acquired with greater difficulty than did the most commonplace pupil of the conservatory. upon all this, however, his violin-professor made no reflections. gesa not only played his instrument with a skill unheard of for his years, but he also improvised with wonderful originality, at least, so said the professor--who marked nothing but the gigantic strides of the boy's progress, was proud of his pupil and presented him to one amateur after another. the phlegmatic brusselers were enchanted by his musical extravagances, because he was named gesa, had a handsome brunette face, and was said to have sprung from hungarian origin. their enthusiasm at his performance always culminated in the same words--"how gipsy-like! _comme c'est tsigane!_" at last came a day when gesa was to play for the first time at a public concert. with the colossal conceit of youth, he rejoiced at the thought of his debut the apprehensive gaston delileo on the contrary, lost appetite and sleep. anxiously anticipating a disappointment for the boy, he spent most of his time in exhorting gesa not to care much for a fiasco; an exhortation which the young musician took very impatiently, and ran away from it. with his hat dragged down self-assertingly over his ears, he stamped fuming up and down the rue ravestein, while the sad elder crept back and forth in his chamber above, and foreboded. on the concert evening, delileo could not be moved to enter the music hall. breathless and panting, he stood before the performer's entrance, and held his fingers in his ears. suddenly, in spite of his efforts to exclude every sound, he heard a strange tumult. he let his hands fall. was it a fire alarm? no, it was clapping from hundreds of hands and shouting from hundreds of throats. the next moment he had burst sobbing into the green-room, and held his nurseling in his arms. all the other performers pressed the young fellow's hands, praised him, and promised him a brilliant future. with that naïve arrogance which one so easily pardons in young gods, even while it provokes a pitying smile, he received all these compliments as if they were his proper tribute; but even his unabashed self-possession gave way when the door opened and an elegant young man entered holding out both hands--alphonse de sterny. "my dear young friend," he cried, "i could not let the evening pass without knowing you--without congratulating you." then the young violinist's head sank, he trembled from head to foot, and his hands grew ice cold in those of the great virtuoso. vi alphonse de sterny! the name in those days exercised an enchantment that was mingled with awe upon the ears of every one, be he artist or amateur, who cared for music. in our coldly critical times we can form no idea of the insane idolatry that was addressed, during the decade of the fifties to one or two piano virtuosos. de sterny was among the most famous of these. the sterny craze appeared like an epidemic in every town where he gave his concerts. at the same time the riddle of his power was hard to solve. his envious contemporaries asserted bluntly that he owed his triumphs not so much to the artistic excellence of his playing as to his agreeable person and gracious manners. he was the perfection of a _homme à succès_. gloved and cravated with just precision enough for elegance, sufficiently careless to appear distinguished, ready and malicious enough to pass for witty, dissipated and extravagant enough to be credited with genius, he was also very handsome, wore his hair parted low in the middle of his forehead, and always dressed with quiet correctness in the latest fashion but one, as became a person of the best gentility, avoiding all artist eccentricities. his conversation was amusing, his manners unimpeachable. he was the natural son of a french diplomat, called himself de sterny after his birthplace, and had inherited an income of twenty-five thousand francs, as the world knew; from an italian princess--as the world did not know. his piano playing was beautifully finished, a shower of pearls, a chain of flowers, with a masterly balanced technique, carried out in a dignified execution, never one false note, never any vulgar pounding. certainly the great hungarian pianist, to whose performance a handful of false notes belonged as part of the effect, was wont to remark bitingly that "de sterny played like a countess." but de sterny, to whom the speech was brought by kind friends, only smiled amiably, and continued, at least in the beginning of his career, to delicately caress an instrument which the other pianists maltreated, and electrified a public satiated with musical orgies, by his moderation. he moved almost exclusively in the best social circles, yet he always showed himself ready to do a service for a fellow artist. altogether he was, when gesa first became acquainted with him, a perfectly shallow, perfectly selfish, uncommonly talented, very good-humored, very vain man who loved to hear himself talked about. charlatan he only became later, in order to maintain himself upon the pedestal whither public adulation had driven him. the pedestal was too high! many another might have found himself growing dizzy up there. he loved to patronize, and for that reason did not content himself with pressing gesa's hands, but gave him his address, and invited him to call upon him next morning at the hotel de flandres, "so that we can talk over your future," said he, cheeringly. then he was very amiable to the other artists assembled in the green-room, then he held out his hand to delileo, over whose cheeks the tears were running down, then he clapped the debutant on the shoulder, wished him "good luck!" and disappeared. at the little artist supper, which the manager had arranged for the performers, gesa sat, ate not a mouthful, and spoke not a word. with pale cheeks and fixed eyes he gazed before him into the future,--a future in which the trees bore golden leaves, and their fruit sparkled like diamonds--a future in which dust and mold were unknown things, where forms of radiant beauty wandered among thickets of thornless roses, and the laurel trees bowed before him. in those days gesa von zuylen's eyes were not contracted like the eyes of a wild beast that shuns the light; they were wide open, like a young eagle's whom the sun itself does not blind. vii no one could take up a gifted but obscure beginner more cordially than did the great de sterny the little von zuylen. he invited the boy to breakfast, two, three times in succession, and gesa became a familiar part of the furniture, perhaps rather a favorite ornament in the virtuoso's elegant hotel apartments. he was always obliged to bring his violin, and to improvise for de sterny, who accompanied him on the piano, with the ready skill in following another's feeling, which was his peculiar gift. then he would draw gesa into conversation and laugh immoderately at the boy's original notions. soon he could not meet an acquaintance without crying out to him, "have you seen my little gipsy? i must make you acquainted with my gipsy. he improvises like chopin, only quite otherwise. yesterday he quoted shakespeare to me, and to-day he discovered that marsala is not so good as tokay. and he is handsome,--'_à croquer_.'" in brussels society the rumor of an "eighth wonder of the world" began to spread, and at last the princess l---- arranged a musical soirée for his benefit, on which occasion truly the "eighth wonder" came very near losing his prestige altogether. de sterny took charge with amiable pedantry, of all the details of his protégé's appearance, had him measured for a pair of patent leather shoes, and on the eventful evening tied the boy's white cravat with his own hands, and brought him in his own carriage to the l---- palace. but already in the brilliant vestibule, adorned with old weapons, and two mysterious black suits of armor, gesa's robust self-conceit vanished completely. he who had faced the public at a concert with a lion's courage now clung with almost childish anxiety to de sterny. "have you brought the 'eighth wonder'?" cried the princess to de sterny, as he entered. she was a blonde lady, uncommonly good-natured, very lively, and very short-sighted, for which reason she always held her glass to her eyes. "have you brought the 'eighth wonder'?" cried she, in a tone as if that were something comic. "of course--here it is,--it is named gesa von zuylen--gesa von zuylen, _c'est droll_--is it not, princess? may i beg that you will deal a little carefully with my 'eighth wonder'--it is a little sensitive!" "so--really! that is charming. i am glad when a young artist displays a certain pride, it is always becoming. what eyes he has,"--staring at gesa through her glass--"my husband told me about his eyes. a real true gipsy.--they say he quoted shakespeare of late--i laughed so at that!"-- then, as other guests entered, "pray, endeavor to make the 'eighth wonder' comfortable, de sterny, you are entirely at home here." this was the princess's manner of dealing carefully with a sensitive "eighth wonder." de sterny placed the boy temporarily in a corner, out of which he soon drew him forth to be presented to several ladies and gentlemen. gesa assumed a haughty bearing. the ladies especially were very friendly, and very patronizing, only it scarcely occurred to one of them to address a word to the boy himself. they all talked about him, in his presence, as if he were a picture, or as if he could not understand french. they wondered, and praised and then forgot him while he stood before them, and talked among themselves of other things. it grew more and more uncomfortable for him, and as his embarrassment increased he felt as if he were walking painfully upon smooth thin ice. he shivered a little. everything around him was so bright and cold. the soft, fine, flute-like voices of good society hurt him. light and stinging as snowflakes, their words flew against his burning cheeks. he would have liked to weep. he was an "eighth world-wonder"--they stared at him through a lorgnette, discussed him,--and cared for him no further. listening he heard the words "comes from the rue ravestein."--"what is that, the rue ravestein?" "what is it? that is difficult to explain to a lady,"--"_vraiment_?" "but he gives a perfectly amazing impression of good breeding." "_il n'a pas du tout e' air peuple!_" "but since he is a gipsy,"--gesa felt his throat tighten. "shall we not hear you to-day?" asked the ladies who crowded around de sterny. "me?" he replied, with a laugh, "me? i am only manager to-day--and besides i suffer horribly from stage fright." the moment had come! gesa must play: his heart beat to suffocation. it was not he, but a stolid clod stiffened with bashfulness who stood up and laid his fingers on the strings. in the middle of mendelssohn's g minor concerto he stuck fast, stumbled over himself, picked up, and scrambled painfully through to the end. the composition was never worse played. de sterny was beside himself. gesa would have liked to sink through the floor. a few people applauded because they did not know any better, and a few others because they had not been listening at all. but the greater part shrugged their shoulders, and said "de sterny is an enthusiast." and when the virtuoso tried to say a word in excuse for his protégé and declared he had never heard him play so ill, they answered "bah! we don't blame you for anything, de sterny. we know you are an enthusiast." the company chatted and laughed, and nibbled a little refreshment in their careless fashion. then came a deputation of the handsomest women and begged de sterny to play, whereupon he seated himself at the piano with his usual good-humored readiness, and smiling consciousness of success. after he had played he went to gesa and said: "my dear boy, collect yourself! could you not forget that any one heard you but me, and improvise something? try to remember the theme you last played to me. your future depends upon it. and i would so like to be proud of you!" these last words worked a miracle. "i will play--only--only--that i may not shame you!" murmured gesa. the boy was deathly pale, and trembled all over as he raised his violin, his eyes lighted up--and then hid themselves behind their dark lashes. a rain of fire fell before his vision, a whirl of emotion filled his breast, wild passionate melodies sounded in his ears. had he dreamed them, or had a complaining autumn storm driven them hither from the land of his father? were they echoes of the songs his mother had listened to from her lover, and later had hushed her child to sleep with them, as she rocked him on the threshold of the house in the shabby little street, where the sad saviour looked hopelessly down from the crucifix on the grey church wall? who knows! his violin sang and sobbed as only a hungarian gipsy-violin can; harsh modulations, piercing melodies, a mad tempest of passion,--then one last burst of wild, reckless hilarity--and he broke off, breathless, and gazing fixedly before him. he knew he had done his best. his ears listened greedily. if they expected a storm of applause as at his public debut, they were disappointed. only a little hum, like the dry leaves that an east wind is rustling, buzzed through the room, and as if afar off he heard the words "_charmant, magnifique_, original, tsigane"--his head sank, a black cloud floated before his eyes. de sterny came up and clapped him on the shoulder. "bravo! bravo!" he cried, "we are rehabilitated!" and turning to the company with a triumphant smile, "now did i exaggerate?" but gesa listened no longer for the answer of the salon. he pressed de sterny's hand to his hot lips, and burst into tears. the virtuoso was his heaven, his god. "mais voyons! grand enfant!" said his patron soothingly. and the "world" was enchanted, even more of course by the generosity of the great pianist than by the talent of his protégé! * * * * * "what is a chimera?" asked the little gipsy of his great friend one day. it was in the forenoon. gesa had been turning over the leaves of a french book which he did not understand, "les fleurs du mal," by baudelaire. de sterny meanwhile had been writing letters. he wore a yellow dressing gown of japanese silk, in which he looked like a large mullein. he yawned and stretched himself, looked pale and used up. that he had not slept regularly for fifteen years was very evident from his appearance. "what is a chimera?" asked gesa. "a chimera--a chimera--it is a siren with wings," defined the virtuoso, turning round. "h'm!" gesa lowered his eyes thoughtfully, then raised them inquiringly. "an ennobled siren then?" "yes,--as one takes it." de sterny sat down by the chimney to warm his feet. "deuced cold!--hand me the chartreuse, so--yes, a refined siren if you like," he continued. "the siren has soft human arms with which she draws us into destructive pleasures, the chimera has claws with which she tears our heart. the siren entices us into the mire, the chimera lures us toward heaven,--only we don't reach the heaven, and we often find ourselves very well off in the mire,--deucedly well off! but _saperment_! you don't understand that yet." and he pulled gesa's ear. the boy looked rather confused: he certainly had not understood a word of his patron's tirade. "but some of us reach heaven, the heaven of art, the walhalla, the pantheon," cried he, eagerly, with the bombast of a very young person who has read more than he has understood, and likes to display his little knowledge--"if only one sets out early enough on the way." "oh yes, a few!" murmured the virtuoso with a queer smile. "michael angelo, raphael, beethoven," cried the boy. "shakespeare, milton, mozart, leonardo da vinci," de sterny laughed aloud as he continued the litany. "but i assure you a man must have quite astounding powers to reach that heaven, and lungs constructed expressly for the purpose in order to feel comfortable after he gets there." the pianist yawned slightly. he belonged among those who amuse themselves with the sirens without permitting them to acquire too much power, and who avoid chimeras on principle. but gesa was not yet satisfied. "have all chimeras wings?" he asked, thoughtfully. "god forbid!" cried de sterny. "but"-- "my dear," cried his patron, laughingly, "if you have any more questions to ask, say so, and i will ring for the waiter to bring up an encyclop[oe]dia--i am at the end of my latin!" viii eleven years later, in the middle of may, gesa came back to brussels after a long absence. alphonse de sterny had known how to make practical use of the enthusiasm in brussels society. gesa had been sent on a government pension and supported, moreover, by the favor of several eminent persons, to study under one of the most famous violinists of the time, then settled in paris. he had studied a little, dissipated a great deal, then studied again; had been much admired, much envied; had learned to empty his champagne glass, and to distinguish in women between a coquette and one who will repel an impertinence. he had made his first professional tour, with a famous italian staccato singer, and a still more famous moravian impressario, had earned many laurels, had finally quarreled at nice with the violincellist of the troupe on the singer's account, had challenged the cellist, and insulted the manager. the latter was a reasonable being, however, who did not stand on trifles of that sort, and two months later in paris, when he was engaging a company for his american tour he made gesa a brilliant offer. but the young violinist was rich in the possession of a few thousand francs that remained to him from his last enterprise, and he curtly declined the great marinsky's proposal, saying "the career of a soloist bored him, he wished to devote himself to composition." he was twenty-four years old. at that age many musicians have produced their greatest works. he had published nothing as yet, except a "reverie" that appeared nearly seven years before, with a handsome vignette of the young composer on the title page, in all the pomp of a dilettante production, was bought by the whole faubourg st. germaine, and by hardly any one else. since that time he had scribbled a great deal, but had finished nothing,--and yet he felt so rich! he had only not willed it as yet. he needed quiet for composing. but quiet in paris is an article of luxury that none but very great gentlemen can compel. brussels rose in his memory, brussels with her gothic churches and crooked streets, her zealous catholicism, her luxuriant vegetation and stagnant life. a sort of homesickness overcame him,--he started for brussels. it was the middle of may; may is beautiful in brussels. no long war, only gay skirmishes between sun and rain clear the air. undulating golden vapors weave a dreamy halo, like the atmosphere of old legends, over the perspective of ancient streets that lose themselves in the far distance; they shimmer like luminous shadows around the gothic lace work of st. gudule, and spread their blonde veil over the green pomp of the park. there is something quite mysterious in this hazy light, this mist of dissolved sunbeams, this metallic vibrating and shimmering that illumines sober, grey old brussels in the springtime, like a saint's nimbus. the statues in the park have lost their winter cowls of straw; through the trees, whose feathery foliage gives out a pleasant pungent spring odor, glide the sunbeams, outline the edge of a gnarled black bough with a streak of silver, paint broad spots of light on a mighty bole, slip gaily into the moist grass and play hide-and-seek among the transparent leaf-shadows. around the house of the prince of orange luxuriant blooming lilac bushes toss their white and pale purple plumes; before the koenigsgarten dreamily waves a sea of violet rhododendrons; and heavy with fragrance, warmly enervating, a scarcely perceptible breath of wind stirs the air, the sirocco of the north. gesa went with vigorous strides from the gare du midi, across the boulevard, to the rue ravestein. everything interested him, everything seemed like home. he stood still, looked about him, smiled, went a little further, and again stood still, in his foolish absent fashion. now he turned off from the montagne de la cour--before his eyes stretched the rue ravestein. a strange nameless feeling overcame him, a feeling of agitation and anxiety. he could have turned and fled, yet he drew nearer and nearer. soft golden haze wove itself over everything. the strange little alley, with its architecture of the middle ages, and its crucifix leaning against the black church wall, looked like an old picture painted on a gold background. "is monsieur delileo at home?" asked gesa at the door of the well-known dwelling. the unaccustomed flemish words fell haltingly from his lips. the maid, who was busied (unexampled waste of time!) in cleaning the threshold, looked up at him somewhat astonished, and nodded. his heart beat as he entered the vestibule, and hastily cleared the old wooden stairs that groaned under the storming of his impatient young feet. he knocked at the door but received no answer, and he entered the chamber, which still contained the old green carpet. it was much cleaner than when he and delileo had lived there together; even a little coquettish in its arrangement. a strange narcotic, dreamy odor streamed to meet him. under the portrait of the gualtieri, in the crumbling delft pitcher, stood a large bouquet of tempting iris-hued poppies,--those bewitching, beautiful, enormous flowers that are known by the name of "_pavots de nice_." the door of this first room was open; on the outer wall of the farther chamber was a glass enclosed balcony. there at a little round table, opposite one another, sat delileo--and his daughter! gesa started, and looked at the maiden dumb with admiration. nowhere except in italy had he seen features with at once such regular and such peculiarly rounded lines. the girl's little head rested upon a pair of strong classic shoulders, her colorless face was lighted by a pair of mysterious, dark eyes, and scarlet lips. delileo's daughter, notwithstanding she scarcely counted seventeen years, had nothing of the angular grace that belongs to northern maidens: her whole being breathed an enchanting, luxuriant ripeness. while gesa stood there, lost in this unexpected vision, delileo looked up, winked as if dazzled, stretched out his head, the young musician smiled and stepped forward. "gesa! thou!" and in the next moment the "droevige herr" held his foster son in his arms. the two shed some pleasant tears, then delileo pushed the young man away from him, the better to see him, then he embraced him again. "and will you stay with us for a little while?" he asked, and his voice trembled. "as long as you will let me, father," replied gesa. "i want to work in quiet near you; that is, i know that here is no place for me, but i will lodge in your neighborhood. but"--he looked around at the young girl, "make me acquainted with my sister!" "ah! right! well, annette, this is gesa von zuylen, of whom i have so often told you. tell him he is welcome, and you, gesa, give her a kiss, as a brother should!" the evening meal was over, the long grey may twilight had extinguished all the golden shimmer. only one slender red ray fell from a street lamp along the alley, and a second glistened in the colored glass of the church window. gesa sat comfortably leaning back in the softest armchair the establishment afforded, and explained to the attentive gaston his numerous plans for composition. annette was silent: her large eyes shone in the twilight. gesa talked and talked and the "droevige herr" only interrupted him from time to time to cry "cela sera superbe!" rhythmically scanned, mystically blended, the far-off sounds of the city penetrated to the rue ravestein like a monotonous slumber song. the dreamy relaxing smell of the poppies grew stronger with the incoming night, and from time to time there was the rustle of a leaf that detached itself and fell dying onto the cold marble of the gueridon. ix the poppies lay in the gutter and many other fresh and gracious flowers had withered under the portrait of the gualtieri. may had become june, and june july. every evening gesa explained his projects to his foster-father, played one and another melody on his violin, or sketched the whole of an ensemble movement for him on the old spinet, received gaston's assurance "_cela cera superbe!_" improvised a great deal, listened dreamily to the singing and ringing in his soul, and--accomplished nothing. he had lodged himself in a neighboring attic, at a washerwoman's, but spent the whole day in the home of delileo, now made still more attractive by the gracious presence of annette. the "droewige herr" had found a regular situation, probably for his daughter's sake. he busied himself as secretary of the theatre and also as _feuilletonist_ of a newspaper. this procured him steady employment. his housekeeping now bore the stamp, not of limited means, but of slovenly comfort, the comfort of the rue ravestein. gesa felt at home in this disorder. he always found a comfortable sofa on whose arms he could rest his hands while he talked about the future, and in whose cushions he could lean back his head while he searched for the outlines of impending fortune among the smoke-clouds from his cigarette; and he always found a bottle of good bordeaux on the table when he seated himself at dinner. he loved the long idling meal times, which lifted from him the necessity of doing anything, and furnished such a plausible excuse for his beloved laziness: he loved to sit and dally with his coffee, while annette sat opposite and occasionally sipped a little out of his cup. he loved to rummage among the notes of old composers whom no one had ever heard of and to rush through the works of half-forgotten poets. when a verse pleased him, then his eyes glowed, and he would thunder forth the most colossal adjectives, and read the lines two, three, yes twenty times to the little annette. he might just as well have read to the flemish servant outside, only she would not, perhaps, have smiled so prettily. then he would seize note paper and set the verse to music, try his hasty composition on the old spinet, that gave back the stormy melodies of his foaming, effervescing youth in a broken, trembling little voice, like a grandmother on the edge of the grave who sings a love song for the last time. then annette must try the verse. she had a splendid contralto voice, and spared no pains to give him pleasure with her singing. but he was never contented. "more expression annette, more passion!" he would cry. "do you feel nothing then, absolutely nothing here!" and he tapped her on the heart with his finger. she smiled, colored, and turned her face away. * * * * * gaston delileo had resolved to look upon annette and gesa as sister and brother; that cut short all other thoughts, and was very comfortable. he would not notice how much annette was occupied with her "brother," to what flattering little attentions she accustomed him, with what an expression her large dark eyes sometimes rested upon him. he only noticed that in the beginning gesa's bearing was perfectly cool, cordial and brotherly. toward the end of july the latter began to neglect rue ravestein a little, and entangled himself in some sort of relation with a paris actress who, playing an engagement at the galerie st. hubert, found herself bored in brussels. annette was consumed by jealousy without gesa's guessing the cause of her disquiet. "what ails you, bichette?" he asked, anxiously, stroking her thin cheek with a caressing hand. "what makes you sad? it is this pestilential city air that does not agree with you. send her to the seashore for a while, father!" the old man shrugged his shoulders-- "alas!" he murmured. "i have not the means." "the means! the means!" cried gesa, "then permit me to advance them. i have lived so long on your generosity!" gesa forgot how much his little attentions to mlle. irma had cost! when he hurried over to his apartment to get a couple of bank notes, he found in his pocketbook just one solitary twenty-franc piece. at first he rubbed his head and stared, then he burst out laughing, and carried his used up purse across to delileo, "there, laugh at me and my big promises," he cried. "here, see, this is my whole wealth! but wait, only wait! my hands and my head are full of gold. if only once the right feeling for work would come--the real fever! do you happen to know where i have laid the libretto for my opera?" toward the end of august, mlle. irma left brussels, gesa became morose, and the mood was favorable to industry. one morning he felt "the fever." he spread some music paper before him, smoothed it with his hand, cut a pen, planted his elbows on the one shaky table his attic contained, wrote a line, struck it out, stretched himself, and twisted himself--a feeling of physical unrest tormented him. he resolved to go out for a little, and wandered into the park, where he stood still from time to time as if listening to an inward voice, jostling absently against passers-by, and at last sat down upon a bench, thinking deeply. suddenly a gust of wind passed, lightly at first, then howling loudly through the tree tops overhead. gesa started, pressed his hands to his temples, a flood of music streamed through his soul. he hurried back to his attic, and wrote and wrote. the hour at which he was accustomed to find himself at lunch with annette,--delileo seldom came home for this meal,--was long past, the late supper time had come--gesa still bent over his music paper. single leaves lay strewn around him on the floor. some one knocked at the door--he did not hear. delileo entered. "what are you doing, my boy, that one sees nothing of you to-day. are you sick?" gesa stared at him as if awakened from a strange dream. "no," he answered, simply, "i am working." he was very pale and his hands trembled. delileo insisted that he must interrupt his work at least long enough to take some nourishment. gesa followed him unwillingly. he sat at table, ate nothing, did not speak, but gazed steadily at one spot like a ghost seer. after supper he wandered up and down the sitting-room, humming disconnected melodies to himself, clutched from time to time at the keys of the old spinet, threw out with short lips a single tone in which some sort of grand finale seemed to culminate, lashed about him urging on an imaginary orchestra, stamped suddenly on the floor and cried "bravo!" delileo, who had had plenty to do, in his day, with poets and composers, let him quietly alone; treating him with the forbearance which is accorded to the unhappy, the weak-minded, and geniuses. but annette could not understand this strange behavior, and at last she broke out in a gay laugh. strange to say gesa took this childishness very ill, and left the chamber with a hastily muttered "good-night." until the grey of morning he was working at his opera. several days went by, days during which gesa neither ate nor slept, looked excited and irritable, yet at the same time enjoyed an indescribable painful happiness, a condition of supreme exaltation. in vain delileo warned him, "don't overwork, one can strain the creative faculty as well as the voice, be moderate!" gesa only shook his handsome head and smiled to himself with eyes half shut. perhaps he had not heard a word his foster-father had been saying. and then, suddenly, when, shouting an exultant eureka to himself, he finished the finale of the fifth act,--the third and fourth were not even begun yet,--his inspiration failed. pegasus threw him, as an overworked and maltreated pegasus will,--threw him from the spheres of light down into the regions of earthly misery. painful headaches, and fathomless melancholy tormented him, his own performance seemed suddenly repulsive to him: where at first he had only seen the beauties of his work, he now recognized nothing but its deficiencies, compared it with the works of other masters, ground his teeth, and beat his brow. he condemned his own composition unmercifully, as overstrained and absurdly romantic. he could only endure the coldest, dryest musical fare. a nocturne of chopin threw him into a nervous excitement. he practiced the "chaconne" by bach incessantly. he looked like one who was convalescing from a severe illness. with neglected dress and dragging step he lounged about aimlessly, or brooded by the hour, all in a heap, head on hand, in the darkest corner of the green sitting-room. once after he had been trying a new composition, in careless fashion on his violin, he put the instrument away with nervous haste, threw himself into the great leather armchair that was regarded as his by all the family, bit restlessly at his nails a moment, and then suddenly broke into convulsive sobbing. then came annette shyly to him, stroked his hair pityingly, and whispered, "poor gesa, does it hurt so to be a genius?" he drew her onto his knee, kissed her often and ardently on hair, eyes, mouth, and when half glad, half frightened, she drew away, he allowed her to slip from his arms, but took both her hands and said softly, looking up at her with true-hearted eyes, "annette, my good little annette, can you endure me? will you be my wife? not now, but when i am become a great artist. perhaps i may yet, for your sake." she blushed, and stammered, "what can you want of such a foolish girl as i am?" "but if she just happens to please me," he jested, much moved. she bent her young head over his hand and kissed it, then she nestled down on a stool at his feet. when gaston came home he found them thus, and gave his blessing upon the betrothal. x gesa's affection for his betrothed grew ever day more tender, and more devoted. her behavior toward him changed, in that she laid aside something of her bashfulness, and adopted a tone of teasing perversity. since it was no longer possible to regard his children as brother and sister, gaston resolved to beg that gesa would limit his intercourse with annette to evening visits, and a daily walk. o those daily walks! annette liked the frequented streets, and loved to stand before the show windows of the shops where finery was kept, while she asked her lover if he would give her this or that pretty thing if he were a great artist. her fancies, as yet, were not very expensive, and seldom rose above a dainty ribbon or a coquettish pair of bronze slippers. he smiled at her questions and usually sent her the desired object next morning, accompanied by a pretty, cordial, unpretending little note. a few lessons which he was giving enabled him to indulge in this lover-like extravagance. unlike annette, he had a disinclination for frequented streets, and strolled more willingly with her in the park, at this time quite desolate, and deserted of human kind. dreaming and forgetful of all the world, he walked beside her under the trees that sighed in the november wind. here and there the paths were broken by large puddles, and when no one was looking he lifted the maiden lightly over. annette did not care for a little splashing, and leaned all the more heavily on her lover's arm. sometimes, when he went along quite too dumb and absent at her side, she gave his arm a little pinch to arouse him, and cried "wake up, tell me something." then he would look down at her with wet, happy eyes and murmur, "i love you." he was beyond all bounds in love, and beyond all measure tiresome. but he composed at this time very industriously although more collectedly, and with less exaltation. he had postponed the completion of his opera for the present, and had nearly finished instead a dramatic work, in oratorio form, founded on dante's inferno. xi "annette!" cried gesa, one evening in the end of november, bursting breathless into the green sitting-room. "annette! father!" "what is it, my boy?" asked delileo. "de sterny has written to me. he is coming next week to brussels." "oh!" said annette, irritated and disappointed, "i certainly thought you had drawn the great lottery prize or had come to astonish us with an engagement at five thousand francs a month." "why! annette!" cried gesa. "no wonder that you rejoice," said the tender and sympathetic delileo, and seeing that gesa kept his great tragic eyes fixed on annette's face, with an expression of reproachful surprise, he added soothingly, "you must not take her indifference to heart, she does not know what 'de sterny' is." so gesa spent that evening in explaining to his betrothed bride what de sterny had been to him for the last ten years, and what the virtuoso's name meant to his grateful heart. xii she had understood--the virtuoso's nimbus had become quite visible to her. gesa need fear no longer that she would not know how to value his great friend sufficiently. how could it be otherwise? his name was to be encountered everywhere. all the newest bon-bons, patent leathers, pocket handkerchiefs were named after him, and the children played at "concert and virtuoso," just as in the earliest youth of our century they had played "consul and battle of marengo." annette was taking singing lessons now. another little luxury that gesa had provided for her, and at her singing teacher's house the girls whom she met there talked of nothing but de sterny. the uncle of one pupil was conductor at the "monnaie" de sterny had called upon him, and had forgotten his gloves on going away. the said pupil brought those gloves to the next singing lesson; they were cut in pieces and divided among signor martini's feminine pupils. years afterward, more than one of these gushers wore a bit of leather round her neck, sewed up in a little silk bag! at this time de sterny had reached the zenith of his fame. his last tour through russia had resembled a triumph. in odessa they had received him with the discharge of cannon, in moscow a procession had gone to meet him, huzzahing students had unhitched the horses from his coach and the fairest women had showered down flowers from the windows upon his illustrious head, as the cortege passed through the principal streets; in petersburg a grand duchess had insisted upon his lodging in her palace; sable furs, laurel wreaths, diamond rings, casks of caviare, and a golden samovar, had all been humbly laid at his feet by russian enthusiasm. all this gesa related to his beloved. what he failed to tell her was that the greatest ladies had contended for de sterny's favor, and that a princess cruelly scorned by him had shot herself at one of his concerts while he was playing! but these things she learned from the girls in the singing class. they interested her much more than de sterny's other triumphs. of course gesa went to meet the virtuoso at the station. but as half brussels besides were assembled at the "gare du nord," for the same purpose, de sterny could only dismiss his protégé with a cordial pressure of the hand, and an invitation to visit him next morning at the hotel de flandres. when gesa entered at the appointed hour, he found de sterny sitting at his desk, with his head on one hand and a pen in the other: a sheet of music paper, covered with notes, and full of corrections, lay before him. in his nervous, precise, mechanically polite bearing, that uncomfortable something betrayed itself, which a man contracts from constant association with his superiors. one remarked in him that he had accustomed himself, so to speak, to sleep with open eyes, like hares,--and courtiers. "well, how are you? i am truly rejoiced to see you," he cried to gesa, "it makes me downright young to look in your eyes. i was much astonished to hear of your prolonged stay in brussels. what the devil are you going to do here? i thought you were with manager marinski, on the other side of the world long ago." "my engagement was broken off--that is i have no desire to bind myself," said gesa, blushing a little. "so--here--and meantime you are knocking around"--de sterny treated the young musician in his old cordial, patronizing manner. "sapristi! you look splendidly, too well for a young artist. look me in the face. and what are you really doing? plans? eh?" "o, i am very industrious, i give lessons." "oh! lessons! _you_--lessons! _nom d'un chien!_ i should think it would have been more amusing to dig for gold in america with marinski. lessons! and so few pretty women learn the violin! well, and besides lessons, how do you busy yourself?" "i compose. you seem also"-- "certainly, certainly," replied de sterny, pushing the music paper into his portfolio. "but how can a man compose in such a life as i lead? bah! i have had enough of squandering my existence in railroad cars and concert halls! oh for four weeks rest, beefsteak and potatoes, country air, flowers and one friend!" some one knocked, the virtuoso's servant entered. "i am not at home!" cried de sterny. "but it is count s----" "i am not at home. animal! to any one--do you hear!" the valet vanished. "you see how it is," grumbled de sterny, "before another quarter strikes ten persons will have been announced. it is a stale life, always to play the same fool's tricks, always to be applauded for them...." "do you perhaps desire to be hissed by way of variety?" laughed gesa. at this quite innocent repartee the virtuoso changed color a little, and glanced suspiciously first at gesa and then at the portfolio where he had hidden his composition. but the young violinist's eyes convinced him that no harm was intended. if de sterny ever had a believing disciple it was gesa van zuylen. "it is really a shame," earnestly observed the young musician after a while, "that you allow yourself so little time for composition. i have never heard anything of yours but transcriptions--perhaps you will sometime trust me with your more serious work." de sterny's brows met. "hm!" growled he--"i can't show the things around. they might take wings. it spoils their eclat if one confides them to all sorts of people before they are published." the blood mounted in gesa's cheek. "all sorts of people," he repeated. but de sterny burst out laughing and cried, "still so sensitive! i did not mean it in that way. we know you are an exceptional being. sacre bleu! i am the last who would deny it! as soon as i have completed an important work i will lay it before you. but that"--with a glance at the writing desk, "that is nothing, just nothing--the sketch of some ballet music. princess l----, you remember her, surely, has asked for it. already at vienna she wrote me about it--you understand. i couldn't put it off. _c'est assomant_. a countess-ballet! "and now be so good as to ring, that they may bring in the breakfast. during the meal you shall confide to me what it really is that holds you fast chained in brussels, for that you remain solely in order to find leisure for composition i don't believe!" over the breakfast gesa confided his great secret to his friend. de sterny started up. "so that is it. well you could not have contrived anything more stupid for yourself!" cried he. "i suspected something, some long drawn out liaison, from which i should have to extricate you. but a betrothal! oh, yes! what are you thinking of? to marry and become a paterfamilias at your age! it is ruin! it is the grave! the grave of your genius mind, not of your body, that will flourish in the atmosphere of sleek morality. you'll grow fat. you'll celebrate a christening every year. you'll run from one street to another with your trousers turned up and a music book under one arm, giving lessons. and your ambition will culminate in obtaining the post of first violin in some orchestra, or perhaps if it soars very high in becoming conductor of the same. sapristi! you need the whip of the manager over your back, and not the feather bolster of family life under your head! what is more _this_ bolster which you are stuffing for yourself will contain few feathers. but that is all one to you. you only need a pretext for laziness, and would go to sleep on a potato sack!" "you speak like a heretic, like a regular atheist in love," cried gesa, who had not outgrown his passion for large words. "who told you i was going to be married the day after to-morrow? i shall not receive her hand until i have secured a position." "ah--so! well--that is some comfort. but who is she? one of your pupils? the blonde daughter of a square-built burgher?" "she is the daughter of my foster-father." "o--h! the gualtieri's daughter. and her you will marry? marry?" "you cannot possibly imagine how charming she is," murmured gesa. "that the gualtieri's daughter is charming i can easily imagine," said the virtuoso, and there came suddenly into his eyes an expression of dreamy passion to which they were quite unaccustomed, "but that a man would want to marry the gualtieri's daughter, i cannot understand. perhaps you do not know who the gualtieri was." gesa bit his lip. "she made my foster-father happy." "so--hm! made him happy! he was mad as we all were. to have been permitted to black her shoes would have made him happy. i know the history of delileo's marriage. it is a legend which they still relate in artist circles, only they have got the names wrong. i know the right names because ... delileo interests me for your sake, and--and--because the gualtieri ... was my first love!" gesa shrank back. "your first love!" he repeated, breathlessly. the virtuoso passed his hand over his forehead and smiled bitterly. "yes! i became acquainted with her in the salon of the d'agoult. i looked like a girl myself then, was scarcely eighteen years old, and in love! oh! in love! she laughed at me--i fretted myself with vain desire, she would never notice me. i cannot hear her name now after twenty years without feeling as i did then. heavens! how beautiful she was! form, smile, tresses! dark hair with auburn lights in neck and temples--as if powdered with gold dust. withal a certain grand carriage...." the virtuoso ceased and gazed musingly into vacancy. the remembrance of the gualtieri was a sore spot in his heart. gesa looked, deeply moved, into the changed countenance of his friend. "how could such a woman consent to marry delileo?" "how? yes--how? she had lost her voice, her lovers, her health. she was thirty-eight years old. he was of a good family, and still possessed the remains of a handsome fortune, of which he had already squandered the greater part in philanthropic enterprises. he spoiled and pampered her as if she were a princess, and she ... she ran away from him one year and a half after the birth of her child, your bride,--with an obscure polish adventurer. delileo discovered her afterward in the greatest misery, dying of consumption, in a garret; he took her home and nursed her till she died. poor devil! he had united himself to her against the will of his family, and the counsel of his friends, he was at the end of his money--so he buried himself in the rue ravestein. his lot is hard; but--at least he lived a year and a half at her side!" alphonse de sterny ceased, and looked down, brooding. gesa laid a hand on his arm. "the memory of this woman lives so powerfully in you still, and yet you marvel that i want her daughter for my wife--her daughter, who inherits all the mother's charm, without her sinfulness?" de sterny smiled, no pleasant smile. "how old is she then--sixteen or seventeen, if i reckon rightly is she not?" gesa nodded. "ah! so! and you will judge already of her temperament?" he drummed a march on the table. gesa colored. "de sterny!" he cried after a pause. "much as i love you i will not bear to hear you speak in that way. do me a favor and learn to know the little one--then judge yourself. come sometime in the evening and drink tea with us, unless you are afraid of the rue ravestein!" "when you will, big child! to-morrow, day after!--you always keep early hours there. i can come before i have to go into society!" a few minutes later gesa took leave. de sterny accompanied him to the door of the apartment, and called gaily after him, over the banisters. "the day after to-morrow then, about eight! i am curious to see your capua!"-- xiii great excitement reigned in rue ravestein no. . an odor of freshly baked tea cakes pervaded the stairs and halls. annette with constantly changing color settled the furniture, now in this place, now in that, trying to hide its deficiencies, her beautiful eyes rested on the green carpet, and she murmured faint-heartedly--"how will it look to him here?" gesa only smiled, kissed her on the forehead, gave her a confident little pat on the cheek, and said, "he comes to make your acquaintance, my treasure, not to criticize our dwelling." even more excited than his daughter was the old delileo. he had exhumed from a worm-eaten chest an ancient frock with a mighty collar in the ponderous taste of the citizen-king, and attired in this garment, and smelling strongly of camphor, he wandered restlessly from one little chamber to another, dusting off a picture frame with his pocket handkerchief, casting a half-shamed glance into the dull mirror, and pulling with trembling fingers at his imposing silk neck kerchief, which with his beautifully embroidered but rather yellow cambric shirt, had been young under the umbrella-sceptre of louis philippe. gesa joked at the agitation of his little family, but nevertheless felt it to be perfectly justifiable, in anticipation of the great event. at eight o'clock every heart beat; five minutes after eight delileo remarked "perhaps he won't come"; at a quarter past annette turned a surprised look on her lover, and said, "but he promised you positively, gesa!" at half past eight a stir was heard on the floor below. "it is an excuse from de sterny," said delileo, going to meet disappointment, as was his custom. "shall i find monsieur delileo here?" a very cultivated voice was heard asking, on the stairs. gesa rushed out. the old journalist passed a thumb and fore finger over his cheeks--to give himself an unembarrassed air, annette disappeared. a few seconds later the door opened, and into the shabby green salon there came an aristocratic-looking blonde man, who was a little embarrassed by the fact that he had not been able to lay aside his fur coat in the hall. this did not last a moment, however. scarcely had gesa relieved him of the heavy garment than he held out his hand cordially to the master of the house, whom gesa formally presented, and said "we are old acquaintances!" and when the "droewige herr" would have set aside this compliment with a deprecating wave of the hand, de sterny continued, "you perhaps may not remember the love-sick dreamer whom you met in old times at the countess d'agoult's. but i have not forgotten your sympathizing kindness. it did me good. we had then, as i believe, the same trouble--only"--with a glance at the gualtieri's picture which his quick searching eye had already discovered--"later you were happier than i!" then verily tears filled the eyes of the "droewigen herrn," and he pressed the virtuoso's hand. "well?" de sterny glanced merrily at gesa, "i was promised something more than a meeting with old friends,--a new acquaintance?" gesa looked around. "oh, the little goose, she has hidden." he hurried into the next room--they heard his tender reassuring "_vollons fillette_, don't be a child!" on gesa's arm, timid, abashed, pale from excitement, deep feverish red on her lips, she came toward the virtuoso, and laid her little ice-cold fingers in his offered hand. as if bewitched he stared at the young girl, then collecting himself, he kissed her soft child-hand, chivalrously and said, "you must pardon me this, fräulein, i am a very old friend of your betrothed, and was once an obscure, but intense admirer of your mother." then turning to delileo, he added "the resemblance is perfectly startling--it is a resurrection!" no one could be more amiable than de sterny was in the rue ravestein, and moreover his amiability cost him not the slightest effort. like other grand gentlemen he took pleasure in making small excursions into spheres where it would have been frightful for him if he had been obliged to live. toward old delileo he adopted a tone of modest deference, toward gesa, as always heretofore, one of half boon-companion, half paternal banter. he drank two cups of tea, boasted of his hunger, and praised the dainty tea cakes. delileo poured out reminiscences which dated as far back as his frock, and were just as much in accordance with modern taste. silent and pale the gualtieri's daughter sat before the guest. she did not raise her eyes to him once, yet no detail of his appearance escaped her. as he expected that evening to return from the rue ravestein into the world, he wore evening dress which became him well. his white cravat, his open waistcoat and carefully arranged hair, were for her a revelation. he addressed her repeatedly, but she only answered in monosyllables. "is not mademoiselle musical?" he asked, turning from these laborious attempts at conversation to delileo. "yes, she sings a little!" "has her voice any resemblance to--to"--de sterny stopped short. "say, will you sing something for us, bijou?" whispered gesa to the girl, "we will not urge you, but if...." "you would give me such great pleasure!" said de sterny. making no answer, with a heavy movement, as if walking in sleep, the young girl rose, went to the spinet, and laid a sheet of music on the desk. it was the fine old romance of martini--"plaisir d'amour." the virtuoso instantly offered to accompany her. she nodded shyly. softly and sadly through the shabby green chamber sounded the immortal love song, a song which the united efforts of all the female pupils in the conservatories of europe have not succeeded in killing. plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un instant, chagrin d'amour dure tonte la vie!-- she held her hands, as she had been taught, lightly laid in one another, but the delicate head, contrary to regulation, was inclined toward the right shoulder--as if it had suddenly grown heavy. her voice sounded hollow and mournful; it trembled as if with suppressed sobs. "she is afraid of you," said gesa, who had come up to her side, "i don't know in the least what ails her. usually she does not want courage. _pauvre petite chat_"--and he stroked her hair gently. the virtuoso's brow fell, as if it hurt him to witness these innocent caresses. he turned to delileo. "it is the same voice, absolutely the same voice! a wonderful likeness! now, mademoiselle, you will grant me just one more trifle, will you not?" gesa brought out from a pile of music a written sheet, and laid it on the rack. "just do this, annette," he urged, taking up his violin. "the song is for voice and violin," he said--"please give me an a, de sterny." de sterny struck the note. it was the "nessun maggior dolore" from his own music to dante's inferno, which gesa had laid on the music desk. a strange composition, in which the human voice swelled from soft half audible revery to bitter despairing utterance of pain, while the violin gave out a melody of penetrating sweetness, like the torturing memory of long vanished joy. gesa's cheeks were burning as he finished the performance of this his favorite composition. de sterny let his hands glide from the keyboard, and fixed the violinist with a sharp look, "that is yours?" he asked. gesa nodded. "then let yourself be embraced on the spot. it is simply superb!" it was toward eleven o'clock before de sterny remembered that duty called him back into "the world." gesa had shown him several more of his own compositions, and in everything the virtuoso had taken the liveliest interest. gesa accompanied his friend from the rue ravestein into the region of civilization. de sterny was absent and silent. "well, what do you say?" urged his disciple, pressingly. "you will have very great success." "in what--in my marriage?" laughed gesa. "ah your marriage!" the virtuoso started--"yes, your marriage. well--she is the most enchanting creature i have met since her mother. what a voice--she could become a malibran." "and?"-- they were standing now at the place royale. "_dieu merci_--there comes a carriage--i despaired of finding one," cried de sterny. "adieu,--bring me the whole of your 'inferno' to-morrow,--auf wiedersehen!" with this he sprang into the fiacre which had stopped at a sign from him, and rolled away. in the rue ravestein that evening there was a great deal to talk about. old delileo, whose cheeks glowed as if he had been drinking champagne, was very loquacious. gesa confided to annette word for word, de sterny's flattering judgment upon her, but she showed herself nervous and irritable like a child too early waked from sleep. she complained that she had sung badly. she who had always so kindly indulged the garrulity of her poor old father, scarcely listened to him, even made impatient little grimaces, and said his way of walking up and down put her beside herself. when the old man sat down with a hurt air, then she broke into tears and begged his forgiveness. gesa drew her onto his knees, dried her tears, and quieted her with playful caresses. "she lives too isolated; the least thing excites her, father?" said he, stroking her cheek. "we must find some amusement for her." the "droewige herr," looked down gloomily. about three o'clock de sterny mounted the stairs of his hotel. he had been honored and flattered exactly as much as ever, but he felt out of spirits. "every street urchin knows my name now, and the crossing sweepers show each other the celebrated de sterny when i pass. but when i die, what will remain of me! nothing but a few wretched piano pieces, which they will laugh at after my death." the songs of the violinist rang in his ears. he shivered. he thought of the beautiful girl, and passed his hand across his forehead. "hm!--the danger of a quiet family life does not threaten him from that quarter. she sleeps as yet; but she has inherited all the passionateness of her mother and all the nervousness of her father. how beautiful she is! how beautiful!" xiv it was about this time that de sterny began to be restlessly ambitious. his playing changed. he began to take on affectations. he began to pound. this enraptured the masses; the critics pronounced it "a magnificent development," and he himself was disgusted. an icy crust covered the gutter in the rue ravestein, long icicles hung from the arms of the great crucifix, and on the windows of the little green salon the frost painted his chilly flowers; but annette's hands were always hot now, and her lips burning red. her walk had grown slow and careless, her movements dreamy and gliding. her eyes gazed into the distance. instead of teasing wilfulness, or childlike winningness, she met her lover with apathetic compliance, sometimes with repellent irritation. then would come hours when she hung upon him passionately, begged him with tears not to be angry with her, and seemed as though she could not show him love and tenderness enough. he did not ponder very deeply over her strange contradictory nature, but simply forgave her, as a sick child. one evening, when he and his foster-father were involved in one of their endless talks about music and literature, annette, who had sat meanwhile, reserved and silent, leaning back in a corner of the stiff horse-hair sofa, suddenly raised her head and listened. some one knocked at the door: neither gesa nor delileo paid any attention. "entrez," cried annette, breathlessly. the door opened. "do i disturb you?"--said an amiable voice, and alphonso de sterny entered. several days later, gesa, returning from his lessons to the rue ravestein, remarked, "strange, annette, it smells of amber,--has de sterny been here?" "he brought us tickets for his next concert," she replied without looking at her lover. * * * * * "dear friend:--i have something to say to you--come to me to-morrow, if possible. "sterny." gesa found this note one evening in his apartment. next morning, when he dutifully presented himself at the hotel de flandres, de sterny received him with the question--"would you like to earn a great deal of money?" "how can you doubt it! you know how pressingly i need money. can it be an opportunity offers for disposing of my 'inferno,'" cried gesa. "not yet--but something else offers. i received a telegram yesterday. winansky has broken an arm--marinski, in consequence, needs a violinist of the first rank and offers ten thousand francs a month and expenses. would that suit you?" gesa's head sank. "how long must i remain away?" he murmured. "six--eight months. you must decide by tomorrow. are you afraid of seasickness?" laughed the virtuoso. "that?--no! but--well i will ask the little one. six or eight months--it is long--and so far. she will not have the courage. however, i thank you heartily!" the servant announced an illustrious amateur and gesa left. to his great astonishment annette exulted and rejoiced when he told her of marinksi's offer. "i did not know that you were already such a great man in the world," she cried, triumphantly. "shall i accept?" asked gesa, with a trembling voice, tears standing in his eyes. she looked at him amazed. "would you refuse? gesa, only think when you come back from america, a rich man!" he sighed once deeply, then he bent over her, kissed her forehead, and quietly said, "you are right, annette. i was cowardly!" he accepted marinski's offer. a few days later, a little dinner was served in the rue ravestein, which was very elaborate for the surroundings, and at which gesa left all his favorite dishes untouched, and old delileo exerted himself to talk very rapidly about the most indifferent things, shook pepper into his marmalade, and finally raised his glass with a trembling hand and gave a toast to gesa's speedy, happy return. annette, who up to this time had regarded gesa's departure with the most frivolous gaiety, became every moment more painfully excited. she ate nothing, said not a word, and looked wretched, pain and terror were in her eyes. when gesa drew her to him, and kindly stroked her pallid cheeks, she broke into immoderate weeping, clung to him convulsively, and begged him again and again "do not leave me alone--do not leave me alone!" he made no answer to her unreasonable words, only pitied her most tenderly, called her a thousand sweet names, and said, turning to delileo, "try to divert her a little, father--take her sometimes to the theatre, and as soon as pleasant weather comes, take her to the country. and read with her a little,--none of the complicated old trash that we delight in, but something simple, entertaining, to suit a spoiled little girl." "is there any one in the world, better than he is, papa?" sobbed annette. the servant entered and announced that the carriage was waiting at the place royale, and the porter was there to take monsieur gesa's luggage, at the same time clutching his traveling bag and violin case. gesa looked at the clock. "it is time," said he, quietly, "be reasonable, annette!" but she sobbed incessantly, "do not leave me alone," and he was forced to unclasp her dear, soft arms from his neck. he pressed his foster-father's hand in silence, and hastened away. from the street, he heard the sound of a window opening above, and annette's voice. he stood still, looked back--cried "auf wiedersehen!"--and hurried on to the place royale. before the train puffed off, a slender, blonde man rushed onto the platform. "de sterny!" cried gesa, deeply moved. "well, well, you expected me i hope. i slipped away from the x's in order to catch you. you understand that i did not want to let you go without wishing you 'bonne chance' for the last time." the conductor opened the door of the coupé--gesa entered it. "bonne chance! it can't fail you"--cried de sterny. gesa bent out of the coach window. "thousand thanks for all your kindness," he cried, "and if it is not too tiresome for you,--then to-morrow look in a moment, to see how it is with her." "i will take her your last greeting," said de sterny. the virtuoso beckoned smilingly, while the train steamed away. thus, smiling, kind, sympathetic, gesa lost sight of his friend. thus he remained in gesa's memory. xv thanks to a sudden outbreak of yellow fever in the south, marinski's troupe left america earlier than had been agreed upon. with salary somewhat diminished by this circumstance, a bundle of bombastic critiques, and some very pretty ornaments from tiffany's in new york for annette, gesa went on board the "arcadia," in which marinski's troupe were to sail for old europe. how he rejoiced for his "little one!" she had looked so badly when he left brussels, was so inconsolable at parting. he resolved to give her a surprise by his sudden return. what great eyes she would make! sometimes at night he started from sleep--a cry of joy and her name on his lips. the whole troupe knew why he was hurrying home. he never grew weary of telling about annette. about annette and de sterny. he was much beloved by all his traveling companions, and they all felt a lively interest in annette; but of de sterny they would not hear a word; and an old basso, who had taken gesa especially to his heart, said warningly-- "take care! he will play you a trick--he is a villain, monsieur!" gesa took the caution very ill, and starting up rebuked the basso severely. the basso smiled to himself. among the female forces of the troupe was a certain guiseppina d----. pale, with rich red hair that when she uncoiled it reached to her heels, her enormous black eyes, short nose, and large mouth lent her some likeness to a death's head. yet, she was not without a certain charm, especially in her smile, and she smiled constantly, as people do whom nothing can any longer rejoice. to her gesa talked oftenest about his beloved. she listened to him most kindly and sometimes she wept. she was the soprano of the troupe, and lived in the bitterest enmity with the alto, who was married to the tenor, immensely jealous, and very proud of her own virtue. in paris, when the troupe broke up, the guiseppina at parting put both arms around gesa's neck and kissed him. this the virtuous alto certainly would not have done. but the guiseppina whispered at the same time, "the kiss is for thee, with my good wishes, and this"--she gave him a little gold cross--"this is for the bride, with my mother's blessing that clings to it yet. it belonged to my first communion, and is the only one of my possessions which is worthy a bride of yours." they all promised to come to his wedding, and at last he had bidden them farewell, and had left paris for brussels. * * * * * it was in the second half of june and corpus christi day. at all the stations groups of girls in white were to be seen. now and then white-robed processions passed in the distance, and softly as from a spirit choir their catholic hymns floated to the traveler's ear. it was late in the afternoon when he arrived in brussels, sprang into a fiacre, and directed it to the rue ravestein. the hack, with all the vexatious phlegm of a brussels' vehicle, jogged slowly toward its destination. the moist, heavy sultriness of a northern summer brooded over the town. the air had something oppressive, stifling, like that of a hot room. above the earth all was motionless, except that in the very topmost branches of the linden trees on the boulevard there was a light rustling. from the ground steamed the moisture of yesterday's showers; in the sky the clouds were piling up for another thunderstorm, with muttered growl along the horizon. the atmosphere was heavy and sad with the odor of incense, burning wax, candles, and withering flowers, the odor of corpus christi day. against the walls of the houses still leaned the altars that had been erected, surmounted by shriveled foliage, and dead blossoms. luxuriant roses, tender heliotrope and modest reseda lay trodden and soiled on the pavement. as gesa alighted at the place royale a woman in a battered hat, gaudily be-ribboned, and a red shawl, stooped down after some of the faded flowers. she was one of those who hide themselves when the corpus christi procession passes by. she lived in the rue ravestein, and gesa knew her. always pitiful, he took a twenty-france piece from his pocket and gave it to her. she glanced up, looked at him sharply and suddenly turned away her painted face. he entered the rue ravestein. sickening miasmas rose from the drain; a cloud of midges hovered in the air;--the crucified saviour looked down more sadly than ever. familiar things greeted his eyes as he passed: the lean hyena-like dogs wagged their tails, and some of them came and shoved cold moist noses into his hand. "no one is at home!" cried the woman who sold vegetables in the shop on the ground floor of delileo's dwelling. "no one. neither the old gentleman, nor the young lady." "have they gone on a journey?" asked gesa, blankly. "no, i think not. unless i am mistaken the young lady has gone to church. perhaps monsieur will find her yet in st. gudule." gesa was already hastening down the street toward the cathedral. behind him little groups collected. the gossips of rue ravestein laughed. xvi on an irregular square, from which numberless streets and alleys spread themselves out like rays, rises the cathedral of st. gudule. light and transparent in architecture, bearing herself proudly--the church towers above the city where the ghosts of horn and egmont walk. her walls are blackened as if they wore mourning for the crimes which men have committed here in god's name; and through her cool aisles sighs the mouldy breath of a vault. gesa entered. it was dusky within; thick shadows covered the feet of the brown, worm-eaten benches. only a few people still remained. in vain the violinist looked around for his bride. a couple of old women he saw: a child in a blue apron, stretching on tiptoe to reach the holy water, two beggars near the door--that was all. no priest was at the altar: service was over. the child had tripped away: the old woman had hobbled off; for the last time gesa's eye searched the church, then he went on to the high altar and kneeled down to say a prayer. in spite of the fantastic pantheism in which delileo had brought him up, gesa had always retained a strong leaning toward catholic devotion. suddenly he heard a sound,--a sigh. in the deepest shadow, almost at his feet, crouched a dark form. a tender trouble overcame him. "annette!" he whispered--"annette!" she rose up out of the shadow. she stared at him, gave a short cry, and clung shuddering to a pillar. "annette! what ails you!" he cried, shocked, almost angry. "are you afraid of me?" she shook her head. was it the dusk that made her look so ashen pale? "you come so suddenly, and i am ill;" she said. "ill, poor heart! then truly i must have appeared to you like a ghost. and i wanted to enjoy your surprise! foolish egotist that i am! forgive me!" thus he stammered, and forgetting where he was would have drawn her to him. she motioned him from her. "not here!" she cried. looking around at the sacred walls, with an intense gaze--"not here!" leaning on his arm she passed out of the church door. the air was moist and sultry, clouds hung low, a swallow fluttered anxiously across the square. in comparison with the dusky gloom of the church it was still quite light here. gesa raised questioning, longing eyes to the face of his beloved. it was deathly pale, the cheek thinner, the eyes larger, the lips darker than formerly; little lines about the mouth and nose, melancholy shadows around the eyes idealized its heretofore purely material beauty. "i had quite forgotten how charming thou art," he murmured, in a voice stifled with passion. she smiled at him, a wild strange smile, in which she grew still more beautiful, and the shadows around her eyes deepened. it suddenly seemed to him that she reminded him of some one, of something, but he searched his soul in vain. it could not be of the pale malmaison roses whose tender heads drooped, on the pavement,--or,--no,--and yet--yes,--a little,--annette reminded him of guiseppina! her hand, which she had left to him passively in the beginning, nestled now more tenderly on his arm. when they would have turned their steps toward the rue ravestein, she held him back. "what if we should make a detour," she whispered, "take me to the park, to all your favorite places, will you?" "my heart! my treasure!" he murmured, drunk with the rapture of her presence. an odor of withering flowers impregnated the air, mixed with the faint breath of fresh acacia blossoms. they entered the park. it was as if dead. through the dark crowns of the trees there passed, from time to time, something like a shudder of fear. "and you are really ill, annette?" he asked. "yes," and her voice sounded hollow, like a suppressed cry of anguish: then she burst out passionately, "why did you leave me alone!" "you sent me away yourself," he replied, half playfully, "and then i had to go." "that is true," she said, simply. they were silent. it grew darker. all at once she stood still. "here was a mire last autumn and you used to carry me over. do you remember?" he nodded smiling. they went a few steps further. the white reflection of the evening light played over the water of a reservoir. "and here you told me about nice and the angers bay." again he smiled, and they went on. they came to a statue. "there you gave me a villa in bordighera. have you forgotten how we built air castles?" said the girl. the shuddering in the tree tops grew stronger. she bent back her head and gazed up at her lover as if in a dream. "no one sees us," she whispered. "kiss me!" he kissed her long and passionately. "again!" she whispered, so softly that her voice sounded like the rustling of the leaves. he kissed her again, murmuring, "i never knew how fair life was until to-day!" a long sobbing sigh passed through the trees. "come home, or the thunderstorm will overtake us," she said--her voice had suddenly grown harsh. they turned back. xvii "i will not expect you to wear it, but you must keep it sacred, as a relic. it was the best thing she possessed," said gesa to annette, when he gave her guiseppina's cross. he had told the girl about the pale singer and the touching manner in which she had offered her gift. annette had kissed the cross on the threshold of the house, when she stood to take leave of him. "my father will not be home before midnight"--she whispered "farewell"--whereupon at first he looked most longingly in her face, and then yielding to her decision, said quietly--"to-morrow." and now he sat in his old attic room, opposite, and mused the evening through. his veins throbbed with a happiness that was painfully sweet. never had annette appeared to him so enchantingly beautiful, never had she met him with such heart-winning gentleness. the memory of her tender smile, of her great dark eyes softened his heart like a caress. but she was ill. a cold shudder broke his warm dream. she was very ill. a fearful anxiety overcame him. the heavy, sultry air of the coming tempest brooded without, and from the street below rose an odor of filth and decay. he looked across at annette's window; it was open. a delicate head appeared there, listening. against the wall in the pale moonlight a dainty silhouette was thrown. "annette!" cried gesa, across the sleeping street. through the dusk he saw her smile. "good-night!" she breathed, laid both hands on her lips and sent him one kiss. then she disappeared. a heavy silence settled down on the rue ravestein. dizzy and drunk with happiness, that smile in his heart, gesa von zuylen laid himself down and fell asleep. it was not yet five o'clock in the morning when a mysterious stir in the little street awoke him. excited voices and hasty steps sounding confusedly together. was it fire? the confusion increased. something had happened. he hurried on his clothes and went down. the air was raw. in the lustreless morning light there was a pale, reddish shimmer. the sparrows on the roofs twittered over loud. under delileo's window stood a few people; untidy women rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, some men in blouses, on their way to work. like a little flock of vultures, with greedy eyes and outstretched heads, they jostled one another. the woman of the green grocer shop was speaking. her face expressed pride at having assisted at some awful event gesa heard her say: "i tell you they have just sent my boy to the apothecary. but it's too late--much too late!" "has monsieur delileo had a stroke?" cried gesa, breathlessly. "mon-sieur de-lileo?" repeated the women. a few of them turned away. "annette!" he reeled. "what! what!" half beside himself he rushed up the stairs, and burst open the door of his promised bride's chamber. he knew the room well. it was the same which years ago he had occupied with his mother. only now it was more daintily furnished. old delileo sat on the edge of the little bed, and gazed in tearless despair at something which the white curtains hid. "father!" cried gesa. then the old man rose trembling in every limb, passed his hand across his brow--his poor yellow face working.... "have pity!" he said in a broken voice, "have pity, she has repented, she is dead!" gesa tore back the curtains. there on the white pillow, waxen pale, but beautiful as ever, the parting smile upon her lips, lay annette. she had put on the blue dress in which he had first seen her, fourteen months ago--guiseppina's little cross lay on her breast. * * * * * there is a suffering so painful that no hand is tender enough to touch it, and so deep that no heart is brave enough to fathom it. dumbly we sink the head, as before something sacred. never could he reproach her, lying there before him, clad in the blue dress, of which every fold, so dear to him, cried "forgive! not to our desecrated love do i appeal, but to our sweet caressing friendship,--forgive the sister what the bride has done!" how could he reproach her, with her parting kiss still on his lips? she had drawn off her betrothal ring, and laid it on the coverlet enclosed in a folded letter, where in her large, unskilled, childish hand, she had written the words: "to my dear, dear brother gesa. god bless him a thousand times!" he placed the ring again on her finger, and kissed her cold hand. the fearful mystery which separates us from our dead is so incomprehensible that we never realize our loss in all its fulness while the beloved form yet lies before us. involuntarily we feel as if the dead knew of every little service we render--and this thought hovers around us as a comfort. the whole bitterness of our anguish is first felt when we have buried our happiness, and life with its sterile uses and requirements reenters, and commands: "what have you to do longer dallying with death? i will have my right!" and so with gesa, the bitterest pang of all overcame him when, returning home with his foster-father from the churchyard where they had laid the poor "little one" to rest, he found the old green salon all in order. annette's favorite trifles removed, and the table laid for--two. they sat down opposite one another, the old journalist and the young musician. neither ate; gesa was dumb. delileo stroked his hand from time to time and murmured, "my poor boy, my poor boy!" suddenly gesa raised his eyes to the old man's face. "who was it, father?" he asked in a hollow voice. the "droewige herr" dropped his eyes. "i--i do not know"--he stammered. "father!" cried gesa, starting up. "nay, i knew nothing. she never confided in me. very lately i had a suspicion, a fear"--the old father grew more and more distressed. "you must have remarked it, if annette was interested in any one?" cried gesa, anger in his eyes and shame on his cheeks. "ah! she fell under the spell of a demon"--the father stopped, and shut his lips tightly together, and said no more. one day followed another in monotonous sadness. the "droewige herr" went to his daily work: gesa sat in the green salon and brooded. he said nothing of any more engagement, nothing of going on any more journeys. he dreaded every meeting with acquaintances, with all to whom he had talked of his happiness. there was one single human being for whom he longed, and that was de sterny. de sterny had such a rare, almost feminine art of understanding and sympathizing! and then, he would not be surprised like the others--he had foretold it all! gesa learned de sterny's whereabouts. the virtuoso was in england. gesa wrote him a simple, heartfelt letter, in which he confided to his friend the sudden death of annette, and ended with the words "let me know when you are to be in paris. i will remove there, in order to work near you. intercourse with you is the only thing in the world that could afford me any comfort now." to this letter he received no answer. he removed to delileo's and occupied annette's chamber. one day, as he sat at the poor girl's little desk, and searched a drawer for an envelope, he found wedged in a crack the half of a torn note. he knew the writing. "... wild with bliss. at one o'clock in the rue de la montague thy s." the violinist read this note twice, then he looked around with a dull, stupefied gaze, stretched his arms on high as those do who are shot through the heart, and sank senseless to the floor. * * * * * a lingering nervous fever broke his constitution, and destroyed the little energy he had still possessed. when he began to creep about his chamber, a weary convalescent, with thinned hair, he sought at once for pen and ink. every day he wrote a letter to de sterny, and tore it in pieces. when delileo, who had nursed him through the sickness like a mother, begged him not to excite himself, he only answered, "i must have it off my heart!" and wrote a fresh letter,--but never sent any. one day he said to himself that it did not become him to write, that he must demand satisfaction from de sterny face to face. but before that could happen he must recover his health. from that time he wrote no more. he lived his brooding life, idle, and melancholy. his grief was mingled with a burning shame. he constantly feared that he should meet some one who would ask him about his bride, or his friend. at the thought the blood rushed into his cheek, and even when he was quite alone he turned his face to the wall. he trembled in every limb, a wild rage possessed him when he thought of the betrayer. then--then he remembered the thousand kindnesses to which the virtuoso had accustomed him, his amiability, the cordial tone of his voice. he pressed his hands to his temples and groaned. he could not understand. and the days went by, and he did not seek de sterny. a wild fear of men mastered him. by day he almost never left delileo's dwelling, but, as his health improved, he gradually accustomed himself to go out at night. he was still young. he felt a vehement desire to deaden the power of feeling. in the midst of the wildest orgies, he sat pale and dumb, with fixed expressionless face. this joyless dissipation he soon gave up, but his wound still craved relief--and slowly, gradually, he gave himself to drink. music he neglected altogether. every note awoke a memory. if he had been obliged to earn his bread by his profession, he would probably not have gone so utterly to ruin, but the money which he had brought back from america permitted him to live. when old delileo, whom it cut to the heart to see his dear one's hopeless suffering, and his splendid talents so sadly wasted, asked him questions in regard to the future, gesa answered, "i will work again, but leave me alone now for a while--it is too hard yet." and his fear of mankind more and more sought concealment in rue ravestein. in all large cities there are alleys like the rue ravestein. paris has many of them. a man flies thither when he has suffered a fiasco, or a great sorrow, hides himself there from the derision of enemies and the pity of friends ... pity which at the best seems to him but a sentimental form of contempt! he has no intention of passing his whole life in that unwholesome obscurity, he will only give his wounds time to heal. meanwhile he forges many plans in this voluntary exile; and dreams how he will go back to the world sometime and retrieve all by a grand success. the dreams never see fulfilment. for such streets are graves, and whoever after long years seeks to flee from that solitude, wanders among men like a risen corpse. superannuated ideas surround and cling to him like the mouldy air of the sepulchre. he speaks a dead language. xviii "the 'satan' is one of the most beautiful of modern musical compositions," announces the _indépendence belge_. "the 'satan' contains numbers of classic beauty," confess the artists. "have you heard? the 'satan' is a tremendous success!" says the fashionable world to itself. "satan's" renown penetrates even as far as the rue ravestein, and reaches the ear of a starving fiddler there. although delileo has long been dead gesa still lives in the old house. the remains of his little savings went during his foster-father's long and weary last illness. now gesa supports life as best he can. a dozen years ago every one was comparing him to paganini; now he is counted among the most obscure members of the "monnaie" orchestra. benumbed in melancholy indolence, given over to drink, he feels nevertheless from time to time the longing for creative effort. but something always comes between him and his purpose. when he hears of the approaching performance, under de sterny's personal direction, he is shaken with a sudden wild rage. how dare de sterny venture on coming to brussels, in face of the chance that they may meet? then he mutters bitterly. "he thinks i am dead. he says to himself, 'if gesa von zuylen were still alive the world would have heard of him!'" a fearful pang harrows his very soul. not the death of his bride, not the treachery of his friend had inflicted a pang like that. the spectre of his great, degraded talent stands suddenly before him. he has weighed de sterny's powers of composition. he remembers with triumphant contempt the "transcriptions" and "fantasias" of former times. he recalls the pianist's painful labors over the little "countess-ballet," until in the full swing of their friendship gesa took the thing in hand and finished it for him. and now? _could_ de sterny have developed into a composer of any importance? he examines his violin part with feverish curiosity, but it contains more rests than notes. the day of the second rehearsal arrived. gesa had intended to report himself ill again, but a feeling of breathless anxiety that he could not explain urged him to the music hall. this time it was not the friend of rossini and the piano teacher alone who had come to hear the rehearsal. the foremost dilettante of brussels crowded around the stage, all the musical ladies in society sat together in the front rows of the parquet. there was a fever of curiosity and expectation. at the same time that sort of opposition made itself felt which attends upon all novelties that have been immoderately praised. "_il parait que c'est epatant_"--said the count de sylva, a gentleman who was resting from the fatigues of a laborious diplomatic career, and employed all the time not absorbed by his social duties in studying the violincello. "epatant," he repeated, walking up to the ladies, "i must confess i do not esteem de sterny's talent for composition so very highly." "nor i either, most decidedly," growled the friend of rossini. "how he ever contrived to write the 'satan,' i cannot understand. but that it is a masterpiece is not to be denied. these melodies!--they tyrannize over me! they creep into every nerve, they creep into the blood! spectres walk abroad in this music!" "it is true that great powers require time to ripen," observed prince l----, "wonderful children seldom come to anything. you may perhaps remember such a case, ladies--the little gypsy whom de sterny brought to us one evening." "hm--a little hunch back in a braided jacket?" asked a lady. "no--no--that was another--this was a handsome youth from the rue ravestein." none of the ladies remembered. "what of him?" they asked. "nothing remarkable. i only cited him apropos of wonder children. never have i heard finer improvisation than his and what has come of it?" at this moment there was a slight stir, de sterny stepped upon the platform. they clapped applause, they bowed before him, they pressed his hands. he stood at the conductor's desk and let his eye run over his musical forces--they were all there. suddenly he turned pale, the baton sank at his side, he longed to flee, the eyes of his aristocratic friends were shining all around him; he rapped on the desk, and the bombastic introduction to "satan" sounded through the hall. there was disappointed shrugging of shoulders in the audience. gesa von zuylen's mouth showed deep mocking corners. slowly, painfully, but with increasing confidence he raised his eyes to the director's face, the face that had once been to him as the countenance of a god. he smiled bitterly. and now the alto is singing her first song. the audience rouses up as if from an electric shock--and listens amazed, but none listens with such intentness as gesa von zuylen. a strange, strange feeling trembles through him, the feeling of warm young delight, of joyful intoxication with which he wrote that song. indignation had no chance to be heard, so mighty is the bliss of hearing his own work. it is as if some one had given him back his lost soul. the applause grows louder and louder. as if in a dream he plays on, sometimes he shrinks when some blatant interlude of de sterny's disfigures his own composition. "now comes the most beautiful of all," they whisper in the audience, "the duet of the outcasts." in mournful lament are heard the exile's voices, softly, lightly floating, the violin's angel song mingles with theirs, above, around them, whispering memories of joys forever lost. gesa listens--listens--his bow stops, he sees the little green chamber, the smiling friend at the old spinet, and beside him the lovely maiden, her hands clasped in one another, her delicate head slightly bent toward the shoulder, as if it were grown too heavy. "nessun maggior dolore," he murmurs. the whole audience shouts. the orchestra applauds standing--the amateurs crowd round the stage. but there!--what is this? panting, breathless, foam on his lips, rage in his eyes, the violinist presses forward through the ranks of the orchestra, up to the director. "wretch! murderer!" he shrieks and strikes him with his bow across the face, then sinks unconscious to the floor. de sterny passes a hand across his brow, and while the violinist is being carried out, he turns to the capelmeister, who is hurrying up and says with that practiced presence of mind which teaches a man of the world heroism on the scaffold. "a sudden attack of delirium tremens. you really might have taken pains to spare me such a painful scene!" the rehearsal proceeded. gesa was taken home. as soon as he recovered consciousness he sought in all the closets and chests for the original score of his "inferno" of which he had lent a copy to de sterny. he never found the manuscript. all he discovered were the disconnected parts of his unfinished opera. xix between the boulevard exterieur, "boulevard des crimes" as the popular voice has named it, and the buttes montmartre, stretches a quarter of paris which is behind the rue ravestein in remoteness from the world, but far surpasses it in wretchedness. no mournful redeemer here stretches out his crucified arms to mankind, as if he would say: "i would have warmed you all in my bosom, but you have nailed my hands fast!" no colored church windows glimmer changefully here, amidst misery and depravity. the old montmartre church is broken up,--they are building on the new one! in a temporary wooden tower on the buttes montmartre, hangs a shrill bell that sounds like the bell of a railroad or a factory, and at certain hours of the day, it tinkles a little despairing catholicism down into the empty republican clatter below. one junk shop crowds another here, and wooden booths full of second-hand rubbish and guarded mostly by poodle dogs stand in the wind. one thing is especially noticeable in the faubourg montmartre. every article one buys there is handed to him wrapped in old drawings, old manuscripts, or old copied music. on everything lies the mould and dust of defunct artist existences, and the debris of fallen air castles. the countless miserable lodgings swarm with young artists who never will accomplish anything, with old ones who never have accomplished anything. against a background of impudent vice and grumbling poverty are drawn the relaxed figures of enthusiasts weary into death. in his "_petits poems en prose_," bandelaire described three people sinking from fatigue, yet without revolting against their burdens, carrying on their backs three enormous, grinning chimeras, whose claws are fastened in their patient shoulders. every artist in the faubourg montmartre bears his chimera. his burden holds him upright; when that disappears he disappears with it. whole troops of pretentious non-geniuses are to be met there, but also here and there among these eccentric jack fools, a really great, although long ruined artist nature making its last attempt to live and writing its name with trembling hand in the dust. there they dream, and peer across to the boulevard, the high road of fortune, listening and waiting, with the vigor-and reason-devouring hope of the gambler. * * * * * one morning a man climbed up to the humblest lodging of rue de steinkerque in the faubourg montmartre; gesa von zuylen. he had come to paris partly to escape from the rue ravestein, and partly because paris is supposed to be the california of artists. a tenor, whom he met on the railroad gave him the address of this lodging; he said it was a place where a man could work. and gesa wanted to work! he had a thousand francs in his pocket, the price of an amati, once presented him by a distinguished patron. the violin was thrown away at a thousand francs. but what of that? he needed money and would have sold the blood from his veins to compass this sojourn in paris. he still heard the thundering tribute of applause paid to his work, and saw de sterny's complacent bows. his clenched nails dug into the palms, but he forced himself back to calmness. he would work, he must work, that he might tear away his stolen royal mantle from the shoulders of the traitor! surely for every genuine talent the hour of triumph strikes at least once in a life time, and he, he was no man of talent, he was a genius! how freely he breathed after that first day after his arrival in paris. his new acquaintance, the tenor, had asked him "if he would like to take a walk to the real boulevard." he meant the boulevard between the new opera house and the madeleine. but gesa shrank from the bustle and confusion--and while the tenor, with the haste of a newly-arrived provincial hurried off into the heart of paris, gesa crept slowly up the hill of montmartre. there was a shabby public garden on the top, with newly set forlorn vegetation, a slippery flight of wooden steps led up to it. lean, badly nurtured children, not in the least resembling the elves in the champs elysées and the park monceau, tumbled about in the crowded walks. behind the garden was some waste land where grass covered with chalky dust stretches up to the doors of some miserable little huts. paris seemed far away. he seated himself on a bench. shrill children's voices, in whose strident tones could already be heard the curse of the factory hand, and the coarse laugh of the paissarde surrounded him. he was deadly tired. in other times he had not even noticed the little journey from brussels to paris. his head sank on his breast. he dreamed that he was walking under the sleepy rustling trees of the park in brussels, annette delileo was on his arm. the blue sky mirrored itself in an enormous pool, whereon some red poppy leaves were floating, and he told annette how that "he was a genius, and was going to do something great." he felt the tender nestling of her warm young form against him. suddenly he started up. little cold fingers touched his, a small girl in a white cap and large blue apron stood beside him, and said--"monsieur, they are closing the garden." the angelus was tinkling through the air as gesa descended. damp odors pervaded the slippery hill; great ragged streaks of fog settled slowly down on the wretchedness of montmartre. * * * * * once more in his apartment, gesa made a light, and looked around him, shivering a little at the comfortless room. in the grey marble chimney-place, stood an iron stove. the orange and blue flowers of the carpet had long taken on a uniform covering of dirt. two offensive terra-cotta images stood on the mantelpiece. the tenor who was well acquainted in the rue steinkerque, and had mounted to the lodging with gesa before, had explained that these were the work of a certain vaudreuil, a second michael angelo, whose genius was broken in pieces against the hard stupidity of the public. "genius!" how the misuse of the word angered him! "genius! the man has no trace even of talent," gesa had cried, looking at the disgusting figures. "si! si!" rejoined the tenor. "he spent all his means in trying to convert the world to 'high art,' chiseled and ecce homo--but what will you have? marble is dear--he grew melancholy, took to drink--and then--_il a fini par faire cela_." whereat gesa asked shuddering, "what became of him, did he kill himself?" "no, but he works no longer--his daughter supports him, _vous savez! les filles d'artistes! cela a quelquechose dans le sang_. at one time he cursed her and turned her out of doors. but he does not remember that any more, he doesn't remember anything any more. so long as he has his warm room, his game of billiards and his glass of absynthe, he is contented. he lives in the hotel de nancy, here on the corner. you can make his acquaintance to-morrow if you like. the young artists treat him sometimes, to hear him spout about art,--it is very funny!" the michael angelo of the hotel de nancy was the first thing that occurred to gesa when he returned to his miserable room. his look sought the two terra-cotta statuettes. he examined them with a morbid curiosity. he took one of them and held it close to his dimly burning lamp in order to see it more distinctly. his artist eye recognized in the figure the traces of very great powers gone astray. a terrible sob unmanned him, the figure shook in his trembling hand. he let it fall and it broke into a thousand pieces. but they did not charge it in his weekly reckoning. it had no value for any one. * * * * * he drank no longer. a nameless dread clutched his heart; red clouds floated before his vision, a fearful lassitude enervated him--but he drank no more and he worked. and at first it seemed as if the completion of his opera would be accomplished with perfect ease. he covered piles of music paper with great celerity, and when his power of invention suddenly ceased it did not frighten him, for he remembered that, even in his best days, the inspiration had suffered such moments. he proposed while waiting for a fresh impulse, to polish that which was already written; but when he came to examine it, it was a chaos, which even he himself could not understand. whole bars were wanting, the accompaniment was perfectly incoherent. here and there certainly, were places of striking beauty, quite isolated however, like splendid ruins in heaps of rubbish. another thing disquieted him. many of the technical signs of orchestration had escaped him, he could no longer write a regular score. he spent the whole night in looking over a work on composition. next morning he began his work anew. to carry out with perfect clearness one miserable little phrase caused him the most painful effort. the faculty of concentration seemed lost to him. but he shirked no pains, no fatigue--"patience! patience! it will all come!" he said to himself, and at the same time his tears fell on the paper. he imposed the most fearful privations upon himself in order to eke out his means to the farthest possible extent. he moved from the orange-yellow room to an attic--he ate once a day. he grew grey, his hands trembled and he stammered in his speech. the children on the hill, whither he crept, of an afternoon, for air, all knew him and tripped in a friendly way up to the bench where he cowered, muttering to himself, a note-book on his knees, a pencil in his hand, and wished him good-day. he stroked their cheeks, took them on his lap and rejoiced that they were not afraid of him. he would gladly have told them stories--but the words would not come. one day he brought his violin up to the buttes montmartre. anxious to please the children's taste, he played them little dances. his fingers had grown stiff since he had so suddenly renounced the inspiring indulgence of drink. the bow wavered in his trembling hand. he was ashamed before the children. but for them his playing was exactly right. soon a large audience had assembled around him. some of the little people gazed at him with earnest attention, their heads slightly thrown back, their hands clasped behind them--others danced gaily with one another. this pleased him. he held up his head before the children. he felt as if he would like to improvise; then it seemed to him as if the tune that sprung from under his fingers was strangely familiar--it was the same which he had played nearly thirty years before in the circus on the "sablon." and now every day he shuffled with his violin up to the shabby garden. the poor children's applause had become a necessity. * * * * * he grew more and more intimate with the tenor. the latter, after having been refused at the opera--thanks to a vile conspiracy--had arrived at the practical conviction that this grand opera was a decaying institution, with which he would scorn to have any relations, and had accepted an engagement in a café chantant of the faubourg montmartre, where he earned a comfortable subsistence. at first gesa would not hear of playing anything from his opera to the tenor, but later, when he began to despair in secret over his work, an urgent desire to confide in some one overcame him. he played for hours to the tenor after that, on a lamentable old piano, and wheezed the arias at times, in a ghostly, hollow voice, only for the sake of hearing from some one the assurance, "cela sera superbe!" then he would talk himself into an unnatural excitement, his eyes would flash, and he would cry, flourishing his clenched fist in the air--"it has the grand manner, has it not?" once he had been so modest! his means were almost exhausted. he sold his books, his watch. he always treated the tenor patronizingly, like a dependant--and the tenor indulged him as one whose mind was weak. but once, as the two were sitting opposite each other before the fire in the singer's room, the latter said, passing his fingers through his hair, "my dear friend, _ton genie ne te fera pas vivre!_" gesa stared gloomily at the speaker. "well, well," said the tenor, hastening to pacify him, "i only mean that the mere inception of such a grand work must require a long time. how would it be if you should occupy yourself a little hereabouts, meanwhile?" gesa sighed. "i could compose something small," said he. "romances, for example." "unhappily that would amount to nothing unless you allied yourself with a singer or an actress, who would bring you into fashion. and then--even so it would be a dreadful pity to divert you from your chief end--to fritter you away. no, you ought to seek a place in an orchestra." "yes, at the opera," said gesa, and thought of his stiff fingers with a shudder. however, as he would on no consideration have confessed this infirmity he added, with some embarrassment. "everything is so complicated there,--so many rehearsals,--one is busy till late at night." "no!" replied the other, "you should not undertake such absorbing work as that. that would be treason to your muse. i was thinking of a comfortable place in an orchestra that makes no big flourishes and does not rehearse a great deal." "well!" muttered gesa. "i made the acquaintance lately at the hotel de nancy, of a clown, a splendid fellow, who works in a circus on the boulevard rochechonart. not a first-class circus, but a very respectable circus for all that. i told the clown about you. they just happen to need a first violin and"-- gesa sprang hastily up and left the room. from that moment he never spoke to the tenor again. * * * * * his lassitude and weakness increased with every day. the blood crept in his veins like cold lead--there was always a mist before his eyes, and in his ears a sound like the flapping of an exhausted butterfly. the miserable nourishment which was all he could afford himself, did not suffice to keep him up any longer, he could not leave his room, then he took to his bed. because he was universally liked his fellow lodgers did him all the kindnesses they could, and even the hostess herself brought him food, made his bed, and borrowed newspapers for him. he thanked them all with the same timid smile, the same far-off look, and spent nearly the whole day in a sad, drowsy condition, falling from one light slumber into another. but one afternoon it seemed to him as if a soft hand passed tenderly over his forehead. he opened his eyes. above him bent a handsome old face, decently framed in grey hair, and a voice that sounded from the far distance murmured "gesa!" he roused himself. "gesa!" she cried again. it was his mother! yes, his mother, whom he had not seen for nearly five and twenty years. she had married the acrobat fernando. the circus on the boulevard rochechonart belonged to them--they were prosperous. the light-minded woman was not so bad as one might have thought her. she had kept herself secretly informed about gesa for a long time after leaving him, and convinced herself that he was well cared for and "among quality people," as she said, and this latter circumstance had deprived her of courage to approach him. but she had often rejoiced at the sight of him from a distance. then, slowly he disappeared from her horizon. and now the tenor, monsieur augusti, whose acquaintance she had lately made, after talking a great deal of his friend, had only yesterday spoken his name. all this margaretha imparted to her son, weeping the while, straightening his miserable pillow and smoothed the bed clothes. he suffered it all quietly, murmuring sometimes a grateful word, and observing her, half stupefied, half astray. he could not realize this sudden meeting. but when she, embarrassed by his passiveness, went on--"i heard you play, years ago,--long years ago,--at nice. oh! i was proud of you! and i bought your piece, the one where your picture is on the cover:--such a handsome picture!"--then the violinist buried his face in the pillow and groaned like a dying man. his anguish overcame the shyness which held his mother back--"poor boy!" she whispered, caressingly, stroking the rough grey hair of the broken man, as in times long past she had smoothed the child's soft locks. "you must not take your trouble so to heart. i know all, what a great genius you are, and how cruelly the world has used you. we will nurse you well again, and then all will be right. you shall come to us; we will not disturb you; not one of us; only take care of you. you shall have a little room of your own where you can work as much as you will." he looked up slowly, a heavy cough shook his sunken breast. the mother passed her arm under his thin shoulders and raised him up a little to ease his breath, his tired head rested on her bosom. "how fallen away you are," she said, half weeping, "and your poor shirt, all in pieces. to-morrow i must bring you fresh linen. and now try to take something; you must get strong." and she gave him a cup of broth that she had warmed for him. he did as she bade him, silently,--he even relished the broth. his bitter grief, his deep degradation were forgotten in the feeling of being once more cared for. drowsy, quiet, lazy contentment overcame him. dumb, but grateful, he kissed his mother's hand. her eyes lighted up. "i must go now," she said. "the ticket-office of the circus opens at six; i must be there. good-bye. i shall get free about eight and can come to you then. now you will sleep a little." she pressed her lips to his temples and disappeared. the violinist fell asleep. a memory glided into his soul, a long forgotten memory,--not of his dead bride, his faithless friend,--no, a painless memory of his first return to the rue ravestein. a dreamy, narcotic odor hovered around him, and he saw a bunch of brilliant-hued poppies. he heard the light rustle of the dying leaves as they fell on the marble gueridon.--he sprang up. his heart beat as if it would burst his breast.--a nameless terror seized him, as of one who finds himself sinking contentedly into a bog. he collected himself--he would flee--he would seek death. he seized his clothes,--but the garments slipped from his hands,--he reeled and sank back powerless on his bed. the resignation, the sleepy intoxication of ruined souls, who are grown too weary for despair, mastered him. a dark genius hovered for a moment in the bare attic, the genius of the hopeless. he carried a cluster of red poppies in his hand. * * * * * days passed, weeks, months. on the boulevards rochechonart and clichy, peopled by artist workers of all kinds, one often meets a tall, elderly man with grey hair, that hangs disorderly about his cheeks. it is gesa von zuylen. his face is still handsome--but the expression is dull. sometimes he stops, places his hand to his ear, as if listening to something at a distance. then he shakes his head, sighs impatiently and goes his way. he lives with his mother, and is treated by her and by his stepfather, and his half-brothers with much deference. carefully tended, neatly dressed, and well fed, he does not feel himself unhappy. he enjoys his meals and every one calls him, "le raté de montmartre." the nobl' zwilk the nobl' zwilk it was in vienna, in the ring-strasse, at the house of frau von ---- i forget her name, but they used to call her "madame necker," because she was married to a banker, thought a great deal of her manners, had a weakness for celebrities, and two _jours fixes_ every week. wednesday was for the _gens d'esprit_, and friday was for the _gens bêtes_. it was wednesday evening, and the salon of "madame necker" was almost empty. excepting her husband, who, to provide against possible misunderstandings, always showed himself there on the clever peoples' day, there was no one present but a celebrated poet, a celebrated poetess, a celebrated orientalist, and a harmless little freethinking idealist, not at all celebrated but much in fashion. the conversation turned on social prejudices, and the hostess, whose fad for the moment was for belles-lettres pure and simple, and who took no account of aristocracy, could not think of enough scornful words for a certain frau von sterzl, who was spending her life in the vain effort to balance a seven-pointed coronet, to which she had no right, on her worried head. the orientalist looked thoughtful. he was a retired cavalry officer. some years before he had accompanied a friend to cairo, and on the strength of that, had sent some articles about the museum of bulac to an illustrated journal. "not to come of a good family," said he, "is no misfortune and yet, under certain circumstances, it can cause a social discomfort, which those who suffer from, deny, and for which not one of them is consoled." "this discomfort is shared with so many famous men that i should be inclined to regard it as a distinction," cried the young idealist, with much ardor and little logic, as usual. "that's as much as to say you would like to be descended from a tailor because goethe was," said the general, dryly. not thinking of any answer to this, the young man said "hem!" and pulled his moustache. "and you would like to wear a hump, because Æsop did," smiled the general. "my dear general," put in the poet, "what has a hump to do with low birth?" "nothing intrinsically, and yet these two things do meet at one point. the first is an imaginary evil, while the other is a positive one; but they are alike in the bad influence which they may exert on the character." "oh, general!" laughed the hostess. "with your permission," he went on, "i will tell you a story to illustrate my paradox, which i see you don't accept at present: a very simple story, of something which i witnessed myself." "we are all ears," simpered the host, and passed a fat hand over the two pomaded cupid's wings, which stuck up on either side his head. "very interesting, i am sure," said the hostess, in the politely condescending manner of her great prototype. the poet and the poetess made satirical faces, the idealist craned his neck forward, eager to listen. the general gazed thoughtfully before him for a while, then he began, speaking slowly: "he went by the name of zwilk: by rights it was zwilch; but after he was promoted for some brilliant deed of arms or other, he never called himself anything but zwilk von zwilneck. he liked the title so much that he wrote it on all his books, and bought books that he never read, in order to write it on them. "no one knew anything about his origin. sometimes he passed for the son of a crowned head and a dancer. i think he set this story going himself. sometimes he passed for the son of a sacristan in reichenhall. he never mentioned his family; he never went home; he received no letters, excepting those which came from comrades in the regiment. only once did a letter arrive for him, which was plainly not from a brother officer. it was a narrow, greenish, forlorn-looking missive, with the address written zigzag, and the sealing wax spattered all over the cover. they brought it to him in the coffeehouse, and he turned quite red when the waiter presented it 'ah, yes,' he said, stiffly, through his nose. 'a letter from my old nurse.' heaven knows why we didn't believe much in that old nurse. "whatever zwilk's origin might have been, his tastes were severely aristocratic. he never would let himself be introduced to a woman unless she belonged in 'society.' "others of the corps recognized his exclusiveness by nicknaming him the 'countess's zwilk,' 'the nobl' zwilk,' and 'batiste.' these were not very good jokes, but they never lost their charm for us, and we laughed at them just as much the hundredth time as the first. zwilk laughed with us: his laugh used to make me nervous; it sounded like a bleat, and seemed to come out of his nose and ears. he was undeniably a handsome man, tall, blonde, broad-shouldered, stiff and slender, with a regular profile and a thick blonde beard. "he had great success with women: that is, with young widows and elderly pensioners, and the blowsy provincial beauties, to whom, as i said, he would never be presented, but with whom he danced, all the same, at balls in the early morning hours. "you might think these ladies would consider his pompous impertinence an insult. on the contrary they were greatly impressed by his 'exclusiveness,' and when he waltzed with one of them she talked about it for a fortnight afterward. "he wore his uniforms too tight, and his cuffs too long, and he used to pull the latter down over his knuckles. those hands of his were incurably coarse, in spite of all the care they got, and he was always fussing with them. sometimes he trimmed the flat, uneven nails in public; sometimes he crooked the little fingers with graceful ease. his manners were stiff, and his german was florid, but ungrammatical. he spoke like a dancing master, who, having 'had a great deal to do with society,' feels obliged, for that reason, to pronounce the most teutonic words with a french accent. "he was at home in danger. not only did he distinguish himself by reckless bravery in the field, but he showed in duels a cold indifference, which gave him great advantage over those of his opponents, who, though his equals in courage and his superiors in skill, were yet unable wholly to control a certain sentimental nervousness. the superior officers all praised him, for he was able, and he knew how to obey as well as to command. but he was very unpopular with his subordinates, to whom he showed himself extremely harsh, and with whom he never exchanged a joke, or a bit of friendly chat about their families, as the rest of us liked to do. "as much audacity as he showed in great matters, just so little did he possess in small ones. nothing could have induced him to tell a prince who said a horse had five legs, that it only had four. "i am aware that this manner of judging him is retrospective. in those days, while we were in service together it hardly occurred to us, with our austrian good humor, easy going, and perhaps a little bit superficial, to examine critically him or his failings. if we found him uncongenial, we hardly confessed it among ourselves, still less would we have acknowledged it to a civilian. "he had one pronounced enemy in the corps, and that was little toni truyn, cousin of count erich truyn, the truyn von rantschin. poor toni! he was the black sheep, the karl moor of his distinguished family, and if he never got so far as to turn incendiary and robber-chief, that was from lack of energy and of genius. the requisite number of paternal letters were not wanting. "his family had a right to lecture toni, for he had cruelly disappointed all their hopes. destined from infancy to the church, he suddenly, in his eighteenth year, developed religious scruples. his family regarded these as a symptom of nervous derangement, arising from too rapid growth, and they sent him to rome to be scared back into an orthodox frame of mind by the hierarchy. to help matters, they provided him with an abbé as a traveling companion. "in less than a month, toni, having quarreled with his abbé, was going up and down in rome, proclaiming his contempt for popish superstitions, and raving about heathen gods and goddesses like a renaissance cardinal. he neither presented himself at the austrian embassy, nor sought the customary papal blessing: he wandered about with mad artist-folk, ate in hostelries, danced extravagantly at models' balls, where he gave the italian females lessons in austrian choregraphy, which caused them to open their eyes, and ended by falling in love with a market-girl from the trastevere. when he came home, he brought his trasteverina along, with the naïve intention of marrying her. his father, not unnaturally declined this connection, toni had still less mind to the church, so they put him in the army. "found fault with by his superiors, idolized by his subordinates, cordially liked by the rest of us, he remained to the end, a middling officer and a splendid comrade. he rode round-shouldered and was incurably careless about his accoutrements, and because of his harmless cynicism, and his easy-going, half rustic unmannerliness, we christened him the peasant count and farmer toni. "there was a legend that his majesty, one day at a hunt or a race, or some one of those occasions that serve to bring the monarch a little nearer to his subjects, condescended to ask toni's father, old count hugo, 'how is your family, and what are your sons doing?' 'the eldest,' said count truyn, 'is serving your majesty in the foreign office, and the second is in the army.' 'he is here,' added the count, looking about for toni. he discovered him not far off, leaning against a tree, whistling, his hands in his pockets, his cap dragged down over his ears, oblivious of kaisers. "the old count was so upset by this sight, that he pointed out another man, in a great hurry, and that man happened to be zwilk. the kaiser asked no more questions, and nothing came of it, but when the peasant-count told us this story afterward, amid shouts of laughter, he added, 'now you know why i can't bear zwilk. i envy him his distinction.' "one hot summer day,--it was in vienna, and we were riding home from the man[oe]uvres, through a suburb,--in a deserted street, full of sweepings and gamins, smelling of soap boiling and leather curing, farmer toni's eyes fell on the dirty sign of a miserable little shop, 'anton zwilch, tin-man.' resting one hand on his horse's croup, toni leaned over, and said with that soft, winning voice of his, which was in such true aristocratic contrast to his rough-and-ready manners, 'batiste, is that your cousin?' and zwilk replied with a forced smile, through his nose, 'non, mon cher, that must be another line. we write our name with a k: zwilk von zwilnek.' "next day in café daum, the farmer-count perfidiously seized on a general lull in the conversation, and called across several tables to his particular friend. first lieutenant schmied. "'du, schmied! is the brewer at hitzing, a relative of yours?' and the other called back affectedly, 'non, mon cher, that must be another line, we spell ourselves with an _ie_.' "this feeble joke was repeated at intervals after that, to the edification of toni and his friend, and the great embarrassment of all the rest. zwilk pretended not to hear it. "about this time our corps was enriched by the arrival of count erich truyn, toni's cousin. he had got himself exchanged from the cuirassiers because of some love affair or other. he was blonde, handsome as a picture, chivalrous, aristocrat through and through. like all the truyns, excepting toni, erich was conservative, even reactionary. nevertheless, perhaps exactly for that reason, he was most considerate toward people who were less well born than himself. when toni and schmied served up their stale joke about 'the other line,' count erich always grew restless, and at last, one day when i was present, he remonstrated with his cousin. 'you are really too unfeeling, toni,' he said. 'how is it possible for you to jeer at a poor devil who can't help his extraction, and no doubt has to suffer enough from it. look here--i--hm--it would annoy me very much to have this go any further, but i have heard that poor zwilk was once a waiter at lamm.' "'whatever he was would make no difference if he were a decent man now, but he isn't!' broke out toni. 'he's a low fellow; heartless canaille!' "'you ought not to speak that way of a comrade,' said count erich, much shocked, 'of a man with whom you stand on terms of _du_ and _du_.' "'i say _du_ to his uniform, not to him,' muttered toni. count erich burst out laughing,--'and i took _you_ for a red!' he cried. "soon after this we were sent to salzburg; there zwilk saw his best days. he became the intimate friend of prince bonbon liscat, a very limited person, between ourselves, whom they had shoved into the army to keep him occupied, until they could arrange a marriage for him, to provide his line with heirs. "spoiled by priests and women, like so many scions of our highest nobility, wrapped in cotton from his birth, nurtured in arrogance, prince liscat as a child could never endure the equally pampered arrogance of his young peers, and always chose his playmates from among the toadies and fags. now, true to this taste of his youth, he liked no company so well as that of zwilk. zwilk must dine with him, must drive with him, zwilk must accompany him on the piano while he poured forth elegies on the french horn,--on the tortoise-shell comb, for anything i know. "as for zwilk, he existed for bonbon: he bathed in aromatic vinegar like bonbon: he went to confession; he abused the liberal journals; he raved about salvioni's legs, all like bonbon. he acquired a complete aristocratic jargon, talking of 'bougays,' 'table _do_,' and 'orschestre.' prince liscat was the last to correct him. it would have been quite too revolutionary for zwilk to pronounce french as well as he did himself. "zwilk's bonbon had an ancient uncle, prince schirmberg, who lived in a curious old rococo chateau, about an hour out of salzburg. he was a bachelor, once very gay, now very pious; the first in accordance with family tradition, the latter from fear of future punishment. he suffered from spinal complaint, and, being paralyzed in both legs, he spent his time between a rolling chair and a landau. before the latter walked four large cream-colored steeds, in slow solemnity, as if it was a funeral. "all the cab drivers and private coachmen reined in as soon as they overtook the serene equipage, and fell behind, the whole cavalcade then proceeding at a snail's pace. it would never do to pass the prince, and it would never do to stir up the princely cream colors by a too lively example, lest evil befall the princely spinal column. "only toni truyn wickedly rushed past now and then, at the full speed of his thoroughbreds. then the big cream colors before the old-fashioned landau would give an excited jump or two, and poor prince schirmberg would call out, 'damn that truyn!' "his serene highness certainly hated toni, who returned it with good-natured contempt and a number of bad jokes. some one came and told prince schirmberg that toni had said he was nothing but a bundle of prejudices done up in old parchment. this the prince took very ill, without in the least understanding it. 'prejudice,' he knew, from reading the 'neue freie presse' was the liberal word for principles: and 'parchment' was simply an aristocratic kind of leather. "the prince had a sister, auguste. all the little girl babies in salzburg were named after her. we used to call her the may-beetle, because she had a little head and a broad, round back, and always dressed in a black cap and a frock of carmelite brown. "she occupied herself with heraldry and charity. that is, she painted the schirmberg coat-of-arms on every object that would hold it, and she engaged all their evening visitors, who were not playing whist with her brother, in cutting little strips of paper to stuff hospital pillows. for their reward she used to have them served at ten o'clock with weak tea and hard biscuits, but, as even the best families in salzburg still keep up the barbarous custom of dining at one o'clock, the guests found their supper rather meagre. "when she wanted to give them a special treat, she read to them in a thin voice out of an old chronicle about the deeds of the schrimbergs. "she had a marked weakness for zwilk. he cut papers with enthusiasm: he listened to the chronicles with ecstasy: he fell on one knee to kiss her hand when she graciously extended it at leave-taking. "it was sylvester day, in the yard of the riding school. the cold winter sun fell dazzlingly on the hard, white snow. long, strangely twisted icicles hung from the snow-covered roofs, against the gloomy sides of the buildings which surrounded the court. "we had given our recruits a good dressing down in the riding school, and now we were standing about in little groups chatting, cheerful and hungry, in the cold court. i heard erich truyn behind me, speaking in that polite, pleasant tone which he kept especially for poor country priests, and scared women of the lower classes. he was saying, 'i'm sorry, but first lieutenant zwilch is engaged at present. shall i send for him?' i turned round. there in the old, grey archway stood handsome truyn, blonde, slender, careless, easy, correct without pedantry; from head to foot what a cavalier ought to be. beside him, square, clumsy, tufts of grey hair over his ears, a grey beard under his chin, face mottled red and blue from the cold, mouth and eyes surrounded by fine wrinkles, cheeks rough and seamed like the shell of an english walnut,--an old man, a stranger. "he wore very poor clothes, half town, half country make, a short sheepskin, high boots, from which green worsted stockings protruded, a long faded scarf with a grey fringe twisted round his neck. he had a little bundle tied up in a red handkerchief squeezed under one arm, and he was kneading nervously in his two hands a shabby old fur cap, as he looked up with an expression half frightened, half confiding to count erich. "that usually so self-possessed young gentleman was much embarrassed, and was making visible efforts to hide it, while he strove at the same time to encourage the old stranger. "'shall i send for him?' he asked a second time. 'oh! please, i can wait, please,'--stammered the old man in his _gemüthlich_ upper-austrian dialect. "i took him for a small mechanic; he was too diffident for a peasant, and not shabby enough for a day laborer. "'i can wait,' he repeated. 'have already waited, long, very long, herr lieutenant.' "'as you will, but won't you sit down?' said erich, hesitating, divided between fear of giving the old man a cold, and fear of not showing him proper attention. "right and left of me our comrades were chatting. 'sylvester,' cried schmied, 'it's the stupidest day of the year. it makes me think of punch, and cakes, and cousins.' "'it makes me think of my tailor and my governor,' laughed farmer toni. "the peasant-count was sitting on a bale of hay: schmied stood over against him, leaning on the side of a forage wagon. toni wore a short white riding coat; his chin was in his hands, his elbows were on his knees. "'to the first i owe a bill,' he went on, 'and to the latter i owe congratulations. schmied, do you think he'd be satisfied with "best wishes for the new year," on a card?' '"are you going to schirmberg's to-night?' asked another officer coming up. "'must,' said toni, laconically. 'and you?' "'i don't know. perhaps i can plead another engagement. it will be deadly dull at schirmberg's.' "'i hear they are going to serve champagne and a prince of the blood,' said schmied. "'hello! what's old gusti up to?' laughed toni: 'big soirées are not in her line.' "'it's all for zwilk,' answered schmied. 'you know he is going to be made adjutant to prince schirmberg.' "'adjutant to a prince!' it was the old stranger who cried out, proud, excited, turning his head from one to the other. "erich had continued to do the honors with all the courtesy of your true aristocrat to the plebeian who has not as yet stretched out a hand toward any of his prerogatives. the little old man had grown quite confiding: he looked up now in erich's face and asked, 'you know him well?' "'he is my comrade,' answered truyn. 'i wish i could call myself as admirable an officer as he is. he is one of the best in the service, and he has a brilliant career before him.' "truyn liked zwilk as little as the rest of us, but he wanted to give the old man pleasure, and that he could do without falsehood. "the stranger stripped off his mittens, and put his knuckles to his wet eyes. "'i thank you, i thank you,' he sobbed like a child. 'he's my son. i wanted to see him, long, long, but he was so far away and he never could come home,--but he wrote,--such beautiful letters. the priest, himself, couldn't beat them; and,--and--now, i was going to surprise him, but--will he--will he like it, herr lieutenant, after all? look you,--i'm afraid,--he such a grand gentleman, and i'-- "zwilk's voice sounded from within, hard and merciless, rating a common soldier: then he walked into the yard. "arm in arm with prince liscat, varnished, laced, buckled, strapped, affected and arrogant, one hand on his moustache, he simpered through his teeth: "'you're much too good, bonbon. you don't know how to treat the _canaille_. the pleb must be trodden on, else he will grow up over our heads.' "then his eyes met those of the old stranger. he turned deathly pale; the old man shook in every limb. handsome truyn, very red in the face, stammered: "'your father has come to see you: it gives me much pleasure to make his acquaintance,' or some well-meant awkwardness of that kind. "but zwilk smiled, his upper lip drawing tight under his nose, showing his teeth, large, square and white, like piano keys. "'der papa?' he simpered, elegantly, looking all over the court, as if searching for him; then, as the old man, stretching out his trembling hands, 'loisl!' zwilk fixed him with a cold stare and said, 'i don't know the man; he must be crazy.' "ashamed, confused, the stranger let fall his hands; he caught his breath, then looking anxiously from one to the other of us, he stammered: "'it is not my son. i was mistaken: a very grand gentleman. not my son.' "'never mind,' strutted zwilk, and clapped him jovially on the shoulder. 'there, drink my health,' and he reached him a silver gulden. "the old man took it with an indescribable, hesitating gesture; looked again in a scared way around on us all, lifted his eyes sadly, as if begging forgiveness, to the face of the nobl' zwilk, and turned away, repeating, 'not my son!' "he was blind with grief. he struck against the sharp corner of the stone gatepost, recoiled, felt about with his hands for support, and disappeared. "we were dumb. there came the ring of a coin on the pavement without, a half-choked sob, then nothing more. "'dost thou dine at the austrian court to-day?' inquired zwilk, with cheerful effrontery of his friend bonbon, whose arm he took. "farmer toni hawked and spat slowly and deliberately at zwilk's feet, but zwilk had the presence of mind not to see it, and left the place on liscat's arm, still smiling. "we looked at each other. count erich's eyes were full of tears. schmied's fists were clenched, and his lip trembled. all of us felt a tightness in our throat. we longed to rush after the disowned man; to surround him with respectful attentions; to pour out kind words and consolation,--if we could have found consolation. but it was one of those moments when fine feeling lays a restraining hand on sympathy, and we pass the sufferer blindly by, not daring even to uncover our heads. "in the square before the barracks, a silver gulden sparkled on the pavement in the cold winter sun. * * * * * "new year had come in when the party broke up at prince schirmberg's, and we rode homeward by a narrow, snow-covered path across the fields, a short cut, by which the heavy equipages of the other guests could not follow us. "the soirée had been a great success. the prince of the blood had shown himself, as usual, all affability, and zwilk, warmly recommended to favor, had been graciously distinguished by his royal highness. "the slightly faded countess schnick had looked very pretty. zwilk had been courting her since autumn, and to-night she had been very encouraging to the future adjutant of prince schirmberg. and zwilk, after the departure of his royal highness, had beamed and twinkled, and shone as if varnished all over with good fortune, patronizing everybody, even his friend bonbon. now he rode, sunk in pleasant reveries, a little apart from us, at the head of our cavalcade. "the moon shone clear. sown with countless stars, the sky blue and cloudless arched above an endless expanse of snow. everything around us was of a blinding whiteness, an unearthly purity, and still as death. only now and again, at long intervals, a light shudder trembled through the silence, a swift rushing, a deep sigh,--then once more silence. "'it is a parting soul,' said erich truyn, listening, much moved. erich was a little superstitious. "'nonsense,' grumbled schmied, 'it is a tree letting fall its burden of snow.' "'everything is so strangely pure, one is afraid of meeting an angel,' said toni. "'yes, it makes one ashamed of being a man,' muttered schmied. then we all ceased talking. we thought of home. the new year's night, so still and peaceful, brought us all memories of long-forgotten childhood. presently schmied spoke out in his deep bass voice, to toni. "'i must see if i can't get leave and give my old governor a surprise for twelfth night. he's awfully pleased when hopeful turns up.' "'wish i could say the same of my herr papa,' sighed toni. 'but it's all up in that quarter. i'm simply a lightning rod for him. when his steward bothers him, he sits down and writes me an abusive letter. but it's partly my own fault,' he added, regretfully. "count erich, who had lost his father shortly before, looked straight ahead, his brows meeting, his eyes winking unsteadily. "proudly the nobl' zwilk rode at the head of our little troop, rocking himself in dreams of gratified vanity. all at once his horse reared, so violently and unexpectedly that he was thrown. he kept hold of the bridle, and was back in the saddle next moment, punishing his horse furiously, and cursing so loud that schmied, who rode nearest him, called out 'restrain yourself': and pointed to a small wayside shrine, on the edge of the path. it held an image of the virgin, and a half extinguished lamp, burning dimly before it, sent a red ray into the blue white of the moonbeams. "then, on the spot where zwilk's horse had shied, schmied's gaudeamus began to back and tremble, to our amazement, for schmied's horses were reputed as phlegmatic as their master. next truyn's coquette jumped to one side, and toni's lucretia began swinging herself backward and forward like a wooden rocking horse. "'i think the brutes have entered into a conspiracy to make us stop here and say our prayers,' said toni. but schmied sprang down. "'what is it?' we called. 'some one frozen,' he answered. 'perhaps some one drunk,' lisped prince liscat. erich and his cousin with the rest of us were already dismounted. two sleepy grooms held our horses. "there on the chapel steps, crouched a human form, in the attitude of one who has fled to god with a great burden. "we stretched him out on the snow. his limbs cracked gruesomely. his hands were hard as stone: he must have been dead for hours. the cold moon shone on his face. it was old and wrinkled, the frost of frozen tears glimmered on his cheeks and around his mouth. the dead drawn mouth kept the expression of weeping. "'it's the poor devil who came to us yesterday morning in the riding-school,' said erich, and bowed his head reverently. "'better so,' muttered schmied, in a shaky voice. 'better for him.' the little peasant-count kneeled in the snow, rubbing the stiff hands and sobbing. "'we had better take ourselves off. we can't do any good here, and there will be trouble with the police.' "it was zwilk who spoke, standing by with white, strangely smiling face: his voice was hoarse and hurried. "then toni sprang to his feet. 'you hound!' he cried, and struck him across the face with a riding-whip." the speaker paused a few seconds, then went on quietly. "of course zwilch left the army. he and toni fought with pistols. zwilch came off extremely well, and toni extremely ill, being badly wounded in the hip. he lay in bed six months, but during that time he was reconciled to his family, and shortly after he got well he married a pretty little cousin. he lives in the country, overseeing an estate of his father's. he has grown steady, has a great many children and preserves the most touching affection for his old comrades. "we gave the poor old stranger a grand funeral, which the whole officer's corps attended. we buried him in st. peter's churchyard, and put him up a fine monument. "the nobl' zwilk vanished utterly. for a long time i expected to see him turn up as a fencingmaster somewhere. but far from it: i ran across him lately in venice, married to a rich widow from odessa. his servants call him eccelenza; things prosper with him." the old general paused, and looked about him. he had told his story in a voice of much feeling, and now he evidently looked for some signs of sympathy. the celebrated poet remarked, with a grin, that the story would make a good subject for a comedy, if you changed the ending a little. the celebrated poetess said she didn't feel much interest in stories that hadn't any love in them. the hostess inquired if the widow whom zwilch married was a person of good reputation. the host remarked that that was what came of letting the rabble into the same regiment with respectable people. only the youthful idealist had been so much moved that he was afraid to speak for fear of showing it. but at last he pulled himself together and broke out with these enigmatical words-- "after all, it's our own fault." "how do you mean?" asked the hostess. he blushed and stammered. "i mean, that if there were no prince liscat, there would be no nobl' zwilk." what happened to holy saint pancras of evolo what happened to holy saint pancras of evolo i "down with him! into the sea with the old pig-head! let him come to reason among the crabs and cuttle-fish! now he touches water,--now he swims,--now he goes under! there, evoluccio, may you find it cool and pleasant!" he who made all this shouting and ranting was the little broad-shouldered cesare agresta, ship-trader, and he stood in the midst of a noisy crowd on the outermost edge of the cliffs which descend steeply to the sea before evolo. they who moved about with turbulent cries, and still more turbulent behavior, among the gnarled olive trees on the rocks where the old chapel stands, were his fellow citizens, the entire population of the little sicilian town of roccastretta--men and women, children and aged people, rich and poor, even including the reverend padre atanasio, and the equally reverend syndic. these two, withdrawn a few steps apart, watched the crowd's activity with a curiously sly expression of mischievous amusement. around the stem of an ancient olive tree some handy, half-naked fellows had slung a thick rope, whose length reached over the rocks down to the sea, and which, with many tugs and jerks, as if attached to a heavy, uneven weight that pitched about, made the old trunk shake from lowest root to topmost branch. don cesare held the chief command over this tumultuous mob. he ran, he gesticulated, he ordered, he swore, he laughed, he blustered, and they all obeyed him to the letter. "just why little don cesare exerts himself so much about it i can't make out," said the well-nourished padre, in his neighbor's ear. "the old evolino, or, as they call him in despite to-day, evoluccio, has never done any harm to don cesare. it must be all one to him whether it rains or not, since he doesn't possess the smallest bit of land, and not one single lemon tree can he call his property." the syndic shrugged his shoulders like a man at loss for an answer, and said, slightly nodding toward a youthful pair, half hidden behind the chapel, who seemed to be excellent company for one another: "while don cesare bestows his attention upon the old, his pretty sister occupies herself with the young." "i have long remarked that there was something between those two," said the padre with a half envious side glance, in which rebellion, contending in the heart's depths with resignation, was plainly manifest; "but what will come of it? the wealthy nino will never content himself with the sister of a ship-trader." "nay, father atanasio, one need not always be thinking of marriage," answered the other, smiling slyly on the stout padre. "i know that very well," replied the holy man, without taking the least offence at the syndic's light-mindedness; "but if it comes to don cesare's knowledge, let nino beware of his knife." "that is nino's business. between my neighbor's door and its hinge i never put my fingers," cried the syndic with a laugh. they were interrupted by the crowd streaming back from the cliffs toward the chapel. "this pleases you. father atanasio," cried a lank sailor, who looked out from beneath his calabrian cap like a bandit. "you never were on good terms with the old evoluccio. well, he's fixed for one while!" "he'll stay down there till he gets reasonable," said another, shaking his fist at the sea; "and if that won't do,--something else will!" "yes, yes!" howled a third; "if water fails he shall feel fire. only that don cesare talked us down to-day, we'd have built a blaze under the old one's feet that would have made him remember us forever! the villain! the lump! the old heathen!" at these words, a little smile, like a flash, shimmered in the eye of father atanasio, but it was very brief, and remarked by no one; then he said, slowly, waving his hand to those who were passing, and clothing his words in an unctuous sort of conciliatory chant: "that is enough. it will certainly work this time. malicious the evolino never was. he only needs to have his old memory jogged a bit. if you were as old as he you would forget too, sometimes." then the bystanders all broke into loud laughter, and cried to each other: "the padre is always right the evoluccio is an old fellow--older than any of us can think--and one must be considerate with age." "carmela! carmela!" suddenly sounded from the midst of the confused throng descending the side of the cliff toward the little town; and from his higher point of observation the padre saw don cesare's short figure powerfully fighting against the stream of people, and remarked with edification how he stretched his neck, how he jumped off his little legs, and stood on his little toes, making strenuous efforts to climb the hill again, or, at least to look over the heads of his fellow citizens. "carmela," he cried, "where are you?" but carmela appeared to have just reached a highly interesting clause of her conversation with the smart and enterprising nino, who was pushing his suit gaily with the listening girl. "see," he said, pointing to where, close at the foot of the promontory a country house lay hidden among the groves of lemon trees, "yonder is my casina. last year i inherited it, and now in a few days it will be all ready to live in. how pretty it looks! everything new, and ready for daily life. and it is so cool and pleasant sitting there on a hot summer evening, with the fresh, silvery spring that trickles out of the rock into an old greek marble basin; it is a stone from the temple, you know, that used to stand here, with images of gods, and wonderful animals. only come there with me, and see how much pleasanter it is than in the dark street under your window." the pretty girl's look followed his gesture. she shaded her eyes with her hand, and a rosy smile rested on her delicately cut mouth. "oh, yes," she said, half aloud, to herself, "it may well be cool and pleasant there." then she heard her brother's voice. "i am coming," she cried; and, hastily turning to nino, "shall i see you this evening at the usual hour?" "yes, if you will promise to come out here with me." "yes, yes," she cried, hastily, and ran away toward the others, who were descending the hill. nino stroked his slender moustache, and a mocking little smile shot from his eyes after the pretty girl who had so thoughtlessly thrown him this momentous promise. when padre atanasio found himself alone by the chapel under the olive trees he walked with much deliberation to the edge of the cliff and looked over; a most peculiar, condoling, bantering smile hovered on his lips, as his glance fell on the rope, and glided down to the place where it plunged into the sea. down there, several feet deep under water, dashed over by the foaming waves, floated something heavy, that looked like a human body--a helpless lump, which the waves tossed hither and thither, and across which the fish, like silver arrows, shot back and forth in lightning darts. occasionally the thing would bounce against a rock, roll back on itself, and then resume its regular motion in the water. if the dashing of the waves ceased for a little, and a sunbeam fell upon the clear flood, one could have sworn that a corpse was floating there--the corpse of an old man with snow-white hair and beard, in a faded red-brown mantle; the rope was knotted strongly around his hips, and his arms were closely bound by it also. he lay there, the poor old man, stretched out stiffly, and let the waves drive him, and padre atanasio looked down at him so queerly, and queer sounded the words which the holy man threw him over his shoulder at parting: "serves you rights evoluccio! what? you wanted to keep up a sinful competition with the blessed mother of god? you must have the finest presents, the handsomest wax candles, the gayest festivals! and what is there so extraordinary about you, then? you're nothing but a half-converted old heathen!" but the poor old man with the snow-white beard and hair, and the red-brown mantle, over whom the jolly fishes were swimming, was not a murderer's victim; he was not even a corpse; he was not even a poor old man. he was nothing more nor less than the especial patron saint of the little town and surrounding country. holy saint pancras of evolo--the evolino, as the people were accustomed, after their familiar fashion, to call him for short--the evoluccio, as they injuriously named him when his conduct didn't please them. the good saint might well have wondered what had happened to him on that fine spring morning, when the entire population of roccastretta broke into his sanctuary on the promontory of evolo, tore him from his pedestal, carried him out from the cool twilight of his chapel into the glaring day, tied a rope around his body, dragged him, amid the most intolerable cursing and abuse, to the edge of the rocks, and pitched him over, like a dead cat, into the sea. hardly two days before, all roccastretta had assembled in his chapel, and words of the most passionate devotion had risen like a cloud of grateful incense to the niche in whose depths he had made his dwelling for more years than any one there could count. "holy pancrazio of evolo, dear good saint pancras," prayed this pious people, "you love us like children and we love you like a father. every sunday we bring you fragrant nosegays, and when, as at present, the burning drought kills our flowers, then we bring bunches of gold and silver tinsel, and thick yellow wax candles to light before your image. father atanasio, who never honored you as he ought, and always calls you a half-converted heathen, he is of opinion that we give his madonna nothing but miserable tallow dips, and keep the best of everything for you. so, you see, best, dearest evolino, that we don't grudge you anything, and our children shall be just like us; for you are our own, only honored patron saint. only, now, bethink you of your office, dearest, kindest evolino. for three months not a drop of rain has fallen on our fields, trees, vines. look around you! the figs are drying up, the olives will not swell, the wheat fields look like a desert. if you don't send rain, evolino, it is all over with our harvest, and nothing will be left for your people but to save themselves from starvation by catching fishes and crabs. be good, then, holy saint pancras, and send rain. you know very well it is not a tempest we want, but a good, long, mild, soaking rain, such as you know how to send when you will. to-morrow, or next day, at the latest. do this for us, dear saint pancras, and you know how we will deck your image beautifully, and honor you above all the other saints; yes, even before the blessed madonna herself, who is such a busy queen of heaven and earth that she has no time to think about our little place. but you, evolino, belong to us alone, and have no one else to look after! care for us then, dearest evolino, and we will bless you to all eternity." thus they prayed and besought him, and the ancient evolino in his niche listened without stirring an eye or a hand, as became a saint that was cut out of wood, and plastered over with paint; and presently they all trooped out and locked the door, leaving the honest old fellow to his dreams in the cool, cozy chapel. long and many were the christian years that he had stood up here in the sanctuary of evolo; but his dim confused remembrance looked wistfully back into the twilight of a still older time. there was a shrine here then, too--not a chapel, but a temple; other priests came and went before his image, other songs were sung and other gods were honored. the ancient sculpture had hewn him out of stout knotty wood, and beneath the various crusts deposited by the lapse of centuries, the old image was still hidden, as it came from that hand, now long moldering in dust; defaced, however, by strange gaudy daubs of color, with a red mantle, over a blue tunic, silver-white beard and hair, cherry-red lips, black brows in two even arches above the neatly painted eyes, and a round saintly nimbus, behind his head, that glistened as if he had a pure gold sailor's hat on the nape of his neck. truly he didn't look like that in the old times, yet they honored him then much as he was honored now, not like one of the high mighty ones, who are only to be addressed with fear and trembling; like a dear old friend rather, with whom a man can exchange the familiar "thee and thou"--older, certainly, and doubtless of higher degree, but who has dwelled so long in our midst that he seems like one of our own people. this feeling increased with the lapse of years, and a most confidential relation had sprung up between the patron saint and his flock--a relation of mutual service and mutual indulgence, as of friendly neighbors who like to do each other a brotherly good turn when they can. it was saint pancras' duty to take care of the little town, and its surrounding country; but the honest patron was so old and brittle, that no one could blame him if his head was not always in the right place, and his thoughts sometimes went wool gathering, so the weakness of age was helped for evolino by various friendly hints; if that had no effect, the duties of a patron saint were set before him seriously but kindly; if this did not serve, then the standpoint was made clear in coarse but unmistakable fashion,--and thus it happened that on this fine spring morning, after he had failed to supply the longed-for rain, in spite of prayers and entreaties, he was lowered at the end of a rope into the sea, like a common malefactor, for his punishment and his reformation. and so he lay down there at the end of his rope, and saw how the crowd, when their work was accomplished, took the way to the town, and saw how padre atanasio, who hated him for a dangerous rival, in the bottom of his heart, wept crocodile tears over him, and then he saw how his chapel stood above among the olive trees, lonely and forsaken, and how the open door swung to and fro in the wind,--and he may have turned back in his dim memory to that fair, long past time when the warm sea-winds blew through the breezy colonnades, when the bright sunbeams played over his youthful godlike figure, when he looked down from his pedestal upon the coast, the purple sea, and the high-beaked ships with their great oars. then, when he was a young god, when they brought grapes and figs, and pomegranates to lay at his feet! gayer than now sounded the songs of the priests, and lustily streamed up the clouds of incense from the golden vessels. he was not saint pancras of evolo then, yet it was under a very similar sounding name that he was honored by the believing crowd, and none then would have dared to snatch from his pedestal the beautiful god of the winds, and throw him down among the fibrous polyps, a mock for women and children. in dull, humming tones sang these ancient, half-smothered memories through his drowsy thoughts, and duller, and still further off, were the voices of the noisy folk, who had just left him, and in crisp softly-splashing wavelets the eternal sea, like a tender mother with her sleeping child, rocked holy saint pancras of evolo. ii father atanasio could not explain satisfactorily to his own mind why don cesare had been able to work himself into such a violent rage against the poor saint pancras, and with every one whom he came across on the way home, and with every one whom he encountered during the day on the street, or in the wine-shop, he began the subject over again. "i can understand very well," said the father, to his devoutly-attentive listeners--"i understand perfectly--that you, don ciccio, and you, don pasquale, and you, don geronimo, and many others, are angry in your hearts with our patron saint. you need rain, you need it as mankind needs air, and fishes water. that is to say, your fields need it, your lemon trees, figs, pomegranates, olives, and almond plantations. you are landed people, you cultivate your acres, and wet them with the sweat of your brows. but the sweat of your brows, ha-ha-ha! that is only a dewdrop or two, and won't answer instead of rain." here the father laughed, and all the others laughed at their priest's joke. "well, then, if your patron forgets his duty, and neglects to send the rain"-- "he doesn't want to send it!" cried one. "whether he doesn't want to, or whether he forgets it, that i don't know--i am not at liberty to discuss the question since you credit me with an evil-disposed jealousy toward the good old st. pancras. well, then, never mind that; i know what i know. but what was i going to say? oh, yes, if you, being injured in your property through your patron saint's--let us say, carelessness--if you show him in your way--which--well--your way is--i don't know exactly what to call it." "it's the way to deal with him," they shouted from every side. "we know him. praying is no good unless we discipline him too. this isn't the first time. fifty years ago our fathers had to do the same thing, and he had not been three days under water before it rained. it's his old heathenish obstinacy that must be broken now and then." father atanasio turned right and left, behind, before, defending himself from the pelting of angry words, with hands and feet, his head wagging from side to side, hands and shoulders raised protestingly; after a while, when they let him speak once more, he was quite breathless, as if it were he who had been raging and shouting. "be peaceable, i beg," he gasped. "i know well that you understand this matter better than i. it is nothing to me. i only have to read mass in church before the blessed madonna, and your saint pancras and his chapel do not belong to my parish. but this is not what i wanted to talk about. what i would say is: don cesare owns neither a tree nor a blade of grass. it is all one to him if it rains or shines. he is a ship-trader. what has he to do with rain? and yet it was don cesare who took the saint from his pedestal and carried him down to the rocks. he it was who slung the rope over the olive tree, and let evolino down into the water. and don cesare is a wise man, the wisest of us--of you all. he knows what he does, and why he does it; and therefore i, father atanasio, say something is wrong--something is hidden that must be revealed." in vain did the bystanders, charmed by don censure's heroic deed, seek to make the father understand that the little ship-trader had simply shared the feelings of his fellow tradesmen; that he had not acted from personal motives, and it was exactly this unselfishness which deserved to be admired and respected. all these explanations and assurances rebounded from the father's sceptical smile without effect. "my dear friends," said the stout, smiling father, "i know you and all your kin. you were all hatched out of the same shell. unselfishness? we will seek that elsewhere. when it comes into your heads to praise a fellow creature for his unselfishness it is because you somehow find it to your own advantage. and don cesare, above all others, is far too wise to be unselfish. he had his sufficient reasons for letting himself be compromised with saint pancras, like the rest of you. yes, don ciccio, compromised you are, thoroughly, and if i were the evolino, santo diav--that is, i would say. holy madonna--i know what i would do. however, that is not the question. i was talking of don cesare. he knows on which side his bread is buttered, and how to squeeze in time out of a tight place. he will set himself right with saint pancras, take care of his own interests, and leave you all sitting in the mire, never doubt it. cesare agresta, the clever trader, will look after his own advantage." the padre was not far wrong, for don cesare was a stirring, driving, scheming little man; and as to the present question, it was certainly true that, in the morning, when he took the saint down from his pedestal and carried him, like a baby, out of the chapel, he had whispered lightly, quite lightly, so that no one else could hear: "don't be angry, dear pancrazio. what i do i must do. i will make it up to you." certainly no one heard this, not even father atanasio, although he was standing close by, and looking on with silent, malicious delight, while they made life so hard for the holy madonna's hated rival; and still less was it observed by the bystanders, for the face which don cesare made didn't match his words at all, and whoever had seen him at that moment must have said to himself: "poor st. pancras! it's lucky you are made of wood; for if alive you were, alive you would never come out of the hands of this raving maniac, with the glaring eyes and bristling hair." quite another face, the most unconcerned face in the world, was that with which, toward evening of the same day, don cesare, in the gathering twilight, walked into the room where his sister sat sewing by the flickering, smoking tallow candle; and, with the most indifferent tone in the world, he said to the girl looking up at him with the most unconcerned as well as the handsomest and brightest of black eyes: "close up the house with care, carmela. i am going to salvatore's, and shall not return till late." at the door he turned and added: "and, carmela, i may as well say, take care of your eyes, little mouse; they are remarkably bright these days. and, you know, i would be well pleased with nino, but he must take you before the altar. if he will not do that--tell him from me--then let him keep away from you, or it may be the worse for him. good-night, little mouse!" whereupon carmela, demurely bending her head over her work, replied: "go on, cesare, and be easy. carmela comes from good stock." she was from the same stock as her brother, at any rate, for she added, in exactly the same tone as that in which don cesare has whispered to the saint: "that nino shall marry carmela and none other will scarcely be accomplished by your aid, cesare. i must see to that." her eyes sparkled over her work, as if she knew very well indeed what she was thinking about. and she did, too, the petite witch, with the fine finger tips, and the raven black curly hair; for her brother was no sooner out of the house than she sprang up lightly, ran to the door, drew the bolt, and then stepped softly, softly, to a window that opened on the street, stuck her little head through a narrow opening, and looked quietly after don cesare for a while, then, when she had seen him disappear through the darkness in the direction of salvatore's house, she threw the window wide open, leaned out, laid her right hand above her eyes, and gazed steadily in the opposite direction, as if searching for something in the thick gloom. she found what she was looking for very soon. it appeared in the shape of a young, slender man, who kept himself in the shadow of the houses, cautiously and noiselessly approached the window, and suddenly stood before her, grasping her hands in his, and whispering: "i have waited long. i have kept my word. will you keep yours, carmela?" cesare's small house lay at the outermost end of a little street that led to the harbor. whoever came up that way was certain not to be seen by any one, and that was exactly the way the young man had come. the night was dark. the moon was yet far below the horizon. it was easy to chat quietly and unobserved between window and street, and this the two did. they were far past the rudimentary stage of love-making, for carmela promptly resigned her hand to the caresses of nino, who confidently pressed upon it a long, passionate kiss. "only come this evening with me to my casina," he whispered; "we can be alone there, and we can't go on forever talking from window to street like this." carmela smiled under cover of the night. "it is so far," said she; "if my brother should come back before i"-- "you will be home long before your brother. the way is very short along the shore, under the promontory of evolo." "it is too far, nino; the moon will rise soon, and then we shall be discovered." they talked together a long time. the moon rose, and poured its peaceful light into the gloomy streets; but only for a little while, then the sky darkened again, and black clouds rose slowly from the west. "see," laughed nino, "the holy pancrazio is getting tired of his bath. and see, too, carmela, he favors our love. he is hiding the clear moonlight. will you come now? come then!" she hesitated a moment then she whispered. "wait, i will fetch my mantle," and disappeared. while the pair were holding their rendezvous before don cesare's house, that worthy was proceeding to his, after another fashion. at a leisurely pace, as if addressed to an evening's gossip with a friend, he had slowly departed down the street, never doubting that carmela would look after him; all girls did so, and his sister was like the others, of course. women were women, he opined, smiling quietly to himself; one must treat them like children, pretend immense confidence, but be mighty vigilant, and always preserve one's masculine independence. this he certainly did, and carried out his theory with much precision by making a sudden turn the moment a bend in the road hid him from carmela, and starting off at an amazing gait in the opposite direction. first he took a side circuit through the crooked little streets, and then hurried off toward the promontory of evolo. there must have been something extraordinary in the busy little man's brain, for he ran as fast as his short legs would let him. tali ciccio, whom he met outside the ruined gate of the town, looking for heaven knows what in that lonely place, he never once noticed; on the contrary, when he saw him from a distance, he seized the blue hood which every one on the coast of sicily wears winter and summer, in sun, wind, and rain, fastened bedouin fashion around his neck, and drew it far over his face, raised his broad shoulders, and sunk his head between them. he passed his astonished fellow citizen without looking around, and the latter stood gazing after him, and muttered: "the devil knows who that is, and where he is going;--i know every one in roccastretta, but i never saw _him_ before;" and shook his head after him for a long while, like an honest member of society who has met with something to reflect upon. don cesare, meantime, hurried on, smiling slyly to himself. "by you, my stupid ciccio, i, don cesare, am not going to let myself be overreached. what you are doing at this hour outside the town heaven knows. some sort of love adventure, perhaps. or have you been stealing fruits and grain, and hiding them somewhere in a ruinous cassine? or are you engaged in smuggling? saints have mercy on us! who could thrive at smuggling these days, when not a ship runs into our harbor? for three months, exactly as long as the rain has failed, not a sail has this poor deserted harbor looked upon. smuggling! yes, that business paid once on a time, but not now." and the honest don cesare thought, with satisfaction, of that happy time when, at least twice every month, a foreign sailing vessel came in his way. what pleasant times! and now, for three long months, he had stood day after day near the chapel of evolo, which he now saw before him on the heights above, and he had looked with his trusty spyglass in all four quarters of the heavens to see if he could not discover a white sail making for the harbor of roccastretta, and showing the well-known flag of norway, or of england, or of germany. from thence came the vessels which supplied themselves in this vicinity with southern fruits, olive oil, sulphur, and pumice stone, and brought hither various things which don cesare secretly purchased for little money and sold again for much--tobacco and cigars, woolen and cotton goods, gay ribbons, gaudily-painted saints, and freshly-varnished madonnas, apostles, evangelists, and all sorts of wares, for which the customhouse inspectors were especially greedy. these don cesare understood how to convey into his house without discovery, and undiscovered to sell afterward at a comfortable profit. close by his house, tied to an old broken pile, year in and year out, his boat lay ready, and when a sail appeared in the distance, he was the first to row out and offer his assistance to the captain; for he could jabber a mixture of every known tongue with the greatest fluency, and the ship had not come to anchor before don cesare was the confidential friend of every one and the trusted adviser of the whole crew. yes, insignificant as he was in figure, don cesare was an enterprising fellow, and had his head in the right place; and that thick, round skull, covered with close-cut hair, with big, prominent, ring-bedecked ears, and wide mouth stretched in an everlasting smile, was stuffed full of stratagems and trader's tricks that brought him many a pretty sum, and at which the honest foreign sailors did not complain; for, without don cesare's help, they must have paid far dearer, and how did it cheat them that he made a hundred per cent, on the fiery wine which he furnished them, and that he obtained their fruits and meal and fresh meat from his neighbors at a ridiculously low price? oh, those good honest people! they paid so willingly whatever he asked; they found everything so cheap in this beautiful land; and when the ship was once more under sail they all thanked him who went away, and those who remained, they thanked him, too, for they all had done a good business; but he had done better than any one! yes, pleasant time! thought don cesare, as he wandered along through the night and looked out on the black sailless sea. directly before him lay the promontory of evolo, with its old olive trees. the chapel showed clearly through the darkness; last year they had whitewashed it, to the honor of the saint who now lay in the water. don cesare shook his head. "you poor, dear evolino, what must you think of me, that i could help them treat you so? and yet, you know as well as i do, how much good it would have done for me to interfere. if i had opposed them they would, maybe, have used you far worse; and that, instead of water, you did not have to stand the scorching fire, you may thank me. sometimes one serves a friend better by howling with the wolves than letting himself be torn to pieces by them in his friend's company. only wait. i will make it all right, good evolino." he had arrived at the foot of the promontory. the little path wound off among the rocks. a few steps further and it turned to the left, toward the other side of the cliffs where nino's country house lay silently hid in thick groves of orange and lemon. don cesare stood still. suddenly a puff of wind passed over the water which foamed up to his feet. "oh, oh!" said the little ship-trader, "from the west! the wind for rain! no, dear san pancrazio, you will not be so obliging to those people who threw you into the water?" then he looked cautiously on every side, listened carefully to right and left, and believing himself secure stepped down to the shore where he knew the saint lay, felt around among the stones till he found the rope, and then one might have seen the little man, slowly pulling the line toward him, with the exertion of his whole strength. but the holy pancrazio didn't come so easily. one arm stuck on a sharp rock, his halo got caught between two stones, and when there came a hard pull it seemed as if something cracked in poor saint pancras' ancient worm-eaten neck, and as if a very critical wabbling seized his old heathen head. "ei, ei!" the poor saint must have thought, "how careless these human beings are with their saints! first one is tied and thrown in the water, and then knocked to pieces against the stones, for some one is pulling the rope i see. what is _he_ going to do with me?" and the shiny varnished eyes of evolino tried to recognize the man, and when he found that it was don cesare, he sighed in his wooden bosom, but he patiently resigned himself to his fate. only the wabbling of his head made him anxious; for he liked his old head. suppose he should lose it, and they should put him on a new one?--a new head on the old trunk! or if they should order a whole new saint from the best modern wood-carver, what would become then of him, the only real, true, ancient, genuine san pancrazio of evolo? but don cesare pulled and pulled, and turned and twisted, and at last, there lay the saint at his feet on the dry sand. "now, god be gracious to you, poor evolino!" thought that ill-used person. what then was his surprise, when don cesare, without speaking a word, dragged him across the footpath, set him carefully up in a cleft of the rock, brushed and cleaned him from slime and dirt, and dropping on his knees, with folded hands, thus addressed him: "there you are again on dry land, dear, good, holy pancrazio, and are rescued from the neighborhood of sea-crabs and polyps. and, do you see, me, me alone, you have to thank for it, don cesare, who loves and honors you! i told you so when i was bringing you down from the chapel. the others have treated you shockingly, poor patron, but i, i rescued you. don't forget it, dear old san pancrazio. now i know well enough what you would say: don cesare! don cesare! you were there too, and slung the rope over the olive tree! alas, yes! i had to be there! but only think what would have happened if i had not been there, those others were in such a rage with you!--on account of the rain! but what do i care about the rain? you may leave them for weeks longer without rain for all i care! they deserve it, and that tall, lean ciccio, whom i just met outside the walls, he it was who blustered most shockingly about fire, and i it was who silenced him by slinging you into the water. yes, evolino, and it is i again who drew you out. and now, evolino, be good to me, you who are also an ancient god of the winds. weren't you called Æolus before you became the saint of evolo? surely you have not forgotten that,--and the winds will certainly listen to you still. blow, then, a good strong wind into the sails of a foreign ship and guide it to our harbor, so that i may earn something once more! see, i am not a rich man"-- he broke off suddenly. a clear, white beam of light had fallen upon the saint and a strange smile seemed to play over his features. don cesare looked around him in fright but it was only the moon that had just risen from the ocean, and threw its first beams upon the image. "it is clearing," said don cesare, as he rose, and brushed the sand from his knees. "i must go now, for you understand, evolino, only you alone know that i have drawn you out of the sea. now stand quietly, and dry yourself, and get over your fright. but don't forget that you have me to thank, me alone! and don't forget to send me the ship--soon! very soon! then i will dress your altar, and you shall have a new halo." he stopped again in his discourse; for suddenly the image grew dark. what was that? a cloud? rain? he looked around. in the west it had grown black and heavy from the horizon up. "west wind?" said don cesare. "rain wind?--yes. but a favorable wind for ships that come from the ocean into the mediterranean. san pancrazio, san pancrazio--only remember me!" he clambered slowly up the steep path, that led between rubble, sharp-pointed cactus and aloes, to the chapel, but on the way he often paused and looked around to see if any gleam of white sail flashed across the blackness of the waves; for now he knew certainly that evolino had listened to him, and once the wind came to blowing, the ships could not long fail. thicker and thicker the huge clouds massed themselves on the horizon. when he reached the top he sat down under an olive tree to take breath. in the distance he thought he heard a noise. was it a ship in whose cordage the wind whistled its song, and which was hastening to the protecting harbor? "then carmela may wait till i come home," murmured don cesare. "i shall stay up here." and, his eye immovably fixed on the water, don cesare remained sitting under his olive tree. not from the sea, however, did the sound come which held the listening trader spellbound on his lookout. with her narrow mantle drawn far over her face, glancing on every side, secretly trembling from fear and joy, carmela ran beside nino along the shore, jumped, with a beating heart, from stone to stone, and at every noise that reached her ears from the sea or the dark lemon trees, she clung closer and faster to her companion. "it is too far," she whispered, and already repented that she had listened to his persistent entreaties, and left the safe walls of her own home to follow him on this dangerous expedition. "calm yourself, child," answered nino; "it is not a hundred steps further, and your brother will not return before midnight--to-day especially, they will have so much to tell about the fate of san pancrazio--and meanwhile we will tell other stories yonder in my cozy casina." "oh, nino, it frightens me. why did we not stay and chat at my window? the street is so lonesome. let us turn back. really it is not right for me." "what are you saying, carmela? the street lonesome? oh, yes, and suppose that old francisca, your servant, looks out of the window on a sudden, and sets all the dogs on the midnight marauder, as she did last time? in my casina there is nothing of that kind to dread. we shall be alone there, and we have never been alone together yet since we plighted our love to one another." carmela stood still. "nino," she said, "you risk nothing; but i risk everything. if any one should find me here--or yonder." "who should find you?" broke in nino. "no one wanders around out here at this hour, and you are as safe as"-- she started suddenly, shrank back, and laid her hand, with an impetuous gesture, on his mouth. they were standing directly in front of the promontory, where its outermost point juts forth and descends sheer to the sea, and where the path crowds narrowly between this rocky wall and the water. "what is it?" asked nino, softly. "yonder!" whispered carmela, and her finger pointed through the night to a rock close by the path, where, silent and motionless. _one_ stood. "santo diavolo!" muttered nino, darkly, to himself, and all his sicilian jealousy rushed like flame to his head. hastily bending down, he picked up a sharp heavy stone, and, without turning his eye from the mysterious figure, he added, hastily: "the way is watched. here is the path that leads up to the chapel. quick, carmela, before he sees us." by this time the rushing wind had driven the heavy clouds high up into the zenith. suddenly, through a rift, a beam of bright moonlight fell upon the rocks. a wild scream broke from the girl, staring with wide eyes at the motionless figure. "the saint!" she cried, and held out her arms as if in self-defence against the fearful sight. "the saint! ascended from the sea! blessed madonna, protect me!" and, without knowing what she did, as if fleeing from divine judgment, she rushed up the path to the chapel in breathless haste. at first nino was as if spellbound at the unexpected and, even for him, mysteriously terrible vision. "san pancrazio!" came brokenly from his lips. but when he heard his beloved's cry, and saw her fleeing through the darkness as if bereft of reason, then the wild blind rage of the sicilian whose love is threatened seized him. "santo diavolo, accursed saint, you shall pay for this!" he screamed, fiercely, and at the same moment the stone flew, sent by a strong, young hand, toward the evolino. nino watched it go, strike; then something solid and heavy rolled, with a dull sound, over the rocks. "may you smash your heathen skull to pieces on the cliffs, old idol!" cried nino to the tottering saint, and followed his beloved. "carmela!" he called, without regard to the danger of being heard and discovered. "carmela, stop! what are you doing?" but carmela rushed on like a frightened deer, over stones and roots of trees, whither she knew not, what she sought she could not have told. she fled, in order to flee--fled from the image of the threatening saint, who had appeared in the white shimmering moonlight, as a messenger of god, with the rod of avenging justice in his hand, or perhaps as a guardian angel set in the way of temptation and destruction. she did not hear nino's shouts, and she was deaf also to another voice that suddenly called her name. as if all the lost souls from perdition were at her heels, she flew up the cliff's side, and ran under the old olive trees to the chapel. "carmela! carmela!" shouted nino, following close in breathless haste; a gust of wind swung open the door of the deserted sanctuary; like a child seeking its father's protection, carmela sprang within; close behind her followed nino, and at the same moment, propelled by a powerful hand, the door fell to with a loud bang; a hasty rattling followed, and from the fast-made lock some one drew out the key. don cesare it was who stood before the chapel, motionless, the key in his hand, his eyes fastened on the door. convulsively his hand sought his knife, and he muttered a few half-stifled words. he stood there a long time, seemingly in violent conflict with himself, and as if he strove in vain for a decision. at last he seemed to find what he sought. "you won't escape me," he said to himself, and shoved the key into his pocket; and after another pause he added: "herein i recognize thy hand, holy pancrazio." he clambered hurriedly down the path to the cliff once more, and a very grim smile indeed passed over his face, for a saying which father atanasio loved to bring into his sermons came suddenly, he could not tell how, into his head--about ancient saul, and how he went forth to seek his she ass. had he not also, like saul, found something better than he sought? the bold nino was in his power. the blood shot up into his head. he almost turned back to the chapel, but he was master of his own will, and let the knife go again. the thieving villain! he had taken advantage of his absence to chatter, heaven knew what, misleading nonsense in his favorite sister's ears, and had enticed her out of the house onto that lonely path. she had fled before him, but yet she had followed him. and now the two were sitting up there, caught, behind lock and bolt, and he, don cesare, held the key in his hand, and, except as true and honorable husband of carmela, that rascal should never come out of the chapel. and now don cesare laughed aloud, and said: "whom have you to thank for this, don cesare? whom but the good, dear evolino, whom you drew out of the water with your own hand--to whom you will go now, this moment, and, throwing yourself on your knees, will"-- hold! what was that? evolino was no longer standing in the rocky niche, and what did he see? yonder he lay across the path; and, holy madonna! without a head! and in his breast a gaping wound, as if something had crushed in poor evolino's worm-eaten side. don cesare looked all around. there lay the stone. now he understood it all. nino must have thrown it at the saint when carmela's scream startled him; yes, yes, and now evolino was revenging himself. he had hunted the two into his chapel, and delivered the key into don cesare's hand! and see! there lay the head. it had rolled close to the shore; but ah! in what a condition it was, and what a change in evolino's countenance! there was the strangest mixture of godlike, cheerful youth, and shrivelled old age, the shape, the forehead, the crown, the chin, were those of a youth, but there were painted wrinkles on them, and scars had engraved themselves deep in the old wood, and close beside these deep seams which time had made in the once youthful face, the gaudy new varnished colors showed like rouge on the face of a dead boy. don cesare felt quite overcome by the sight. "evolino! san pancrazio!" said he, half aloud to the head, which he held in his trembling hand. "evolino, is it you? or, is it not you? i don't know you any longer--and yet i know you well, poor old friend!" and with great fervor, as if he were carrying something very sacred, he bore the head of san pancrazio to where his body lay, raised the latter from the ground, set it once more in the rocky niche, and carefully laid the mutilated, unrecognizable head in the crossed arms, then he kneeled on the sharp stones, folded his hands, and thanked his patron in a prayer of much devoutness, for the favor which he had shown him that day. he prayed a long time, and did not mark how the clouds lowered ever nearer on land and sea--did not mark how the wind swept cooler and cooler over the rocks. not until the soft raindrops wet his arms and shoulders did he arouse from his pious devotion. "evolino--dear evolino!" said he silently to himself. "it is you who put this into my head; you who led me hither, and in your hands i leave the fortunes of my house. rule it as seems best to you. to-morrow you will find me at your chapel, ready for anything; for atonement, and bridal rejoicing, or for a bloody avenging of my injured honor." as he said this, he drew the key slowly out of his pocket, hung it on one of the saint's hands, as if it were a hook, kissed evolino's robe once more in humble confidence, and departed with strong, rapid steps through the night. iii next day, in the early morning, there was a great stir, calling, laughing, and rejoicing in the little town of roccastretta. men, in capuchin-like hoods, stood in the doors, women wrapped in their mantles, leaned out of the windows; and from one house to another, and one street to another, the laughing dialogue ran: "ha, ha! what did we say yesterday?" "he has come to reason over night!" "only since yesterday he has lain in the sea, and last evening he sent the rain!" "and what a heavenly rain!" "yes, yes, the evolino is a brave patron, we could not ask a better." as father atanasio, who, any one could see, didn't know what sort of a face to put upon the matter, slowly crossed the large open square where the men were accustomed to idle about when they had no work to do, all sorts of taunting salutations flew at his head: "oh, oh! father atanasio, but it _did_ help!" the father, who was a discreet man, assumed an open, cheerful expression, returned the greetings of his fellow townsmen with pompous nods and smiles, and answered unctuously: "no one ever addresses himself to the saints in vain: and even if this time it was done after a rude fashion, saint pancras loves this town and people too well to resent it. besides, good for evil is the rule of the saints." "very fine; yes, yes!" came back from the mocking house doors and windows, "we know you are obliged to talk that way; but we know just as well that the 'rude fashion' was necessary, and long live don cesare, who put it into our heads!" "and who saved you from putting the good evolino to the test of fire?" answered the little ship-trader, with a loud voice, as he came out of a side street, and advanced toward his friends, receiving the praises and congratulations that poured upon him from every side with dignified self-approval, as if it were he, and not saint pancras, who had wrapped the horizon in clouds, and caused the fruitful rain to descend over fields and gardens. a quite extraordinary seriousness pervaded his features and demeanor; he spoke with calm majesty, as his distinguished namesake might have done after a victory over the gauls. but whoever had observed him closely could not have failed to detect the feverish wandering of his glance, and a certain convulsive movement that now and then overcame his right hand, causing it, without visible occasion, to clutch itself into a fist, and to lay hasty hold on the handle of his knife. only for a short time did don cesare feast upon the enthusiasm of his fellow citizens. turning toward father atanasio, he suddenly cried: "and now, friends, not another moment's delay! not an hour longer must our good patron saint remain in the water. he has heard us, sooner than we hoped, and we must be equally prompt in assuring him of our gratitude, and in replacing him with all honor in his chapel. come, father atanasio, and call the syndic also, for whoever helped yesterday must help to-day, if he would not have the saint bear him a grudge!" the wisdom of don cesare's words was obvious, even to father atanasio and the syndic;--though as to the latter, he never ventured to wish for anything until the majority had first willed it; --and thus the whole community set forth once more for the promontory of evolo, in spite of wind and rain, feet in the wet sand, hands in pockets, cowls and gay kerchiefs over their heads and necks. don cesare opened the procession, between the syndic and the priest. "where is your little sister carmela?" asked the latter, after a while, smiling cunningly, and glancing aside at his neighbor. "oh, father, i am not anxious about her," answered don cesare; "she was on her feet early this morning, and gave me no peace trying to catch the rain in her hands. a real child." "yes, yes," said the padre, politely; "carmela is a fine girl, and pretty. nay, that is nothing to me, but others have remarked the same. it would be a joy to me, don cesare, if i could see the two before the altar. i speak of nino, don cesare, who is courting her as if she were the only girl in sicily." behind the amiable tone in which these words were spoken, lay hidden a quiet laugh at the thrust he delighted in being able to give his neighbor. but the little ship-trader did not appear to notice it, and replied quite seriously: "and that will soon happen, father atanasio. in the chapel above they will be betrothed before the image of the good evolino." his two comrades stared at him in astonishment. "nay, nay, my good don cesare," said the syndic, "i would gladly see it too, but nino seems to us a little bit too rich." don cesare caught him up quickly: "i thought so myself yesterday." "and what has happened since yesterday?" asked the amazed padre. "i may tell you now, my excellent father atanasio," answered don cesare, and a knavish smile might have been seen to flash for one instant from his eyes: "yesterday, when we let down the good evolino from the rocks into the sea, everybody was crying for rain! rain! what was the rain to me? i shouted with them because i wished them well, but as for me, in the depths of my heart i asked for something quite different." "so, so!" said father atanasio, and poked the syndic in the side behind don cesare's back. he looked triumphantly around at those who followed, winked at them with pompous, victorious eyes, and seemed suddenly to grow a head taller than all the others, in the consciousness of possessing such penetrating power of divining the hidden secrets of the human breast. "yes, that is allowed to every one," continued don cesare, "and look! the good evolino has fulfilled the others' wish, and so i think to myself; yours, too, will be fulfilled, don cesare, for there is not one in the whole community that treats him as well as i do." he thought about the foreign ships all the time he was speaking, and gave a hasty glance toward the horizon, but nothing was to be seen there, and he was forced to confine his hopes and longings to carmela and nino. they had arrived at the foot of the promontory. "i think we will remain below," said the syndic; "the rope will be hard to draw from the cliff, and, besides, some harm might easily happen to the saint." no one made any objection to this wise precaution, and on they went over the steep path, in a long single file, as a flock of geese marches, one behind the other--first the syndic, then the padre, then don cesare, then the rest. the rocks had grown very slippery from the wet; every time a cowled figure lost footing and tumbled, more or less ridiculously, into the sand, or caught at a neighbor's arm, or dress, or leg, then arose a great laughing and screaming, and so the whole company by degrees was brought into the best possible humor and unanimity of mind. suddenly the procession came to a stop. the syndic had turned pale as chalk, and stood rooted to the ground. they could see his fat cheeks shake, and his knees tremble, and were uncertain whether it was the strong wind, or a terrible fright that made his hair rise up and stand stiffly out all round his head. "holy madonna!" they heard him gasp; "holy madonna!" "what is it? what is the matter?" they cried from every side, crowding forward, and pitching over the rocks and through the water. but they one and all stiffened with horror when they saw saint pancras, whom they had thrown into the sea the day before, standing in the hollow of the rocks, and, oh, fearful sight! holding his head in his arms! and, oh, inconceivable miracle! the key of his chapel which they had left in the door, now hung from the saint's finger! dumb from terror, old and young, men and women, remained as if spellbound; cold shivers ran down their backs; they pressed closer together, every hand made the sign of the cross on forehead and breast at the same moment, every mouth murmured the prayer to the blessed madonna. even the wily don cesare, who had very distinct information concerning the history of this miracle, felt himself agitated and overcome by the general consternation; he, too, felt his knees knock together and his blood congeal, and he made the sign of the cross and muttered, without hypocrisy, "holy madonna, protect us!" father atanasio was the first to venture forward, as belonged to his office. trembling in every limb, he pushed the syndic aside, advanced with hands raised and eyes directed toward heaven, to the headless saint and sank, shaking, upon his knees, his example followed by the whole company. his eyes at first sought the place where saints and men are generally accustomed to carry their heads; there his glance found nothing but the grewsome wooden stump, out of which ragged splinters were sticking up in place of a neck, and, shuddering. father atanasio lowered his gaze to evolino's breast, where the head lay on the crossed arms. but a new terror overcame him when he beheld the wild strange alteration of that countenance, and he had to support himself with both hands on the earth in order not to fall forward as if stunned by a blow. but the others thought their padre was engaged in fervent devotion, and muttered their litanies with lowered eyes and increased zeal. "san pancrazio, dear, only evolino," prayed the sly don cesare, in the silence of his heart, "now remember me, and send father atanasio a lucky thought. don't forget that my little sister is up there in your chapel with that cursed hound nino; and, dear evolino, send this wanton coxcomb nino a lucky thought, too, lest something unlucky befall this day!" thinking, hearing, and the sending of lucky thoughts were perhaps a trifle more difficult to the poor beheaded saint than formerly, when he was whole, at any rate it was a long time before father atanasio awoke from his stupor. but all at once it seemed as if a bright beam of light fell upon his mind, and he gathered himself together. "i understand the sign," murmured he, kissing the saint's feet; "be thou blessed forever, san pancrazio of evolo." then he rose, turned to the anxiously-gazing crowd, spread out his arms, and said: "the saint has worked a miracle upon us. a miracle hath he wrought upon himself. the long-desired rain he sent us by night, and he has ascended, victorious over human devices, from the sea in which you had sunk him, and here he stands, as a saint should, upon dry ground. and behold him! for a sign that henceforth a new and a purer tie exists between the patron and his people; with his own hands he has taken from his shoulders that ancient heathen head, which he formerly wore to your harm, and in defiance of the blessed madonna. and as a sign of that which he requires from you he has brought down the key of his chapel and hung it on his finger, that you shall set up a new image for him there; that you may know the old evolino, as you have been wont to call him, in remembrance of past times, dies to-day and a new san pancrazio enters into his place, a true and blessed saint, who will love and protect you, and will never more allow the old heathen who hides under these venerable garments to afflict your town and fields with drought, bad harvests, and deadly pestilence." thus spake the honest father. the syndic nodded applause, and don cesare, of course, did the same. then the saint was lifted with careful hands and laid on the shoulders of several stout fellows; but the head father atanasio placed with solemn importance in don cesare's hands; then, holding the chapel key aloft in his own right hand, he led the procession, which slowly and in deep silence moved toward the heights above and the little sanctuary under the olive trees. there was a couple there already, who had passed a bad night. like one bereft of reason, carmela had thrown herself on the earth before the altar. "the saint! the saint!" sobbed the girl wildly. "it was he; he called my name. i saw him as he came sweeping up the steep precipice. he followed me; his halo streamed angry light through the darkness. holy mother of god, i beseech thee defend and forgive thy sinful child!" nino tried in vain to quiet her. "no," she cried, pushing him from her, as he sought to raise her from the ground, "i followed you on an evil path, nino; the saint has warned us, and he will punish us. did you not hear how he threw the door to behind us? nino, nino, there is but one atonement--that you acknowledge me as your true and honorable wife before this altar." nino faltered. the image of san pancrazio stood before his own eyes, and he could not shut it out. he, too, felt a tremor in his very soul, for, however secure and sceptical he might represent himself, in the depths of his consciousness there always remained the inherited fear of the unknown--the secret dread of heaven and hell. in his heightened pulse-beats, which he could distinctly hear, this feeling knocked loudly at his heart. a close, sultry air filled the chapel. through the one little round window over the altar a dusky glimmer fell, scarce brighter than the surrounding darkness. nino reached up and tried the door. he wanted to open it, to let in the fresh night air, to scare away the fantasies which were slowly surrounding his senses. but the door lay fast in bolt and hinge and would not yield to his straining. he sought the latch with groping fingers, and found that the key had been turned and drawn out. "santo diavolo!" he cried, ice-cold shivers running through every limb. "the door is locked!" "locked, yes, locked," cried carmela, springing from her knees, and throwing herself on the threshold. "i saw him, how he followed at our heels, and how he raised his hand with threatening gesture. yes, i heard him, and i saw him, and it is he who has locked us in his sanctuary, that our deed may be expiated." thus the poor child raved in feverish terror. nino listened without a word. what should he do? what would come of all this? it was no use to think of flight. the old stones lay fast one upon another, and fast lay the old oaken doors on their hinges. in the morning all roccastretta would come to replace the saint on his pedestal, for he had sent the rain without a doubt. nino could hear the big drops pattering against the window-panes. and they would find him here with carmela. alone with carmela in the chapel! and then? when don cesare stepped across the threshold? nino knew don cesare and what he had to expect from him. it would be a battle for life and death, and all the men and women, father atanasio and the syndic--every one would be on the side of carmela's injured brother. verily this was not the ending he had imagined for his love adventure when he tempted carmela to follow him to his quiet casina. ever blacker lowered the night, heavier and closer hung the clouds, thicker poured the rain. and as nino heard the rush of heavy drops on the roof, and felt the moist breath of the drinking earth which came in through the little window, it seemed as if something broke within his heart, and a voice cried from the depths: "every drop of rain that falls from heaven proclaims the power of the saint, and can you doubt the miracle which he has worked on you?" next morning, when the procession, led by father atanasio, stopped, with the mutilated image of the patron saint, before his chapel, and when the key entered in the lock, and the lock creaked, and the door, swollen by moisture, turned slowly and heavily on its hinges, there was one there whose heart beat violently, and whose blood boiled at fever heat, one whose hand lay carelessly as if toying but none the less fast and grimly on the handle of his knife--for who could foresee what was going to happen? but don cesare breathed more freely, and let his knife go, and with difficulty retained composure enough to play out the _rôle_ he had assumed, when the padre stood still on the threshold with a cry of astonishment, while out of the dusk from the foot of the altar two figures advanced, kneeled with clasped hands before the good father, and amid the astounded silence that fell upon them all, nino's voice was heard saying humbly: "saint pancras has wrought a miracle not on our fields and gardens alone; upon me and upon carmela in the last night another has fallen. how it happened, ask me not. the saint led us into this chapel with his own hand, with his own hand closed the door and took away the key. at the foot of his altar we have pledged each other our wedded troth, and at the foot of his altar we beg you, father atanasio, to bless the banns." then the little don cesare exulted aloud: "ha!" he cried, waving his little hands in the air, "that was what i prayed yesterday of the good, dear evolino for myself. that was it. father atanasio! he gave you rain, and me he gave a brother-in-law. long live evolino!" and in his heart he added something more, which he did not think it necessary to say aloud: "evolino," thought he, "you were wiser than i, and led me to a kingdom, when i only looked for a she ass. the ships will come to the harbor of themselves, but of himself never would this rascal nino have taken my little sister for his wife." a few weeks later, when the wedding of carmela and nino was celebrated with great pomp in the chapel of evolo, a new image of the saint stood on the altar, a gay, brand new image, which don cesare, with divers other matters, had brought from a foreign ship that lay at anchor in the harbor of roccastretta, and had placed in the chapel in remembrance of this day of miracles. the old evolino, however, he claimed for himself, and no one grudged him that worm-eaten and broken relic. at the foot of the rocks of evolo, in a cool arbor, searched through by sun, and moonbeams, at the casina, where nino and carmela were to make their home, don cesare had set up the image--mended, and decently restored by his own hand. it stood in a niche of stone under a roof of fragrant orange trees, beside the ivy-wreathed greek marble basin into which the crystal spring of evolo poured; and almost it seemed as if the evolino felt himself far more at ease amid these surroundings, near the finely-cut bas-reliefs from his ancient temple, with the free winds sighing around him, than above in his musty chapel. a singular peacefulness seemed to have settled down upon his old head, stripped of beard, and hair, and halo; he looked with olympian smile upon the youthful pair, gaily pursuing a frolicsome existence at his feet, on this their wedding evening, and a faint spark gleamed in his painted eyes, as nino, who must have learned some lore of the ancient gods, poured a goblet of fragrant muscatel upon the ground before him, and laughingly cried: "to the gods belong the first drops; honor and glory to the gods and the saints!" when they had all departed, and even don cesare had taken leave of him with a friendly, confidential nod, and when at last the evolino stood alone in the silent moonlight, a soft whisper fell from his lips: "in spite of all, you feel yourselves drawn back again to the ancient heathen gods, you dear gay heathen folk; and though new names have taken the place of the old ones, in you, my cheerful, good-natured, grown-up children, i recognize my early worshippers once more. in spite of time and change you are they who used to lay fragrant wreaths on the old god's altar, in the pillared temple on the cliff, and singing, and laughing, and shouting, passed their shouting, singing, laughing life away!" silently gleaming, the eternal stars beckoned, softly splashing, the rippling spring murmured a kindly, comforting answer to the poor forgotten god of the winds.