Love.
[Illustration]
And thus a few more years went by. There were no changes in the peaceful
mansion. The beech-trees in the garden rustled as of old, only their
foliage seemed to have grown darker and thicker; the white walls,
although they had warped and settled more or less, shone precisely as
they used; the thatched roofs frowned the same as ever; and even the
well-known sound of Joachim’s pipe might be heard at the usual hour from
the direction of the stable. But Joachim himself, still a bachelor, and
grown gray in the service as groom, chose rather to listen to the Panitch
when he played either the piano or the pipe, it mattered not which. Maxim
too, had grown still more gray. The Popèlski had no other children, and
therefore their first-born, the blind boy, remained as ever the central
object of interest, around which clustered the life of the whole mansion.
It was for his sake that the family had thus isolated itself within its
own narrow circle, contented with its tranquil existence, whose current
had now united with the equally placid life of the Possessor’s “cabin.”
Thus Peter, who had now become a youth, had grown up like a hot-house
plant, guarded from the rude winds of the outer world. He was still as
of old in the centre of a vast, dark world. Darkness enveloped him in
every direction,—above, around, on all sides; illimitable, eternal.
His delicate and sensitive organism vibrated in response to every
impression, like a finely strung instrument. This sensitive expectancy
was perceptible in the blind youth’s disposition; he seemed to feel that
the darkness was about to stretch forth its invisible arms and arouse
by its touch that which now lay dormant in his breast, waiting only
for the summons. But the dreary darkness around him, familiar from his
childhood, replied only by the caressing murmur that rose from the old
garden, inspiring him with vague, tranquillizing, and dreamy thoughts.
The turbulent current of the far-off world, known to the blind boy only
through the medium of song and story, had no entrance here. Amid the
dreary whispers of the garden and the peaceful every-day life of the
country house, he heard of the tumults and tribulations of the world from
the lips of others; and his imagination pictured it all veiled in clouds
of mystery,—like a song, an heroic poem, or a fairy tale.
Everything seemed favorable. The mother felt that the soul of her son,
protected as by a wall was living in an enchanted dream, which was
tranquil even if it were unreal. Evelyn, who had imperceptibly grown
to womanhood, watched this enchanted tranquillity with her calm gaze,
sometimes showing a slight surprise, or an expression of wonder as to
future events, but never a shadow of impatience. Popèlski the father
had brought his estate into a prosperous condition, but the good man
troubled himself very little about his son’s future life. A man of
Maxim’s temperament could only be ill at ease in this quiet life; he
simply endured it, looking upon it as a temporary arrangement, which
had interwoven itself into his plans in spite of himself. He deemed it
necessary for the youth’s interior nature to gain strength and maturity,
that he might be better able to cope with the rude assaults of life.
Meanwhile, outside the limit of this enchanted circle, life went on,
seething, bubbling, and raging; and at last the time came when the old
veteran decided to break into this circle,—to open the door of the
hot-house, and admit a current of outside air.