Malvina Darvid was one of those women to whom old age is very
tardy in coming, and whose beauty, modified in each season of
life, never leaves them. For this last she was indebted less to
the features of her face than to the immense charm of her
movements, her smile, her expression, her speech. She retained
yet the same pale, golden hair which she had years earlier, which
she arranged high above her low forehead, calling to mind the
statues of Grecian women. In contrast with that hair, and her
slightly faded but delicate complexion, shone, from under dark
brows, large eyes, also dark, with a very mild, warm expression,
now bright, now tempered by a deep inevitable cloud of
pensiveness. In a robe covered with lace, in the glitter of a
star of diamonds in the bright aureole of her hair, she greeted
the numerous acquaintances who entered her box at the theatre,
with the affability and freedom of a perfect society lady. She
was even celebrated in that great city for the qualities which
constitute so-called society personages, and which, in those who
knew her past, roused a certain wonder. It was known to all that
that past was very modest. Darvid in his youth, which was far
less brilliant than his present, married a poor orphan, a
teacher. But Malvina Darvid was of those women who need only a
golden setting to sparkle like diamonds. She shone in the great
world with a charm, an elegance, a power of speech which were the
same as if she had been its own daughter. She was radiant with
satisfaction, with serenity, often even with joyous animation,
and only now and then did a slight wrinkle, with a barely
discernible line furrowing her Grecian forehead, sink itself and
cast on her face an expression of weariness, or the corners of
her lips, still red and shapely, drop downward and make that
oval, white, delicate face ten years older than it seemed to be
usually. But those were only short and rare moments, after which
Malvina Darvid was again entirely flooded with the brilliancy of
her beautiful eyes, her splendid toilet, the sounds of her
metallic voice, warm and full of sweetness. She seemed barely a
few years older than her elder daughter. Sometimes guests left
her box with the words:
"She is more beautiful than her daughter."
And offener still: "She is more charming and sympathetic than her
daughter."
Still nature had been no stepmother to Irene Darvid; but life,
though so short thus far, had stamped on her exterior a mark
which, while it astonished and discouraged, repelled.
If the younger sister seemed a living portrait of her mother, the
elder recalled her father, with her high forehead, thin lips,
and--a thing wonderful at such a tender age--the mark of irony
drawn over them. Her hair, too, like her father's, changed with
fiery gleams of gold and bronze, while the pale complexion of her
face, which was too long, was lighted by the frequent sharp
glitter of her eyes, which, as those of her father, were not
large, and had gray pupils with a cold glance, penetrating and
reasoning. Her shapely form was somewhat too slender; her posture
and movements too stiff and ceremonious. She passed in society
for a haughty, cold, unapproachable, original, and even eccentric
young lady. On the stage was presented a play which had been
preceded by immense praise; in the theatre had collected all that
bore the name of high and fashionable society in the city. The
boxes were filled, except one, which only just before the
beginning of the second act was opened with a rattle and filled
with loud, free, and bold conversation. It was occupied by a
number of young men of elegant dress and manners; they, as it
seemed, were connected by similarity in position, habits, and
pleasures. Prom the higher to the lower rows of the theatre all
eyes and glasses were turned toward that box, with its princes,
young nabobs, sons of ancient families, or heirs to immense
fortunes. Through boxes, armchairs, galleries, passed names
notorious through deeds of originality, witty sayings,
astonishing excesses; names interwoven with anecdotes about money
and love-passages; the substance of the love-passages could be
repeated only in whispers, while the amounts of money were
mentioned with eyes widely opened in amazement. Two among these
young men occupied public attention beyond others that winter:
Baron Emil Blauendorf, and Maryan Darvid, both of families
recently, but greatly, enriched. The Blauendorf house was older
by some generations, and had become widely connected; on the
other hand, their fortune in possession of the present descendant
was vanishing quickly; in comparison with the entirely new
edifice of the Darvids, it seemed a ruin. On these two general
attention was concentrated with the greatest curiosity; for
during that winter and the preceding one the most numerous
anecdotes touching them were in circulation among those who
frequented that theatre. They were so young, and still so noted!
But Baron Emil was considerably older than Maryan; he was thirty
and little favored in looks. Small, weakly, with red, closely-cut
hair, with features which were too small, and injured by a faded
complexion, with small eyes, which, because of nearsightedness,
were either covered with eyeglasses, or blinked at the light from
behind yellow lids, which gave them an expression of pride and
weariness. An unshapely exterior, unimposing, slight, bent,
sickly. But through those small, yellowish, thin hands had passed
already the fortune of the old baron, who was dead some years,
and now a second fortune was passing through them--a fortune left
scarcely a year before to her son by the baroness, who was famous
for her idolatrous love of him. People looked, and wondered how
such a great river of gold could flow through a creature so small
and insignificant. With Maryan it was different. He astonished
also, but he roused general sympathy. Such a child! And such a
perfectly beautiful fellow at the same time! He was not twenty
three years of age yet; of fine stature; his manners were elegant
and pleasing; he had the head of a cherub, with bright curling
locks; a noble fresh face from which gazed eyes as blue as
turquoise; and wise, too wise, perhaps, in so youthful a
countenance, for these eyes seemed not to confide but to jeer, or
to be wearied and seeking something through the world without
finding it. Women whispered into one another's ears that that
lad, when in England, had joined the Salvation Army; but after he
had remained a short time in its ranks, he became, in Paris, a
member of the Hashish Club, and brought away the habit of using
narcotics to rouse dreams in himself and unusual conditions. If
the city at that moment had temporary possession of Bianca
Bianetti it was thanks to that lad, who, in a remote land, had
won the heart of the singer. Some insisted that he had spent
fabulous sums on her; others contradicted, declaring that not
Bianca, the singer, had consumed them, but Aurora, that noted
Amazon of the circus, for whose favor princes of blood royal had
striven in various capitals. That shapely little nabob had come,
seen, and conquered; and when he had got his prize at an
incredible outlay, he threw it aside and brought home Bianca. But
is that all that may be told of him? He and Baron Emil are
fountains of histories of this sort. The baron is considerably
older, but this lad has a father. That father himself is a source
of unbounded credit. Young Darvid has as many debts as there are
golden curls on that cherub head of his. What will his papa say?
What? Not long since that papa returned from the ends of the
earth, after a long absence; will he put an end to the tricks of
the boy? will he be able to do so? The white forehead of the
youth has an expression of maturity, and at times of something
else--namely, weariness--and in his blue eyes gleams of firmness,
resolve, and contempt. He looks as if he despised the whole world
then. He and the baron occupy themselves much with art and
literature. They expend almost as much on art as on women and
joyous suppers. They are highly cultured. The baron plays like an
artist; Maryan translates poetry into various languages. In the
box were a number of others resembling these two, but the others
had places elsewhere in the theatre: they had come for a brief
time and left the box afterward, then there remained only the
baron and young Darvid. Behind their chairs sat some third man,
very quietly, as if to attract the least attention possible. This
was Pan Arthur Kranitski. People were accustomed to see him here
and elsewhere with these two young men, and with others also, but
with these two most frequently; his hair curled, freshened; his
black mustache, pointed at the ends above his red lips, in the
fashion of young men. But to-day he looks considerably more
retiring and older than usual. With much bold conversation, with
laughter which cast his head back, with movements full of grace
and animation, he generally strove to equal, and did equal, those
two young nabobs, whose Mentor he seemed to be, and at the same
time their comrade and continual guest, as well as their gracious
protector. This time he was weighed down and gloomy, with spots
on his aged forehead. He was sitting in a corner of the box,
turning his attention neither to the play nor the audience; and,
what was more, not striving to attract the attention of anyone.
But from behind the shoulders of the young men in the front of
the box, his hand, as if directed by an irresistible impulse,
turned the opera-glass, from moment to moment, toward Malvina
Darvid. He felt that he ought not to look so persistently at that
woman with the gleaming star above her forehead, so he dropped
his hand to raise it again and turn it in the same direction. As
if imitating Kranitski, though really he did not even think of
his existence, Baron Emil was acting in the same way with
reference to Irene, gazing through his opera-glass at her face,
which showed indifference and even weariness. He did this with a
perfect disregard for the rest of the audience, and beginning at
the second act, with an insolence which might have confused or
angered another woman. But Irene, indifferent for some time,
raised her glass also, and turned it on the baron. With these
glasses the two people brought their faces near each other; they
looked each other straight in the eyes, separated themselves from
the audience, and gazed from the height of their two boxes in
full disregard of everything happening around them. These two
opera-glasses, planted in permanent opposition, attract the
attention of all; but Irene and the baron do not heed that, do
not care to know anything what ever about the audience, or the
love scenes and tragedy represented in that theatre. They gaze
long at each other with such indifference that one might ask. Why
do they do that? Perhaps because it is original, perhaps to rouse
the curiosity or the censure of the audience. But, after a long
time, there appeared on their faces a jeering, self-willed smile,
with a tinge of friendly comradeship, mixed in the baron's case
with a passing gleam of the eyes; and in Irene's a pale flush,
which covered her lofty forehead for a moment and then vanished.
Dropping his hand with the opera-glass the baron turned to
Maryan: "Tres garconniere ta soeur!" said he. "She is bold and
looks down on every thing; she is disenchanted. Une desabusee!
Very interesting, and grows more and more so."
"Does she rouse a new shiver in you?" laughed Maryan.
"Yes, an entirely new shiver. That is a type of woman which is
barely beginning. Twenty years old, and a perfectly distinct
individuality! Twenty years old, and knows painted pots
thoroughly!"
"That is a family trait with us," retorted Maryan.
"Your mother," continued the baron, "has undying beauty. Such
splendid hair and eyes! But hers is another type entirely."
"A past one," put in Maryan.
"Yes, that is true, a past type, a simple one. But Panna Irene is
new and intricate; yes, that is the word, intricate! We are all
intricate now, full of contrasts, dissonances, and vexations."
In the theatre a thunder of applause was heard. The two young men
looked at each other and laughed almost loudly.
"What are they playing?" asked the baron, indicating the stage
with his head. "Ma foi! I have not heard one word."
"Well old man," said Maryan, turning to Kranitski, "what are they
doing on the stage?" Kranitski dropped his hand with the
opera-glass quickly and blurted out:
"What is the question, Maryan?" His eyes, which were fine yet in
their prolonged lids, were glazed with a tear.
"Ho, ho! romantic, there is a tear in your eye. The subject must
be affecting! Let us listen!" They began to listen, but quite
differently from others. When passions exhibited on the stage
quickened the beating of all hearts, or poetry, pulsating in
lofty words, brightened faces with enthusiasm, Maryan and the
baron laughed inattentively and with contempt; when stupidity,
selfishness, or wit called out laughter, or ridicule, they were
immovable in cold importance, puffed up and insolent; when the
curtain came down at the end, and a deafening, prolonged thunder
of applause was heard, their hands rested ostentatiously on the
edge of the box. This opposition to the impressions and opinions
of the audience might seem a childish wish for distinction; but
one could feel besides in it, a bold throwing down of the
gauntlet to common taste, and an estimate of the various elements
and values in life directly in conflict with that of others.
Toward the end of the last act Kranitski entered Malvina Darvid's
box, and saluting each woman silently he stood motionless.
Malvina bowed toward him slightly, then a shadow came out on her
face; this shadow seemed to have torn itself from an internal
cloud. She frowned--a deep wrinkle appeared on her forehead, the
corners of her mouth drooped somewhat, and her face, with that
brilliant star in the aureole of bright hair above, had an
expression of pain when seen on the drapery of the box as a
background.
But that did not last long. The box was filled with an assembly
of brilliant and agreeable men, one of whom, with his gray hair
and bearing of an official, made a low obeisance before the wife
of Darvid, and seemed to lay at her feet smiles full of homage.
Hence she grew affable, pleasant, vivacious, elegant in gestures,
and in the modulation of her beautiful voice, she answered
politeness with politeness, requests with promises, and gave
opinions in return for questions touching the piece just played.
Baron Emil meanwhile approached Irene and, indicating the excited
audience with his eyes, inquired:
"How do those shouting Arcadians please you?"
Taking on her shoulders the wrap which he held for her, she
answered:
"They are happy!"
"Why?"
"Because they are naive!"
"You have described the position famously!" cried he, with
enthusiasm. "Only Arcadians could be so happy--"
"As to believe in those painted pots--"
"As their great-grandfathers did," added he.
"Who knows," said she, as it were, with deep thought, "whether
the great-grandfathers really believed in them, or only--"
"Pretended belief! Ha! ha! ha! Beyond price! excellent! How you
and I converse, do we not? This is harmony!"
"Not without dissonance."
"Yes, yes, not without vexation. But that is nothing. That even
rouses-"
During this interchange of opinions, which was like the glitter
of cold and sharp steel, Kranitski, in the crowd which surrounded
Malvina, was able to whisper to her:
"To-morrow at eleven." Without looking at him, and with a quiver
of her brows, which drooped a little, she answered:
"It is too early."
"Absolutely necessary. A catastrophe! A misfortune!" whispered he
in addition.
She raised to him a glance which showed that she was tortured to
her inmost soul by fear, but at the same moment Maryan gave her
his arm, and said:
"To be original, to edify the Arcadians, and to give myself
pleasure, I shall be to-day a virtuous son, conducting his own
beautiful mamma downstairs!"
Adroit, with almost childish delight in his blue eyes, but with a
sarcastic smile which seemed to have grown to his lips, which
were shaded by a minute mustache, this youth led through the
theatre corridor that woman not young, but whose beautiful and
original head, and whose rich toilet drew all eyes to her.
"I am proud of you, dear mamma. To-day I have heard whole odes
sung in your honor; even Emil declares that you are eclipsing
Irene with your beauty."
She was smiling and also angry. Her dark gleaming eyes rose with
love to the shapely face of her son, but, striving to be
dignified, she said:
"Maryan, you know that I am displeased at hearing you talk to me
in such a tone."
He laughed loudly.
"Then, my dear mamma, you should grow old as quickly as possible,
put on a cap, and sit in a jacket at the fireplace. I should be
filled then with timid respect, and would hurry away with all
speed from such an annoying mamma!"
"But since I am not annoying you will be good and come home with
us. We shall drink tea together."
"Au desespoir, chere maman! But that cannot be. The rest of this
day, or night, I have promised to friends."
"Is to-day the only time promised?" asked she, with a shade of
sadness.
"For the true sage to-morrow and yesterday have no existence,"
answered Maryan.
They were at the open door of the carriage; Maryan bent and
kissed his mother's hand.
"Be not angry, mamma dear! But you are never angry. If there is
anything on earth that I worship yet it is your marvellous
sweetness of temper."
"It is excessive," answered Malvina. "If I only knew how to
dominate--"
He interrupted her, with a laugh:
"I should avoid you in that ease; but now, all relations between
us are excellent, though they are constitutional or even
republican."
"I go for anarchy!" put in Baron Emil, helping Irene to a seat in
the carriage.
He spoke somewhat through his nose and teeth, it was difficult to
say whether by nature or habit, but that gave to his speech a
character of contemptuousness and indolence.
"But of dissonances to-morrow n'est ce pas?" asked he.
"And of vexations!" concluded Irene with a smile, wherewith her
hand remained on the baron's palm a few seconds longer than was
necessary.
Soon after, Malvina Darvid was sitting at a small table covered
with a tea service, in a study which was like the lined and
gilded interior of a costly confectionery box. Massive silver
artistically finished, expensive porcelain, exquisite tid-bits,
enticing the eye by their ornamentation, and the taste by the
odor from them, tempered, however, by the strong fragrance of
hyacinths, syringa, and violets which were blooming at the window
and the walls, and on largo and small tables everywhere.
The dress worn at the theatre was replaced now by a wrapper,
composed of lace and material soft as down. Her posture in the
low and deep armchair, the very manner even in which she arranged
the folds of her robe seemed to exhale the luxury of rest; but
her mind was at work, and filled her eyes with an expression of
disquiet.
"'Catastrophe! Misfortune!' What could that be?" Marks of pain
had begun to wind around her mouth; her hands were firmly clasped
on her knees. "It may be that lost letter? A man must have a head
filled with exaltation, and a character as weak as Kranitski's to
write such a letter. It may be--it is even sure to be so, for
during a number of days she has felt in the air a catastrophe.
But if?--Well! Is that a misfortune? Oh, rather the opposite?"
The supposition that the dark, grievous truth of her life might
be discovered by him who would seek vengeance because of it
roused no fear in her; it caused her to hope for a thing
disagreeable and yet desired. Let that horrid knot in which her
life was involved be untied or torn apart sometime, in any way
whatever. Alone she would never have strength to untie or to cut
it, she is such an eternally weak, weak, weak creature! And still
anything would be better than the present condition.
Two glittering tears rolled slowly down her cheeks; above the
drooping eyelids a deep wrinkle cut a dark line across her
forehead. The diamond star flashing rainbow gleams from her hair,
and the flowers, which dotted the room thickly with their pale
colors, gave a background of wealth to that woman's life tragedy.
With a teacup in her hand Irene stood in the opposite door and
looked at her mother uneasily, keenly, with such attention that
her eyelids blinked repeatedly. Far from her now were those dry
and sneering smiles in conversation with the baron. But she
passed through the room calmly and sat in front of her mother.
"It seems that the play of to-night did not amuse you much,
mamma." She looked into the teacup so steadily that she could not
see her mother's tears or expression of face. But that face grew
bright on a sudden and was covered with an unrestrained smile.
"Is Cara sleeping?" inquired she.
"Of course; her room is quite silent, and so is Miss Mary's. Why
do you not drink tea, mamma?"
Malvina raised the spoon slowly to her lips, and Irene began to
speak calmly:
"I heard very unexpected news to-day. It seems that father has
told Prince Zeno, who inquired about the matter, that he will not
consent to my marriage with Baron Blauendorf."
"Why call that news unexpected?" asked Malvina, looking at her
daughter.
Irene shrugged her shoulders slowly.
"I did not suppose that father would devote his precious time to
things so trivial. This is unexpected and may bring trouble."
"What trouble?" inquired Malvina, with alarm.
"Father's opinions and mine may be in opposition."
"In that case your opinion will yield."
"I doubt that. I have my plans, my needs, my tastes; of these
father can know nothing."
They were silent rather long; during this time Malvina raised her
eyes to her daughter repeatedly, with the intent to say
something, but she was unable, or at least she hesitated. At last
she inquired in irresolute, almost timid, tones:
"Irene, do you love him?"
"Do I love the baron?"
These words coming from the lips of the young girl expressed
immense astonishment.
"If Baron Emil should hear that question he would be the first to
call it Arcadian or great-grandfatherly." And she laughed. "That
is one of those things which do not exist, or which, at least,
are changeable, temporary, dependent on the state of the nerves
and the imagination. I have a cool imagination and calm nerves. I
can do without painted pots."
As these words came slowly and coldly from the lips of her
daughter, Malvina straightened herself, and her face was covered
with a faint blush. She had preserved the rare, and at her age
even wonderful, faculty of blushing.
"Ira!" cried she, "I hear these opinions not for the first time,
and they give me such pain!"
She clasped her hands.
"Love, sympathy, when a choice is made--"
The voice broke in her throat all at once. Her eyelids drooped;
her shoulders fell back on the chair; she was silent.
Irene laughed and made a gesture of despair with her hands.
"What can I do with the situation?" began she in a jesting tone.
"It was not I who made this world, and cannot reconstruct it. I
might like to do so, perhaps, but I cannot." Then she grew
serious, and continued: "Love and sympathy may be very charming.
I admit even that most assuredly they are when they exist; but
usually if they exist it is for a short period, they flash up and
quench--a few years, a few days, most frequently only days, and
they pass--they are as if they had never been. Why illusions,
when after them disenchantment must conic? They merely cause
useless exertion in life, disappointment, and suffering."
Irene's words and sententious, hard tones were in marvellous
contrast with the maiden-roundness of her arms, which were bare
in the broad sleeves of her dressing-gown, with the fresh red of
her delicate lips, and the gleam of her blue eyes.
"Besides," added she, "I feel a sympathy for the baron; a certain
kind of sympathy." Malvina, after a moment's silence, asked in a
low voice:
"What kind of sympathy is it?"
After a little hesitation Irene answered with a harsh, abrupt
laugh:
"What kind of sympathy? A kind very common, it seems known
universally. Sometimes his way of looking at me, or his pressure
of the hand, moves me. But he pleases me most by his sincerity;
he makes no pretence. He has never told me, like those three or
four other suitors of mine, that he loves me. He has for me, as I
have for him, a certain kind of sympathy; he considers me
financially an excellent match, and for these two reasons he
wishes to share with me his title of baron, and his relationship
with certain families of counts and princes. And as I, on my
part, need independence at the earliest, and my own house, so one
thing for another, the exchange of services and interests is
accomplished. We do not hide from each other these motives of
ours, and this creates between us sincere and comrade-like
relations, quite agreeable, and leading to no tirades or elegies
in which there is not one bit of truth, or to any exaltation or
despair which has no title to the future. This is all."
"Ira!" whispered Malvina after a long silence.
"What, mamma?"
"If I could--if I had the right--" Both were silent.
"What, mamma?"
"If I could believe in spite of--"
The gilded and artistic clock ticked among the pinks and lilies:
tick-tack, tick-tack.
"What is it, mamma?"
"A cake, Ira!"
As Irene took a cake from the silver basket with her trembling
hand, she cried, with glad laughter:
"At last you will eat even a cake! You have changed immensely,
mamma. I cannot call you now as I once did, a little glutton,
since for some time past you eat so little that it is nearly
nothing."
Malvina smiled fondly at the name which on a time her daughter
had given her jestingly, and Irene continued in the same tone:
"Remember, mamma, how you and I, with one small assistant in
Cara, ate whole baskets of cakes, or big, big boxes of
confectionery. Now that is past. I notice this long time that you
eat almost nothing, and that you dress richly only because you
must do so. At times, were it possible, you would put on
haircloth instead of rich silks, would you not? Have I guessed
rightly?"
While a faint blush covered her forehead and cheeks again,
Malvina answered:
"Rightly."
Irene grew thoughtful; without raising her eyes to her mother she
inquired in a low voice:
"What is the cause of this?"
"Returning currents of life are the cause," answered Malvina
after a rather long silence, and she continued, thoughtfully:
"You see, my child, currents of a river when once they have
passed never come back again, but currents of life come hack. My
early youth was poor, as you know, calm, laborious, brightened by
ideals, from which I have deviated much! That was long ago, but
it happened. In life so many years pass sometimes, that events
which precede those years seem a dream, but they are real and
come back to us."
Irene listened to this hesitating, low conversation with drooping
eyelids and forehead resting on her hand. She made no answer.
Malvina, sunk in thought, was silent also.
A few minutes later the tea things vanished from the table,
removed without a sound almost, and borne out by the young
waiting-maid.
With eyelids still drooping, as if she were finishing an idea
circling stubbornly in her head, Irene said with pensive lips:
"A haircloth!" She rose then, and, suppressing a yawn, said: "I
am sleepy. Good-night, mamma, dear!" She placed a brief kiss on
her mother's hand: "Shall I call Kosalia?"
"No, no! Tell her to go to sleep. I will undress myself and go to
bed unattended."
"Good-night!"
Stepping quietly along the carpet Irene passed out. Malvina
followed the young lady to the door with her eyes, and the moment
she was alone she threw her arm over her head, turned her face
upward, and repeated a number of times, audibly: "God! God!" Then
she rested her elbows on the arms of the chair, covered her face
with both palms, the broad sleeves of her dress fell from her
arms like broken wings. Thus, altogether motionless, she dropped
into an abyss of regrets, reminiscences, and fears. The night
flowed on. The clock among the flowers in that study struck the
first hour after midnight, then the second hour, and each time in
the darkness of the drawing-rooms another clock answered in tones
which were deeper and more resonant. The syringa and hyacinths
gave out a still stronger odor, though the cold increased in that
chamber. The frosty winter night was creeping in, even to
dwellings which were carefully heated, and was filling them with
darkness penetrated with cold; along Malvina's shoulders, which
were bent over the arm of the chair, shivers began to pass.
In the darkness and cold a slight rustle was heard, and on the
background of this darkness, in the doorway, appeared Irene. She
wore a short, embroidered dress of cambric, and her fiery tresses
were on her shoulders. She stood in the doorway with neck
extended toward her mother, then walking in soft slippers
silently she passed through the room like a shadow, and vanished
beyond the opposite door. There was something ghostlike in those
two women; one passed, without the slightest rustle, by the
other, who was sleeping in a low chair, without making the least
movement. Outside that mansion the streets of the city were
entering into a deeper and longer silence.
The clock in the study struck three, in the darkness three
strokes, remote and deep, answered. In the air the volatile and
languid odor of syringas was overcome by the narcotic and
stronger odor of hyacinths. The increasing cold flowed around
them with painful contrast. In the door, beyond which she had
vanished, Irene appeared again, just as silently as before. She
passed through the room and placed a shawl upon her mother's
shoulders. Malvina, feeling the soft stuff, woke as if from a
dream.
"What is this?" exclaimed she, raising her face, the cheeks of
which were gleaming in the light of the lamp; but when she saw
her daughter she smiled with relief immediately.
"That is you, Ira? Why are you not asleep?"
"I cannot sleep, and I came for the book which we began to read
together. It is growing cold, so I brought a shawl. Good-night."
She went aside but did not leave the room. She had no book in her
hand; perhaps she was looking for it in the beautifully carved
ease filled with books, for she opened the case and stood before
it with arms raised toward the upper shelves, her hair lying
motionless on the white cambric covering her shoulders.
Malvina was looking at her daughter, in her eyes was impatience;
she was waiting for her to go.
"Is it late?" asked she.
"Very late," answered Irene, without turning her head.
"Does Cara cough to-night?"
"I have not heard her cough to-day." Malvina rose, but tottered
so much that she was forced to rest her hand on the edge of the
table. She seemed greatly wearied.
"Go to sleep. Good-night!" said she, passing her daughter.
Irene looked at her tottering step and followed her quickly a
number of paces.
"Mamma!" cried she.
"What, Ira?"
Irene stood before her mother a moment, her lips were quivering
with words which she withheld, till she bent, kissed her mother's
hand gently, and said in her usual manner:
"Good-night!"
Then she stood a while longer before the open case, listening to
the rustle made by her mother while going to bed, and when that
had ceased she closed the case and moved quietly into the
darkness behind the outer door.
At that same time a carriage thundered in the silence and passed
through the gateway. Restrained movement rose in the antechamber
from which one servant ran out into the dimly lighted stairway,
and another rushed to the study and bedroom of the master of the
mansion to increase quickly the light of the lamps there. Darvid
went up the stairs quickly and with sprightliness; he threw into
the hands of the servant his fur, which was costly and original,
since it was brought from the distant North, and began at once to
read at the round table, through an eyeglass, that which he had
jotted down recently in his pocket notebook. The book was in
ivory binding with a gold monogram, and a pencil with a gold
case. While reading Darvid put a brief question to the servant:
"Has Pan Maryan returned?"
The answer was negative. Large and heavy wrinkles appeared
between Darvid's brows, but he continued to read his notes.
Almost a quarter of an hour later he wrote something more while
bending over the desk, and standing. Soon in the bedchamber,
furnished by the most skillful decorator of the capital, a
night-lamp on the mantel of a chimney illuminated a bed adorned
with rich carving; a white and lean hand stretched out on a silk
coverlet, and a face also, which was like ivory, and shining with
two blue sleepless eyes, keenly glittering. Darvid cast an
inattentive glance through the room, over which, in the pale
lamplight, two beautiful female heads seemed to hover, reflected
and multiplied in mirrors standing opposite each other. This was
a most beautiful work--a genuine Greuze. To win this masterpiece
Darvid outbid a number of men of high standing; he triumphed and
was delighted. But now his sleepless glance passed over that
pearl of art inattentively. His night at the club instead of
diverting and calming had bored and irritated. His honorable
partner was annoying, and rude in addition. Never would he have
forced himself to play with the man, had not that relation been
an honor, and--what was more--had it not been needful. Women say:
one must suffer to be beautiful; men need to change only the last
word and say: one must suffer to be powerful. But that was
beginning to be repulsive, and, above all, to be wearisome. Only
when in bed did he feel that he was weary. He could not sleep. He
had slept badly for some weeks--since the time of that wretched
letter. At thought of that letter the serpents stirred in
Darvid's breast, but he shut them down in their den by hissing:
"Stupidity!" And he fell into long and uneasy thought about that
man whom he had sent on weighty business, but who had not
returned yet.
Perhaps chance will not favor him this time, and another hand
will seize the field of action and the great profits. He knows
that he has enemies and rivals who envy, who undermine him. Well,
he will win also in this case, only he would like something
afterward--what? He himself does not know what--perhaps rest. To
go for a time to Switzerland or Italy. For what purpose? He is
not over curious about art and nature, he has no time to fall in
love with them. Without occupation he would be bored in all
places, and besides he must finish these family questions. He
must tame Maryan, and hinder Irene's marriage to the baron. He is
fighting a battle with his own son and daughter. Cara is the only
one with whom he has no trouble. She is mild and beautiful. Her
head is turned also, but in another, a more agreeable direction.
She is greatly attached to him, the dear child! She is frail. He
must speak to the doctor about her. Perhaps send her to Italy.
With whom? With her mother? He would never permit that. The child
is his. He will go himself with Cara. But in that case what will
become of his enterprise?
In the interior of the mansion were heard deep, metallic sounds.
The clock struck five.
In that same mansion, at the distant end of it, in a chamber
lighted by a blue night-lamp, was heard a low, dry cough, and a
frail, tall maiden, in night-clothing covered with lace, sat up
in a blue and white bed.
"Miss Mary! Miss Mary!" cried she, with fear in her voice.
From the adjoining chamber came a voice of agreeable tone and
somewhat drowsy:
"You are not asleep, Cara?"
"I have slept. The cough woke me, but that is well, for I had a
dreadful dream. I dreamed that papa and mamma--"
She stopped suddenly, and, though no one was looking at her, she
hid her delicate face in the blue coverlet. So only in a whisper
did she tell the end of her dream:
"They were angry at each other--so awfully angry--Ira put her
arms around mamma--Maryan went away hissing. I hung to papa, and
cried so, and cried."
In fact her eyes were then filled with tears from the dream. But
she stretched in the bed, and, with her head on the pillows,
thought, till she called again:
"Miss Mary! Are you sleeping?"
"No, dear; do you wish anything?"
Cara began in a loud voice:
"I wish immensely, immensely, Miss Mary, to go with you to
England, to your father and mother. Oh, how I should like to be
in that parsonage a while, where your sisters teach poor children
and nurse the sick, and your mother makes tea at the grate for
your father when he comes home after services. Oh, Mary, if you
and I could go to that place! It is so pleasant there." In the
blue light and in the silence her thin voice recalled the
twittering of a lark.
"We will go there sometime, dear. Your parents will permit, and
we will go. But sleep now."
"Very well, I will sleep. Good-night, Miss Mary--my dear, good
Miss Mary."
She lay some minutes quietly thinking, till she sat up again in
bed coughing. When the cough had passed, she called in a low
voice:
"Miss Mary! Miss Mary!"
There was no answer.
"She is sleeping," whispered Cara, and after a while she looked
around, and, in a lower voice, called:
"Puffie! Puffie!"
At this call the little dog sprang from a neighboring chair, and
in the twinkle of an eye was on the bed.
Cara stroked the silken coat of the dog, and bending toward him
whispered:
"Puffie! Puffie! dear, little dog! lie here, sleep for thyself!"
She put him on her breast almost at her chin; with her hand on
his coat, and with the whisper: "Puffie! good Puffie!" she fell
asleep.
Then was heard the sound of a drozhky, coming quickly, with
uproar in front of the house, and again there was an end to
voices and movement. Two men ascended the stairway, one much
older than the other, with a carefully brushed, but somewhat worn
hat, in a fashionable but somewhat worn fur. He spoke in a low
voice:
"Yes, yes! c'est quelque chose d'inoui! he commanded me to break
off all relations with you, and to stop visiting his house."
"A thousand and one nights! Why is it? What is it for?" exclaimed
the other.
Suddenly he stopped part way on the stairs, and asked with a half
jeering, half pitying look at his companion:
"If he should find out?"
Kranitski turned his face away.
"My Maryan--with you--of that--"
"Painted pots!" laughed Maryan. "Do you take me for my
great-grandfather? Well, has he found it out?"
With red spots on his cheeks and forehead Kranitski blinked
affirmatively.
"Sapristi!" imprecated Maryan, and immediately he laughed again.
"And why? for what reason? Did he also believe in painted pots? I
thought him modern."
"Alas!" sighed Kranitski.
They advanced in silence, passed the first story of the house.
Maryan's bachelor chambers were on the second story.
"My dear old man, I am sorry for you, enormously sorry," began
young Darvid again. "I have grown so accustomed to you. You will
have to suffer, and poor mamma, too. Where did he get all this? A
man of such sense! I thought that his head was better
ventilated--"
He could not finish, for Kranitski threw himself on his neck at
the very door of his apartments. He wept. Drying his eyes with
his perfumed cambric handkerchief, he said:
"My Maryan, I shall not survive this blow! I love you all so
much--you are--for me--as a younger brother--"
He tried to kiss him, but Maryan broke away from his embrace, and
his tears, the moisture of which he felt on his face, with
discomfort.
"But it is absurd!" exclaimed he. "Are we to break our relations
because they displease someone? Are we slaves? Laugh at that, my
dear. Come to me as before, but pass the night now with me, for
it would be difficult for you to go home at this hour."
He touched the button of the electric bell, and when the door
opened at once, he said to his companion on the threshold:
"Bianca sings that aria from the 'Cavalier' gloriously, does she
not? La, la, la----"
He tried to give the music, but his voice failed. So he
disappeared behind the closing door, humming the aria of the
splendid singer which he had just heard at supper.
Below, two clocks, one after the other, sounded out six. Through
the great windows light began to enter from the snow-covered
streets. That seemed the gradual and slow drawing aside of a dark
curtain, from behind which came out with increasing distinctness,
furniture, pictures, mirrors, candlesticks, vases, rugs, plushes,
velvets, polish, gilt, mosaics, ivory, porcelain. Until all
standing forth in the full light of that winter morning began
like a pearl shell to interchange various colors and lustres, and
to drop from the walls and ceilings reflections of gold on the
shining floor.