Because of his absence of ten days Darvid, on his return from the
hunting scenes, which had passed noisily and splendidly at Prince
Zeno's, rushed into the whirl of business--of labors and visits
which even for him, who was so greatly trained, proved to be
wearisome and difficult. He drove out; he received for long
hours, both alone and with the assistance of others; he wrote,
reckoned, counselled, discussed, concluded contracts, with a
multitude of men. Sometimes, in the very short intervals between
occupations, in his carriage, after a noisy and laborious night,
or at the almost sleepless end of it, while putting himself to
bed, he thought, that in every case the amusement from which he
had returned a few days before had cost him more than the worth
of it. His life was a belt of toil and duties, so closely woven
that every interruption brought to a new point an accumulation of
these toils and duties that might surpass even his powers. And
what had his object been? Why had he gone? Had he found pleasure
in that place? What pleasure? Those full-grown, or even old men,
who found their delight, or disappointment in this, that they had
hit or had missed a shot; those great lords, spending their time
at a recreation which, by the uproar, the style of conversation,
the spectacle of bloodshed, reminded him of the mental and
physical condition of wild men--seemed to him children which were
sometimes annoying and sometimes ridiculous. Such frivolous
amusement, idle, somewhat savage, somewhat knightly, found no
access to his brain, which had been occupied so long with the
seriousness of dates and figures. He had met there, it is true,
though only once, a man in a lyric mood. A youthful person, who
was riding one day at his side, and who afterward, when they
halted, strove to incline him to enthusiasm because of the
snow-covered field; the fresh breezes blowing over that field;
the deep perspective of the forest, etc. That man was lyric. He
confessed openly that the hunting was to him indifferent; that he
took part in it not for game, but for nature. He loved nature.
Yes, yes, Darvid knew that many people loved nature. Art and
nature must be powers, since a multitude of men bow down to them.
Perhaps he, too, would have done so if the career of his life had
led him into their presence, but the path of his life led him in
another direction, far from nature and art, hence he did not know
them; he had not had the time. He looked at a field, at snow, at
a forest--and he saw a field, snow, a forest--nothing higher,
nothing more. He was of those who call a cat a cat, a rogue a
rogue, and hold every hyperbole, ode, and enthusiasm in silent
contempt. He listened to his lyric companion, at first with
curiosity, investigating in the man a certain kind of people
little known to him. When he had finished he listened only
through politeness, and with concealed annoyance. He concealed
his annoyance, and tried openly to pretend that he shared the
enthusiasm, the rapture, and the gladness. He was, of course, in
an assembly of very wealthy persons, standing very high. He
sailed in a sea of blood purely blue, so he hid away irony,
contempt, and yawning, and had on the outside only smoothness
itself, affability, and general pleasantness of manner, speech,
and smiles. That was also a labor, rewarded at once with a
certain degree of lively enjoyment. In lordly drawing-rooms,
himself the equal of the highest, while passing the time in a
friendly manner and conversing with princes he was unconscious at
first that he raised his smooth, lofty forehead and gave himself
out as greater than he was in reality, and inhaled with distended
nostrils the odor of that grandeur which surrounded him as well
as that which was his own. But soon this condition yielded to
something embarrassing, not quite clearly defined, but causing
this, that he did not feel altogether certain of himself and the
fitness of his whole self to the surrounding. For though the
politeness of those about him was unquestioned and most
exquisite, though words of praise in recognition of his services
and labor struck his hearing, though his strong feet had under
them a foundation carved from gold; he felt strange in that
position, involved in phenomena which were new to him, and
bristling with difficulties. Sometimes the guests mentioned
things of which he was ignorant, they used expressions which were
strange to him, and referred to degrees of relationship, and
events with which he was unacquainted. He began to stand guard
over his own words and movements, with a mysterious fear lest
something of his might come out too emphatic, or high colored for
the background before which he found himself. In spite of
everything which connected the man with that background, he began
to feel a broad vacuum between him and it himself.
This timidity, a thing entirely new, entirely unknown to Darvid
from his earliest years, was an oppression which, during the last
days of the hunt, fell on him together with weariness, and some
third thing--a feeling of the difference between himself and
those who surrounded him. Nothing could help him: neither the
iron labor which they praised audibly, nor the millions piled up
by that labor--millions for which they felt unconcealed
reverence. Among those men into whose society he had always
desired to enter as an integral part thereof, on that social
height to which he had been climbing in imagination and with
effort, he felt as if he were in some uneasy chair, put out in a
cold wind, and deprived of every outlook. He found nothing there
on which to rest his eye, or his thought. Emptiness, emptiness,
weariness. A little humiliation which, like a tiny, but venomous
worm, was boring into the bottom of his heart. It was not
wonderful, therefore, that when he thought of how he had used his
time, and of all that he had seen, heard, and passed through,
there was on his lips one of those smiles most bristling with
pins points, while in his mind he repeated the expression:
"Wretchedness!"
He was too wise not to give this name at times to many things of
the world which he desired and toward which he was struggling.
After some days of labor, so intense that it astonished those who
saw it, and which weakened those who assisted in it, he received
at an hour before evening, as customary, in his study, all men
who came either on business, or with visits. He knew no
exceptions for anyone, nor indulgence for himself. He received
all, conversed with all, for it was impossible to foresee what a
given man might contribute, or what he might be good for, if not
at the moment, some time, if not much, then a little. But his
cheeks seemed thinner than usual, and at moments his speech was
less fluent. That hunting trip, and all which he had experienced
at it, and afterward, days of activity and unparalleled exertion,
were reflected on his face in an expression of suffering. And
sometimes even a slight hesitation in speech arose from this,
that his mind ran to a subject which tortured him, and raised in
his breast a lump of slimy serpents. Some hours before he had
inquired of his secretary, who, in spite of youth, zeal, and wit,
was bending beneath the burden of labor imposed on him, whether
everything was ready for the ball to be given soon, and whether
he had received directions from the lady of the house during his,
Darvid's, recent absence. The secretary showed great
astonishment. How was that? Then the project had not been
abandoned? On the morning after the departure of his principal
the secretary sought to come to an understanding with Pani Darvid
on this subject, but was able to see only Panna Irene, who
declared that he would receive no instructions, and that his
assistance would not be needed. After that there was silence in
the house, undisturbed by preparations of any kind.
"Then," said Darvid, "my wife must be out of health. She has
neuralgia frequently. What is to be done? A woman's nerves are a
force majeure."
But now, while receiving visits and speaking of business, he
avoided thinking of the unexpected resistance. How was this!
She--the woman for whom the highest favor, the pinnacle of
happiness had been the possibility of remaining at the head of
his house, in the brilliancy of wealth and general respect,
dared--had the shamelessness to oppose his will! He felt such
contempt that, in thought, he threw that woman on the ground to
trample her; in spite of this, that, almost unconsciously, he
ascribed the blame not to her, but to Irene. Almost unconsciously
he saw the tall young lady; she stood before his eyes, cold and
distinguished; she, who at the foot of the stairway, in the down
of her black fur cloak, with an almost hard glitter in her eyes,
under the fantastic hat, had said: "That ball will not be given."
That was Irene. The other woman could not have risen to this act.
Did he not know her? She had always been so mild and
weak--powerless, pitiable! She could not command such energy! It
was Irene!
With these thoughts he pressed the hand of the last guest, and
said to him at the threshold, that there was absolute need for
the commercial company of which they had been talking to gain a
broader foundation of activity by obtaining more and surer
sources of credit.
"Credit, my dear sir, credit is the first letter in the alphabet
of contemporary finance. Send some man to the capital--some
man--"
He hesitated here, thinking "It was Irene!" Then he finished:
"Some man with proper authority and weight--best of all that
person of whom we have been speaking. Such is my advice."
After the last bow of the guest they closed the door of the
anteroom. Darvid turned and saw Irene standing at the round
table. That day, while passing on the stairs, when she was
returning from a trip to the city, and he was hastening to the
carriage waiting for him, they had greeted each other hurriedly
and in passing. He had not a moment's time then to talk with her;
she, too, was in a hurry, for she ran up the stairs quickly.
"Bon jour, pere!" said she, inclining her head with swift
movement.
"Bon jour, Irene," answered he, touching his hat. Behind him
moved the secretary, carrying a heavy portfolio of papers; after
her went some merchant's servant with packages. No greeting was
necessary now. Irene, standing at the table, began to speak at
once:
"I have come, father, to beg you in mamma's name and my own for a
half-an-hour's conversation, but to-day, now, absolutely."
Her bodice, which was dark and close fitting, had a very
high-standing ruff, which enclosed her slightly elongated and
very pale face, just as the half-open shield of a leaf encloses a
white flower-bud. Her whole person, in that chamber, with its
very high ceiling and massive furniture, seemed smaller and less
tall than elsewhere. However, the words "now and absolutely" were
spoken with such solid emphasis, that Darvid halted in the middle
of the room and fixed a sharp glance on her.
"You have come in your mother's name and your own," said he. "Why
this solemnity and decision? You wish, of course, to explain the
reasons why your mother and you have seen fit to oppose my will."
"No, father," answered she, "but I intend to announce to you
mamma's will and mine."
"As to that ball?" asked he, quickly.
"No, the question is immensely more important than the ball."
Both were silent for a moment. If the words exchanged had been
less emphatic, and had followed one another less quickly, Darvid
and his daughter might, perhaps, have heard, in a corner of the
room, behind a wall of books arranged on highly ornamented
shelves, a slight rustle which lasted a short time. Something had
moved there, and then stopped moving.
"It touches an affair of immensely greater importance than the
ball," repeated Irene; "namely, my mother's peace, honor, and
conscience."
"What pomposity of expression!" exclaimed Darvid, with a slight
smile. "I observe more and more that exaggeration is a disease in
my family. I should prefer simple speech from you."
"The question before us is not a simple one, so I use a style
fitted to the subject," answered Irene, and she sat down in one
of the armchairs, erect, her hands on her knees, motionless,
between the wide and heavy arms of the chair.
"The subject of which I have to speak with you, father, is much
involved and delicate. Do you not share my opinion, that one may
commit what is commonly called an offence and still possess a
noble heart, and suffer greatly? In common opinion this suffering
is a just punishment, or penance for the offence committed, but I
consider this opinion as a painted pot, for everything in this
world is so involved, so vain, and relative."
She spoke with perfect calmness, but at the last words she
shrugged her shoulders slightly. Darvid looked at her with dazed
eyes.
"How is this?" began he, in a low voice. "You--you--have you come
to talk to me--about this? Do you know? Do you understand? And
have you come to talk about--this?"
"My father," answered Irene, "to bring our conversation to any
result we must first of all push away painted pots from between
us."
"What does that mean?" asked Darvid.
"What does it mean? What are painted pots? They are little dabs
of wretched clay, but painted in beautiful colors; they are just
what naivete, bashfulness, modesty, and darned socks like them
would be to-day in my case."
She laughed.
"I have known all that has happened this long time. I was a
little girl, in a corner of a room, dressing a doll, when a
certain conversation between you and mamma struck my ears, and
helped me considerably to understand what took place afterward.
Because of business and difficulties which swallowed your time
you were ever absent, father. Oh, I have no thought of
criticising you, no thought whatever. Here a question of logic
presents itself, simple logic. You were chasing after that which
was your happiness, the delight of your life, while mamma--poor
mamma stooped to pick up also for herself a little happiness and
delight. But your happiness and delight were open, brilliant,
triumphant, while mamma's were always full of darkness, poison,
and shame."
For the first time in that conversation her voice quivered; and,
inclining her face, she brushed away from her dress, with the
rosy tips of her fingers, some bit of dust that had dropped on
it; then again she gazed with a look clear and calm at her
father, who had sat down in front of her.
"To convince you, father," continued she, "that our conversation
has a perfectly important and definite meaning I permit myself to
open before you the secret, but for me, the visible springs which
caused the so-called offence, and present disposition of mamma."
"It would be better to avoid this and proceed to the point
directly," said Darvid, throwing his eyeglasses on his nose with
a nervous movement.
"No, father, permit me to take a few minutes of time, I beg you.
This is necessary. Every man has in himself a soul, so-called,
personal to him, unlike others."
She halted for a moment, shrugged her shoulders:
"For that matter, am I sure of this? The soul may be a painted
pot also. But it is the usual name given to our various feelings
and inclinations. So pour le commodite de la conversation, I
shall use this word." She smiled and continued: "There are
various souls, some as hard as steel, others soft as wax, some
inaccessible to sentiment, others sentimental. Mamma's soul is
soft and sentimental. Tenderness, care, confidence are as needful
to her as air is to breathing. Do I know, for that matter, the
various ingredients which make up the so-called love, attachment,
etc. You, father, have a soul of steel and immensely great
business power--we were children--Cara had barely begun to speak
then. Well, a moment came--do I know when? I do not
know--but--finally that happened which must have happened more
than once to you in your very numerous, remote, and prolonged
journeys. Do I not speak the truth?"
In the high plates of her dark ruff her face was in a blush, but
she smiled a little, and with strangely flashing eyes looked
directly into the face of her father.
"For," added she, "one would need to have mental rheumatism to
believe that you loved only mamma all the time, and even that you
loved her in general--mamma, of course, did not think that you
did."
"Irene!" cried Darvid.
But she did not permit interruption.
"Allow me, I beg you, to say that I am not criticising. I am not
in any sense. There is not a shade of criticism in what I say. I
only state and expose facts and causes. That is all. This is
requisite. Without this it would be impossible to understand
mamma's request and mine which I will tell you quickly. And now I
return to the question of the individual soul. That is a thing of
capital importance. Offences, so-called, rise from so-called mean
souls, or from noble ones. Of the first I know little, but if an
offence comes from a noble soul it is to that soul a great and
terrible torment--I have looked at such a torment, and while
looking at it I have been brought to name the so-called love, and
the so-called happiness, painted pots. Idyls! There may be idyls
somewhere, but that which I saw--I assure you, father, did not
encourage--did not encourage me to look at things from the
idyllic angle."
Darvid rose with an impulsive movement.
"To the question, Irene, to the question! Say what the request is
for which you have come. And from what does your mother suffer so
greatly? It would be better were you to tell your wish at once,
and without these introductions. Do reproaches of conscience
trouble your mother? I have no time for psychological analysis,
and should like to finish this conversation more quickly. Well,
was it that besides conscience and other things like it--she did
not find in her lover the man whom her sentiment imagined? I am
ashamed to speak with you of this. Tell quickly what your wish
is."
With a trembling hand he approached the end of his cigarette to
the candle burning on the desk; his face now grown smaller, was
contracted from the wrinkles which covered his forehead, and the
countless quivers which passed across his face. Irene, very pale
now, followed her father with her eyes; her lips were almost
blue.
"Yes, father," answered she, "in mamma's soul that which we call
conscience is greatly developed. Moreover, a feeling of shame in
presence of us, and humiliation that everything which she has
comes from you."
At this moment something rustled again, somewhere in a corner,
but no one turned attention to it.
Darvid, who passed through the room a number of times, hastily,
stopped again:
"Speak more quickly," said he, "I cannot understand what it is
that your mother wishes. I left her in the position of a
respected wife, of a mother, and mistress of a house. She is
surrounded with luxury, she shines in society, and enjoys life."
Irene opened her arms with a movement indicating pity:
"This which you consider as the highest favor for mamma is just
what she does not wish. She does not wish to enjoy the respect of
society, which she does not deserve, as she thinks; nor to make
use of the luxury which comes from you, and which is bound up
with speechless contempt. Mamma desires to leave this house; in
general, to abandon society-life, with all its luxury and
brilliancy. I have known for a considerable time of this, and
therefore had the plan of marrying soon and withdrawing from here
with mamma."
Darvid put an end to his emotion; his daughter's words approached
facts, and facts demanded cool blood.
"If you wish to speak of your intention to marry the baron, I
must tell you--"
"You have no need to speak of that, father. I have abandoned that
intention. I had it, but I have dropped it. Another plan entirely
different has taken its place. You own a village in a remote
province which came to you from your parents. I wish to ask you
to give me that village, to endow me with it, but immediately. I
suppose, I know, even, that it was your intention to give me a
dowry ten times as valuable. Now, I am ready to renounce
nine-tenths, orally, in writing, in every form and every manner
indicated by you, but I beg you, as a favor, I beg you earnestly,
for this one-tenth, and beg that I may receive it without delay."
She bent her whole form low, and her eyes, which she raised to
her father, were filled with tears; these, however, she
restrained immediately. Darvid answered after a moment of
silence:
"Though I do not understand this whim of yours, I do not see in
it anything impossible, or harmful. On the contrary, I shall be
glad to do something which pleases you, and to-morrow, if you
like, you shall be the owner of that wretched hole. But of what
use can it be to you?"
Irene rose, went around the table, and, bending, pressed her
father's hand to her lips; and then she returned to her former
place:
"I thank you, father," said she; "you satisfy my most ardent
desire. That 'wretched hole,' as you call it, is just the place
that mamma desires. We shall go from here, and settle down there
as quickly as possible."
"What?" cried Darvid, bending forward with astonishment, but soon
he began to speak calmly:
"I come to the conclusion that when talking with my children I
should not be astonished at anything. I must be ready for any
surprise."
"That is natural, father, for we hardly know each other,"
interrupted Irene. "In reproaches of conscience," continued she,
"and various other feelings of that sort, mamma goes to
exaggeration, she goes so far as to desire penance, punishment,
voluntarily accepted. If time and circumstances were favorable
she would enter a cloister assuredly, and put on a hair shirt.
That is an exaggeration, but what is to be done? Characters are
various; hers is of that kind. But the desire which mamma has of
withdrawing from the noise and show of the world, I understand
perfectly; for, first of all--"
She made a gesture of contempt with her hand.
"All the honors, the glitter, the luxury, etc., are gates 'before
which men with spades are standing;' this means that behind them
we find dust, emptiness, nothing."
"Great God!" exclaimed Darvid.
"What do you say, father?" inquired she.
"Your age, the brilliant position in which you have lived since
childhood--and this disenchantment."
"Just this brilliant position, father--just because of this
brilliant position, perhaps. We are not talking of me,
however--but because of this, which in me you call
disenchantment, I am able to understand mamma's wish to leave
society, all the more because, if I were in her position, all
homage, show, luxury, amusements would for me be as impossible as
they are for her. This depends on character. Moreover, mamma
remembers that everything which she uses is yours, and the use of
it attended by your contempt, and the evident impossibility of
ever coming to any understanding is such a poison--so I beg you
to give me Krynichna. I am your daughter, and, as it seems to me,
you have no thought of disinheriting me, so if I own Krynichna,
mamma will live with me and receive everything from me alone."
Her voice grew weaker, and her posture less constrained, in her
whole form there was an expression of suffering. Everything which
she said cost her, in spite of appearances to the contrary, much
effort and suffering. Darvid was silent a while, then he said:
"It seems to me that I am Ali Baba, listening to the tales of
Sheherazade. If I should agree to your plan what would you do
there?"
"I do not know clearly as yet. This is mamma's idea; her wish;
she will discover more and tell me. We will examine; we shall
see. Into mamma's plans, besides quiet obscurity, and modesty of
life, labor enters also."
She spoke in a low, wearied voice:
"An idyl!" laughed Darvid.
"An idyl, father; I used to laugh at all idyls without knowing
that I had one in myself. It has saved me from many, and,
perhaps, dreadful things. Yes, I have an idyl: I love mamma."
Then her thin lips, famous in society for their precocious,
bitter irony, quivered as do those of children when preparing to
cry.
Darvid turned to her quickly, and said with a prolonged hiss:
"Why?"
She raised sad eyes to him, and with a voice in which Malvina's
sweet tones were heard, she answered:
"I am not sure that anyone could tell why he or she loves. Mamma
has always been kind--but I do not know--she is very pleasant,
and she and I have been together always--I do not know--it may
be, besides, that often I have seen her so unhappy. You see,
father, that I am sincere; I answer all your questions as far as
I am able. Have regard to mamma's scruples, I beg, and my
request; do not oppose our plans."
Darvid stood in the middle of the room, he raised his head, his
eyes had the flash of steel.
"No," said he. "My daughter shall not wither away in a remote
corner with my consent, because it pleases her mother to hide
her--shame there."
"Father," answered Irene, "I must explain that your resistance
will only give a more permanent, and, for you, a more
disagreeable, form to our withdrawal."
She rose, and again on her face, surrounded by the high ruff, was
an expression of resolve and energy. A moment before she was full
of emotion and pain, now with the need of defence she found
energy.
"Do you suppose, father, that you can understand what happened,
forgive, to use the general phrase, and restore your esteem and
friendship to mamma?"
With a form as rigid as iron, and with an evil smile on his lips,
Darvid answered immediately:
"No. I am very sorry that I cannot play a comedy of
noble-mindedness, for this is perhaps a popular comedy. But that
of which you speak is forever and altogether impossible."
Irene moved her head affirmatively.
"Then mamma and I must withdraw; if not to Krynichna to some
remote place abroad--I know four European languages well, I know
how to paint, and I know a few other things. Mamma possesses a
real genius in several rare accomplishments, and you remember
well her beautiful music. We will give lessons, and do something
else--I know not what--we shall find means of existence. But I
beg you, father, to believe that in no case shall we remain in
this house."
With pale, almost with blue lips, she laughed and added:
"Either as inhabitants of Krynichna, or making our own living in
some distant place--which do you prefer, father? In the last
instance it depends on you. One of these two things we shall do
most certainly; that is, properly speaking, I shall do it; I, who
am mamma's only defence. I became of age some months ago. I have
finished my twenty-first year, and--no one can hinder me from
acting in this way."
Whoever had seen her at that moment would have believed,
perforce, that no man and no thing would have power to hinder her
in carrying out her resolve. Omitting differences of age and sex,
she seemed the living portrait of her father. The same cold
self-confidence as in him; the same clear penetrating glance as
of steel; the same enigmatical smile on impressionable and also
cold lips. As if involuntarily, and lowering her voice, she said
in addition:
"It is our duty to put a radical stop to the family idyl out of
regard also to Cara. She is innocent yet--she knows nothing--she
loves all, and not only loves but worships. Life has not touched
her, even with the tip of one of its angel feathers. Just imagine
what would happen if, into that little volcano of lofty feeling,
a spark of this knowledge were to fall. And this may happen any
moment. If we do not change the condition of affairs it will
happen."
She was silent, and Darvid was silent also. It might seem that he
recognized only Irene's last argument as worthy of attention. The
two voices had grown silent, one after the other; then, somewhere
in the corner of the room, was heard a rustle, not so low as
before, far stronger, a low knocking rather than a rustle, and
almost at the same time a servant in the open door of the
antechamber called:
"The horses are ready."
Irene, who had turned her face toward the rustle, or knocking,
thought some of the countless papers in the room had dropped from
the furniture, or that some book had fallen. Darvid, who also had
heard the knocking, or rustle, forgot it while looking at his
watch.
"I shall be late," said he. "You have told me things over which I
must meditate. I cannot deny that they possess considerable
importance. Hence, I delay, and shall beg you soon to continue
this conversation. Good-night, and perhaps till to-morrow."
"Let it be only till to-morrow. I beg you, father. Tomorrow."
Miss Mary was sitting in her pupil's bedroom, a beautiful nest
which wealth had formed as a symbol of the springtime of life.
From the top of the walls to the bottom, cretonne, interchanged
with muslin, formed succeeding folds on which the freshest
flowers of spring seemed to have been scattered. The walls, the
windows, the furniture were covered with a shower of
forget-me-nots and rosebuds, strewn on grounds of yellow as pale
as if sunlight had penetrated them slightly. Groups of green
plants at the windows looked like little groves made ready for
the songs of nightingales; artistic playthings, porcelain
figures, suggested a child amused with dolls yet; but a multitude
of large books in gilt bindings suggested the active and
methodical development of a young mind, which surely had dreams
of Paradise on that lace and satin bed which covered a bedstead
inlaid with mother-of-pearl. On all the furniture: small
arm-chairs, tables, screens, which reminded one of
butterfly-wings, mother-of-pearl rainbow-tints passed into
milk-white. Spring tones, joyous motives, light and graceful
forms, filled the room of that little daughter of a millionnaire
with an atmosphere of childish innocence and tenderness; it was
lighted, from floor to ceiling, and from wall to wall, with a
cheering light, poured from the rosy tulip-shaped shade of a
grand lamp.
In that rosy lamp-light Miss Mary seemed full of care. Under her
smooth hair her forehead was smooth and calm, but in her
thoughtful eyes, and in the way that her head rested on her hand,
anxiety was evident. Conscientiously devoted to the duties
undertaken by her, she retained the warmth and purity which
permeated the house of an Anglican pastor; chance had committed
to her care, in a strange atmosphere, a rare spirit, one of those
which come to the world in the form of a flame. Even three years
earlier, Cara had seemed to her, at first glance, one of those
souls for whom life is love, worship, trust, and--nothing more.
No ambitions or imaginings beyond those. All her thoughts and
wishes issued from her heart and went back to it. Her innate
sensitiveness was inexplicable in its source, just as genius is
in other persons. Sensitiveness in her demanded the
accomplishment of her wishes as imperiously as, in organisms of
another sort, hunger claims satisfaction for the body. She was by
nature a flame and a bird. The riddle of her existence was
involved in two words: to blaze and to fly. Besides, she had
impulse and caprice; she loved to twitter, and to laugh quietly
in a corner. From the thoughtfulness into which she dropped
oftener and oftener, she woke up as a gladsome and petted child;
that room was filled with her quick speech, her thin voice, her
gestures, almost theatrical, her laughing, her humming, and at
times all the drawing-rooms were filled with them.
This day she woke up full of twittering, and before dressing
threw her bare arms around Miss Mary, looking into her eyes,
declaiming verses, telling childish dreams.
"Why are you so delighted?" inquired Miss Mary. "Is it at the
coming ball?"
Cara pouted her scarlet lips contemptuously, and answered:
"The ball! What do I care? I do not want the ball! Mamma and Ira
do not want it either, so I will go to-day and beg father to
defer it. But I am delighted this morning! The sun is so
pleasant! Do you see how the rays quiver; how they slip among the
leaves, like little snakes, or spring, like golden butterflies?"
With outstretched finger she showed the play of sunrays among the
clumps of green at the windows; herself in white muslin which
covered her slender neck and childish breast, and with naked
arms, she might remind one of a butterfly escaping from the
chrysalis of childhood.
In the evening (of that day) Cara circled about the room; her
mouth filled with historical names, and lines of poetry, with
which she had been occupied all day. Finally, she caught Puffie
in her arms, and, courtesying so low before Miss Mary that she
touched the floor, announced that she was going to her father.
From time immemorial she had not talked with him a moment.
Sometimes he was going out, or had not the time. But to-day she
would watch him, she would wait till all his business was
finished, all his guests gone; she would seize her father and
bring him to her mother's study. Miss Mary would go there;
perhaps Maryan would be there too.
Her idyllic heart, like a bird in a grove, was eternally dreaming
of quiet retreats, of confidential talks, of the attachment of
hearts and the pressure of hands. Her picture of the Anglican
rectory taken from Miss Mary's narrative, and situated in a grove
of old oaks, smiled at her like a bit of Paradise. "But mamma's
study is so quiet, and full of fragrant flowers--"
An hour had passed since she had skipped away with Puffie in her
arms, and with the reflection of a bit of Paradise in her eyes.
Miss Mary felt alarmed. For some time she had felt continual
alarm. She observed carefully the change taking place in Cara's
disposition, and discovered in it causes for anxiety. But she
could do nothing. While she was friendly to the family to which
fate had brought her, and while she experienced from it kindness
mingled with respect, it was to her a stranger. She observed
everything, and said nothing. She strove, more and more, to be
inseparable from Cara, and to turn her attention toward things of
remote interest. That was a splendid mansion, but terrors were
roaming around in its drawing-rooms, among plushes, mirrors,
damasks, satins, and gold.
From the gates of the mansion, the rumble of a carriage went
forth, grew faint in the street, and was lost in the distance.
The master of the mansion was in that carriage which sank in the
uproar of the city, to return, barely, at daybreak. A quarter of
an hour passed, Cara did not return. Maybe she went to her
mother? Another quarter of an hour. Miss Mary rose up, took a
small candlestick in her hand with a candle, which she lighted to
use in her wandering through the series of drawing-rooms. But
among the soft folds of cretonne and muslin the lofty door,
ornamented with gilded arabesques and borders, opened slowly, and
Cara walked into the chamber holding Puffie at her bosom. Her
face was so bent that the lower part of it was hidden in the
silky coat of the little animal. Miss Mary, sitting down again,
inquired:
"Where were you, Cara, after your father went away? With mamma?"
In answer, a few steps from the door, the sound of a fall was
heard. That was Puff, he had dropped from her arms to the floor.
She had let him slip down along her dress. Cara had never treated
her favorite with such indifference, or so carelessly. Leaning
forward, Miss Mary fixed her eyes on the young girl. Oh, my God!
What has happened? Who can tell, but something has happened, that
is certain. Cara's cheeks, recalling usually the leaves of a full
rose, were as white as the soft muslin covering her chamber, and
her lips, always scarlet, formed a barely visible line, pale and
narrow. Tall, slender, and erect, without the slightest movement
of hand or head, with dry eyes looking somewhere into remoteness,
she passed through the room, and with automatic movement dropped
into a low chair near Miss Mary, who touched her hand and felt
the cold of ice in it.
"What is the matter, my dear? Are you ill?"
Instead of giving an answer Cara rose and went to the cluster of
green plants at the window. With her shoulders turned toward Miss
Mary, she seemed to be looking at the plants; but, after a few
minutes, she turned, and making some steps stopped, with her eyes
fixed on the floor.
"Cara, come to me!" cried Miss Mary.
She went, and sat down at her side. The English girl looked at
her sharply, and asked in a low voice:
"Have you met anything disagreeable? Or anyone? Or has anyone--"
She did not finish, for the delicate, pale face turned from her
with quick movement, and said very hurriedly:
"No! no! no!"
Then the slender form of the girl slipped slowly from the chair
to the carpet, and her head rested heavily on the knees of her
governess. But barely had the soft hand of the English girl
touched her hair, when Cara rose and went to the other side of
the room, where the light screen, struck by her skirt, tottered
and fell with a clatter. Without noticing the noise Cara turned
now toward the lamp, and with a face which was growing ever paler
she sat down opposite Miss Mary and opened one of the books lying
on the table. Her brows were raised, this brought many wrinkles
to her forehead; for a time it seemed as though she were reading,
then she closed the book with a sudden gesture, stood up again,
and went toward the door leading to the drawing-rooms.
"Are you going to your mamma?"
She made no answer, but sat on a low stool near the door. Puff
went up, and, putting his forepaws on her knees, licked her hand.
But that hand, usually so fondling, pushed the little dog far
away with a sudden movement. Miss Mary rose, and was going to the
stool, but she had hardly reached the middle of the room when
Cara rose again and went to meet her. The English girl seized
both her hands.
"My dear," began the governess, "you frighten me. What has
happened? What is your trouble? You should have confidence in
me--I am your friend, and a friend of your family--perhaps, I can
explain, or help you in some way. Has anything happened? Has
there been an accident? What is it that troubles you?"
The dry, dark eyes of the girl, looking, as it were, from some
distant depth, met the kindly glance of her friend, and this
whisper came from her lips:
"Nothing! Nothing!"
Then going some steps, she stopped at the table with the lamp on
it, and again opened one of the books there. Miss Mary followed,
put her arm around Cara, and wished to draw her near, but she,
with an alarmed and supple movement, slipped from her embrace,
put the book down, and turning, started to go somewhere. Miss
Mary faced toward the door, and said:
"I will go for your mother."
But that instant she was frightened; for Cara, recovering her
voice at once, screamed:
"No!"
Her eyes grew wild, and she began to tremble.
There was no doubt: In the row of empty drawing-rooms which
stretched beyond that door, ornamented with arabesques and gilded
borders, the girl had seen some horror. But what the horror was,
and whence it had crept forth, Miss Mary did not know. She sat
down, and pale with fear, placed her helpless hands upon her
knees. What could she do in presence of those blue lips, which
were as silent as if shut by some seal, either sacred or
infernal? What could she do? Cara's father was not at home, and
to call her mother, when the very mention of that mother brought
a cry of terror from the girl's breast, would have been a useless
cruelty. Her brother? Her elder sister? Miss Mary's hand moved in
a manner indicating doubt. It was necessary to wait, to leave her
some time to herself. She might grow calm, overcome her fear,
speak.
Left to herself Cara went to the bed, knelt by it, and buried her
face in the coverlet; but a few minutes later she wound her lithe
form like the twist of a serpent, and turned her face toward the
ceiling. She remained in this posture rather long, only changing,
from time to time, the position of her head, which rested on the
coverlet.
Miss Mary remembered people seized with violent pains, who, in
the fruitless hope of allaying them, changed positions and
postures continually. She remembered, also, the faintness and
weariness which cover the faces of people with pallor and an
expression of unbearable disgust. A certain disgust, repulsive
and unendurable, must be working in that slender breast, from
which a low moan came when she turned her head from side to side.
"Are you ill, dearest Cara; are you in pain?"
Prom the bed, in a scarcely audible whisper, came:
"No."
She rose, went to Miss Mary, sat on the carpet, put her head on
the English girl's knee, with her face toward the ceiling. She
threw her hands back on her dishevelled hair, and then let them
drop without control, so that they fell on the carpet as if
lifeless. Her dry, inflamed eyes continued to look at the
ceiling. Miss Mary, bent, and making her words as low and
fondling as human words could be, inquired again:
"Has anything happened? Has anything hurt you?"
Changing the position of her head, and shaking it, as if she
wished to shake something off, she whispered:
"Nothing."
And rising, she went again to the end of the room. Her hair, not
long, but thick, like a bundle of silken flax, lay motionless on
her narrow shoulders; her pendent hands seemed like two rose-buds
falling from a bush. She stood again for a moment before the
clump of green plants, then went around it and hid beyond the
thickest palms at the window. Outside the window was the darkness
of a winter evening, relieved somewhat by snow which covered the
broad garden. The darkness was spotted by red lamps, which
illuminated the street beyond the garden. Some months before,
Cara had opened a window overlooking that same garden; she did
this in the middle of the night to look at the first snow and at
the frost in the moonlight. Snow was lying there now, at the
close of winter, surely the last snow.
Much time passed. Miss Mary rose, and went to the narrow space
between the clump of plants and the window. Cara was standing
there at the very window, looking into the darkness, or at the
red spots made by lanterns, placed here and there in it. The
governess saw that a change had taken place in her. She was not
pale as before; on the contrary, a lively flush had come out on
her face. Her features were less rigid; instead of the nauseous
disgust and dull pain, an expression of deep thought had covered
them. As happened often when Cara was thinking deeply, the point
of her finger was in her mouth. Miss Mary felt relieved. "Cara is
no longer pale," thought she; "she has stopped over something;
she stands long in one place; she is recovering her balance; soon
she will be pacified completely, and will tell what has
happened."
"Do you not wish me to read to you?"
Cara shook her head, and said in a low voice:
"I want to sleep."
"To sleep! so early? But you are tired, of course. Very well,
dear. Lie down and rest. I will call Ludvika to open the bed. Or
no--I will do it myself. No one need make a noise here that would
prevent us from talking."
With great goodness and kindly grace, while arranging the bed
with a rustle of silk, and the waves of lace going through her
fingers, Miss Mary told vivaciously of many things which were
near and confidential, things always affecting Cara, and though
no answer came to her from beyond the green plants, her voice,
which sounded agreeably, scattered the gloom and silence of the
chamber.
Half an hour later the door to the drawing-room was opened
partly, and the voice of Irene said some words in English. Miss
Mary went to the door on tip-toe.
"Cara is sleeping already," whispered she; "we ought not to wake
her; she is a little unwell."
The door was closed slowly and in silence; some minutes later the
maid brought a tray in with tea and many dishes.
Soon after Malvina entered the room. She approached her
daughter's bed quietly, and anxious.
"What is the matter?" whispered she. "Why did she go to bed so
early?"
Miss Mary gave some pacifying answer. That was caution. She felt
always in that house, and on that day more than ever, the need of
caution in making observations. Both looked at the girl, who, as
they thought, was sleeping soundly; she breathed slowly and
evenly, with a deep flush on her cheeks.
Malvina bent down and impressed a long kiss on the forehead of
her sleeping daughter. Then Miss Mary noted something of which
she was not sure: when her mother's lips rested on Cara's
forehead a quiver ran through the girl's body, from head to foot.
But Miss Mary was not sure whether Cara really trembled, or it
only seemed so to her. After Malvina's departure she remained at
the bedside, with eyes fixed on the delicate face, which was
growing more inflamed with an ever-increasing flush. A number of
dark spots came out on her purple lips, which were parched and
half open, her small pearl-like teeth gleamed behind them.
"She is sick, but has fallen asleep!" thought Miss Mary. "Perhaps
that horror, which I thought seized the child in the empty
drawing-rooms, was an invention of her mind? Surely it was
nothing more; she is simply ill; perhaps, not very ill, since she
fell asleep so quickly."
The small night-lamp shone in Cara's room like a blue spark. In
the adjoining room, beyond the open door, far into the night,
rustled book-leaves turned by the English governess. Miss Mary
watched long, and stood often in the open door, between her room
and Cara's, inclining forward, looking from a distance at the bed
from which the regular, unbroken sound of breathing came to her.
She is asleep. She moved a number of times and groaned, then
again she was silent. Puff lay at her feet, like a bundle of
ash-colored silk, and snored slightly. The street beyond the
garden grew more and more silent till it was silent altogether.
At the windows light began to whiten the shades and to draw aside
the black curtain of darkness which was on the furniture. The
wearied Miss Mary, in a long dressing-gown, ready to spring from
her bed any moment, slept for a short time and then woke with a
feeling of great fear. She was roused by a sharp cold by a breath
of frosty air coming in through the open door. She sprang up and
ran, with a cry, to Cara's chamber. There, on the threshold she
saw beyond the spreading palm leaves the great window half open,
and a slender, white figure sitting there in the gray dawn. When
had she done that? How long had she sat there with her shoulders
resting on the window-frame, with her naked feet hanging in the
air, with her breast and arms stripped even of muslin? No one was
ever to know.
Miss Mary, while carrying the girl to bed with that strength
which only terror can give one, felt in her embrace, limbs as
stiff as those of a frozen corpse; but her breast rose and fell
with her breathing which was heavy and audible; her cheeks and
forehead were burning. In half a minute the window was closed;
Miss Mary, with all the strength of long and supple arms, strove
to warm the breast and shoulders, which were as cold as ice, and
the skin on them stiffened.
"Oh, child! you unkind! most dear! poor child! Why have you done
this? Is it possible to do such things? Did you know what you
were doing? Was that an unfortunate accident, or did you do it
purposely? Tell, was it done purposely? Tell me! tell!"
Cara for the first time looked straight into Miss Mary's face;
she bent her head with a lively movement; her eyes shot forth
triumph; a smile encircled her parched lips. In the glitter of
her eyes, in the smile, in the curve of her neck, for the twinkle
of an eye, shone forth once again the wilful, capricious Cara.
Next moment her teeth began to chatter and her whole body
trembled in a feverish chill, so that the silk of the bed rustled
loudly. With that rustling was joined a dry, unbroken cough,
which shook the fragile and ice-cold breast, the skin of which
was rough, and had a tanned and withered look. Miss Mary sprang
from her knees. On her lips were the words:
"Her parents! A doctor!"
The rumbling of a carriage was heard far away on the street, it
drew nearer and nearer, rolled in through the gate of the house,
and was silent. Miss Mary, all in white, her hair hanging over
her shoulders, hastened to Darvid's study, through drawing-rooms
in which, from behind black veils which the pale dawn was
removing, emerged glass, metal, pictures, mirrors, plush, silk,
polished surfaces, gildings, mosaics, marbles, porcelain, in the
dull gleam of their colors.
The dawn was in Darvid's study also; but the servant was lighting
the hanging-lamp over the round table. Darvid, very pale, with a
nervous movement, tore rather than drew the gloves from his
hands.
"Then did she return from me? Where did she come from? You say
that she was with me, and returned--in that condition? But she
was not here yesterday; I did not see her; she was not here--"
"She was," answered Miss Mary; "she said that she was going to
you; she did not return for more than an hour."
"She might have been with her mother?"
"No; I asked her sister about that. She was not with her mother;
she was here."
Darvid was astonished; he thought a while, and called suddenly:
"Ah!"
There was something tragic in the gesture with which he indicated
the thick case full of books, forming with the two walls a little
triangular space; then in the manner in which he intertwined his
fingers:
"She was there! And--she heard! Ah!"
He stood for a moment as if rooted to the floor; he bit his lip;
there were quivers on his cheeks and wrinkles on his forehead;
then he approached Miss Mary, and asked in such a low voice that
she barely heard him:
"Did she do this purposely--purposely? Purposely?"
"With clasped hands she said in a very low voice:
"I cannot hide--maybe something will depend on this--she did it
purposely."
Then that man, usually calm and regular in all his movements,
rushed to the door of the antechamber with the spring of a tiger.
"Carriage!" cried he.
"When the most famous doctor in the city came out of the sick
girl's chamber that day for the second time, Darvid met him in
the blue drawing-room, alone. He was as usual self-possessed, and
with a pleasing smile in the presence of that man with a great
name.
"Is the disease defined?" asked he.
It was defined, and very serious. Inflammation had seized the
greater part of the lungs, and was working fiercely on an
organism weakened by a previous attack. Besides, some kind of
complication had supervened, something coming from the brain,
from the nerves, something psychic.
Darvid mentioned a consultation.
"We may summon from abroad--from Paris, from Vienna; we have
telegraphs and railroads at our service--as to expense--"
concluded he with indifference "--as to expense, I shall not
spare it. My whole fortune is at the disposal of--"
He fixed in the eyes of the doctor a look in which was the desire
for a silent understanding.
"This is no hyperbole, or figure of rhetoric. I am ready to
summon half medical Europe, and spend half my fortune."
There was a quiver on his temples, around his mouth, and near his
eyes, but he smiled. The doctor smiled also.
"My dear sir," said he, "the case is not so peculiar as to need
presentation before the judgment of Europe. But being in
Europe--yes. I will serve you at once with the names of my
foreign colleagues. But as to colossal money sacrifices, I must
say that they will not help. Death, my dear sir, is such a
giantess, that if she is to come, mountains of gold will not stop
her. I will not say that she must come surely in this case. But
if she is to come, half your fortune--that is, golden
mountains--yes, golden mountains will be no hindrance to her. She
will spring over them and--come."
After the doctor had gone, Darvid remained alone for a while,
and, with his eyes fixed on the floor, he thought:
"A giantess! Golden mountains will not stop her! True, but
science is also a giantess. And, besides, is human, and every
human thing travels in golden chariots. But to set one giantess
against the other, gold and energy are needed."
For some time the great study was seething with activity, in
sending letters and telegrams. Darvid was heard commanding and
giving directions in a voice always low, but emphatic. He was
decisive, cool, and active, as he always was when going to a
contest. In the course of a few minutes arriving carriages
halted, one after another, before the gate of the mansion. Out of
them issued men full of importance, with famous names, very
learned, specialists, old and young, strong in theory and
practice. Some of these men it was almost impossible to see, for
they were reposing in wealth and on laurels, but they had been
snatched from their rest by the rumble of the golden chariot
which came for them. There were many of these men. The blue room
grew black from their garments as from a cloud. Darvid pressed
their hands a little more firmly than he was wont to do; perhaps
his side-whiskers dropped a little less symmetrically than usual,
along cheeks somewhat paler than usual, but there was no other
change in the man. And when the cloud of dark garments flowed
from the blue room to the chamber of his daughter, a spark of
triumph glittered in his eye. Let one giantess fight with the
other; we shall see which one wins. The power of science was one
of the very few articles of Darvid's faith. That power had to be
great, since it was indispensable in the conquest of wealth. He
had tried that power more than once in his mighty struggles for
wealth; he would try it now, also. This was only the beginning of
the battle. Diseases last a series of days, sometimes weeks, but
to-morrow, after to-morrow, Europe will begin to ride hither on
the golden chariot. Giantess against giantess! We shall see their
force.
Inflammation extending with great rapidity in the weak breast of
the girl, besides a complication of the brain, not considerable,
but giving much cause for concern--the normal condition of the
mind shaken--that was the case. A long consultation was carried
on in an undertone; some medicines were prescribed, and some
advice given, in the domain of hygiene. Among the carriages which
left the gate of the mansion, two were empty. The two dignitaries
of science, who had remained in his house, Darvid conducted to
his study for black coffee, excellent liquors, and cigars of
uncommon quality. They had to remain some hours, then they would
be relieved by others. They opposed this wish at first, for it
was in opposition to their customs, to obligations assumed
elsewhere; but Darvid, with his eyes looking very kindly into
theirs, uttered a magic word. It was a figure unheard of--almost
fabulous. They hesitated still; resisted; then they came to an
understanding as to the how-and-when--and remained. Darvid's
forehead smoothed for the moment, all wrinkles vanished from it.
His child (in his mind he added), "my little one," during one
hour of the day or night would not be without the good giantess,
who would do battle against the wicked one.
In the city, people said that Darvid, in anxiety for his daughter
would commit some mad folly; but those who had seen him shrugged
their shoulders. Not at all! There was not a man on earth who
could preserve better, in such straits, cool blood,
self-confidence, fluent speech, affability perfect, though cold.
Only at times, from the quiver which ran over his face, from the
temporary stare of his eyes, and the slight carelessness in
dressing his hair, was it possible to divine in him a man playing
for great stakes. Really, in the battle which he had begun and
was fighting, the question was not of Cara alone--it was of her
above all, but not of her alone. At the bottom of his being he
felt himself a player, then, as he had been countless times
before in cases wholly different; a player aided by energy,
money, and universal reason, which was his own and that bought by
money. The stakes in this play were not only the life of his
child, but the one faith which he had--his faith in the
all-mightiness, and all-effectiveness of energy, sound sense, and
money.
At one time and another, either with the doctors, or without
them, Darvid entered Cara's chamber; where, in obedience to
medical advice, they had not darkened the great windows through
which light was pouring in its golden torrents. This light
penetrated the yellowish folds of cretonne at the walls, lent
apparent life to forget-me-nots and rose-buds scattered over
them, played among the palm leaves, lay on the flowery carpet,
struck out golden sparks on the gilding of toys and books, played
with rainbow gleams on surfaces inlaid with mother-of-pearl. In
this gleaming light, near the mirror, which was surrounded by
porcelain flowers, amid flasks gilded and enamelled, a rosy Cupid
was drawing a bow with a golden arrow, a marble cat lay at the
feet of a statuette, which held a dove rat its bosom; on a small
desk of lapis-lazuli as blue as the sky, a bronze statuette
personifying the Dew was inclining gracefully an amphora above an
open book, skeins of various colored silks were hanging at little
looms. Amid all these tones of spring, joyous themes, light and
graceful forms, the sunlight went to Cara's bed, and, from the
white cambric on which she was lying, increased the paleness of
her yellow hair. On the pillow with lace it was difficult at
first to distinguish where the sunrays ended and the maiden's
hair began. But, amid the yellow of the rays and the hair, her
oval, delicate face in its bright flush seemed a scarlet flower.
Her lips, blooming with a bloody purple, her eyes, flashing with
a dry fire, were silent. But her breast labored with hoarse,
hurried breathing, and a cough shook her body, the slender,
fragile form of which was indicated beneath the blue silk
coverlet, like a fine piece of sculpture.
When Darvid entered the chamber a dark-robed woman drew back from
the bed of the suffering Cara, without the least rustle, and
stood at some distance with a pained, pallid face under smoothly
dressed hair of the same hue exactly as that which, in
dishevelled abundance, lay mingled with pale sunrays on the
pillow of the sick girl.
"How is it with you, little one?" asked Darvid. "Perhaps you feel
somewhat better? Perhaps you would like something?"
For its only answer the face, which was like a scarlet flower,
turned toward the wall, covered with forget-me-nots and
rose-buds.
"Why not answer, Cara? Perhaps you would like something? Only
say, only whisper. Say into my ear. I would bring you anything,
get it, buy it. Perhaps you would like something? Have something,
something to look at. You can have anything--anything, only say
what it is--whisper in my ear."
But in vain he bent low, brought his ear to her lips almost, no
sound came from them, no whisper, only her face turned away still
more and her breath became hoarser and heavier.
How many times did he go there and put to her the question:
"Would you like something? Will you tell what?" He thought that
the young girl, though sick, must remember some wish, some desire
which, if granted, might give her relief and some comfort. He had
power to gratify every wish, even the wildest, but had not the
power of drawing from her lips even one word, and that the
briefest.
Some days passed. In front of the mansion the carriages of
doctors were arriving and departing continually, meeting on the
way a multitude of equipages from which men came out and entered
the study of the master of the mansion, or only came to the
entrance to inscribe their names in a book furnished by the Swiss
in livery. Once, when coming home, Darvid met on the stairway two
men who spoke a foreign language. He was eloquent, triumphant.
These were allies from abroad, coming to strengthen the local
forces, which joined them in full array for a consultation. Again
a cloud of black garments moved from the blue room to the chamber
which was full of spring colors, of childhood's playthings, of
mother-of-pearl rainbow gleams. One more mountain of gold and of
intellect set up as a bulwark of defence near the bed of the sick
girl. When the cloud of black garments and serious faces had
vanished, the mother drew near:
"These gentlemen have wearied you. That is nothing. Because they
have come you will be well. Those are very wise men. The two who
have just come are Germans; throughout the whole world they are
famous. They will cure you to a certainty. But now you may
swallow a little of those excellent sweets which those gentlemen
let us give you. Or a drop of wine. Perhaps a spoonful, one
little spoonful of bouillon?"
Cara's only answer was to turn on her yellowish bed to the wall
sprinkled with spring flowers, her face in scarlet flushes.
Malvina, bending low, kissed the little hand, the heat of which
burnt her lips, and which trembled under those lips, like a leaf
in a blast of wind.
"Why not answer me, Cara? One word! only one short, little word!
Shall I give a drop of wine? Those gentlemen ordered it--will you
have it now? Whisper!"
But in vain did she put her ear almost down to Cara's lips, not a
sound, not a whisper, she only turned her face away farther,
while her breath grew in hoarseness.
Maryan came in with a great bouquet of flowers in his hand.
"What, are we sick, little one!" began he. "Well, that is nothing
wonderful! King Solomon said that for everyone there must be a
time for sickness and a time for dancing. You will be sick a
little while, and then you will dance. But now I have brought
flowers to cheer you. Flowers without odor, for sick girls might
get headache from fragrant ones. These have no fragrance, but
they are very beautiful. You will look most poetic when I scatter
them on the bed before you. They will gladden your sight after
looking at those dreary pedants who are like a flock of wise
ravens. Father has brought in the wisest ravens from all the
world for you; I have gathered throughout this whole city the
most beautiful flowers. Mein Lieichen, was willst du mehr?"
While laughing he scattered on the blue coverlet, and on the
slender form of the maiden indicated under it, the most beautiful
flowers which the best conservatories could yield to him; she
only looked at her brother with great burning eyes, and when he
went away she began, with a slow and monotonous movement to throw
them from the bed. She did not look at these flowers, but the
slender, dry, rosy hand of the girl worked and worked on, pushing
from the bed the rich twigs and beautiful flowers, which fell,
one after another, with a dull rustle on the carpet. She wanted
nothing. But in the night, when Malvina and Miss Mary thought
that she was sleeping, a whisper was heard in the deep stillness
calling:
"Puffie! Puffie!"
Miss Mary raised the little dog from a neighboring chair and gave
him to her. Cara took him in her burning hands, but soon she
pushed him away with the same kind of slow gesture with which she
had thrown down the flowers, turned her face toward the wall, and
then whispered:
"No."
Next morning the faces of the "wise ravens" were very gloomy.
Those who flew in from the neighborhood, and those who came from
a distance took on more and more that mysterious solemnity which
reminds one of death-bells.
But Darvid waited yet; he did not lay down his arms; he did not
lose faith in the power of the good giantess. He waited for a new
reinforcement. This was the greatest medical name in all Europe,
that of a man who had the fame almost of one who worked miracles.
Here again was a mountain of gold, and of intellect piled up, the
highest mountain among all of them.
In the blue drawing-room a suppressed, many-tongued murmur was
heard. Servants bore about food and drink. Darvid gave cigars to
his worthy guests, the most worthy of all, he who had just
arrived; listened with close attention to the explanation of his
colleagues touching the case before which he was to find himself.
At last, calm, and perfectly correct, with a pleasant smile on
his lips, a smile almost of triumph, Darvid indicated with a
gesture full of welcome the door of his daughter's chamber. The
most famous of the famous entered first, and stopped some steps
from the threshold; behind him stopped the others. On the parched
lips of the sick girl appeared ruby-like drops of blood; her eyes
were opened very widely; to her forehead, which was damp from
perspiration, some slender locks of pale, yellow hair adhered.
Throughout the room sounded in an audible, hoarse whisper:
"Ira! Ira!"
Irene approached quickly, and, bending over, removed, delicately,
with a thin handkerchief, the liquid rubies from the lips of her
sister.
"What do you want, little one; what do you wish?"
Cara fixed on her sister eyes in which something uncommon had
begun to take place, for the dark pupils became larger every
moment, and larger, more prominent, they seemed to grow and to
swell, as if concentrating into one point all power of vision,
until a glassy film began to come down over them, and at the same
time her lips, sprinkled with blood, moved a number of times
wishing to pronounce something and not being able. At last,
fixing on her sister from behind the glassy film the sight of her
swollen pupils, Cara, as if in sign that she understood, shook
her head, and with a whisper which was heard through the room
with a note of alarm and complaint, she said:
"Pain-ted pots!"
Then in her breast a great orchestra began to play: hoarse,
discordant, wheezing, and her head, grown suddenly heavy, fell
into the pillow deeply. Prom the assembly of men standing there
at the door, the most famous, the small sprightly, iron-gray
Frenchman, with a face greatly thoughtful, advanced a few steps,
stood at the bedside, and after some minutes, with his hands
resting on the laboring bosom, cast into the deep silence which
possessed the room these words:
"The agony!"
As if in answer to that word, at the very door, behind the cloud
of black garments, was heard a loud hand-clap. That was Darvid,
who, with a movement most unexpected for him, had in this manner
wrung his hands, intertwining them with a strength which almost
broke his fingers, and then raised them above his head.
So the giantess had sprung over all the mountains--and had come!